My Libido Wears a Tuxedo

Mount Kilauea

2011-05-21T22:28:00.000-07:00

Mount Kilauea

I’m predestined to dive in Mount Kilauea

Like a phoenix, revived in Mount Kilauea

Her hair sets aflame all creation and senses

Not by nature, derived from Mount Kilauea

Smirk of rouge virtue, dyed red like her tides

Vibrant lips were deprived in Mount Kilauea

An innocent touch leads to shifting Earth’s axis

Goose-bumps and want thrived in Mount Kilauea

Voice rings of bubbles, of alluring and swagger

Hula kahiko connived with Mount Kilauea

Her eyes feast upon and entreat for consumption

Fire dancers arrived in Mount Kilauea

Apocalypse Halkus

2011-05-21T14:54:00.000-07:00

Inspired by my friend, Tre's Apocalypse Haiku for the end of the world (today at 6pm PST) I decided to write a few of my own...

At the End; Still, Indifference

The sky yields no sun

If angels announce judgment

I’ll still steep my tea

Eternal Suffering

Gray, tranquil wind breeze

Apocalypse looming near

More women’s tennis

Ending Suffering

Wicked weather looms

Come Devil, deliver me

End women’s tennis

Rapture’s Silver Lining

Intolerant squalls

Homophobes raptured away

Sun-kissed irony

Passing the Torch

2011-04-30T23:35:00.000-07:00

With each second they stumble towards uncertainty

Boldly going, as if this is the way it should be

It feels like they’re almost ready for the journey

I can see the blossoms of their souls

And I am fearful and excited at the sight.

///

…and Flow

2011-04-29T23:29:00.000-07:00

…and Flow

I know it grows colder

If you would only hold me closer

Together we’ll survive this storm

We can hope to endure it as one

Darling when you smile

And take my hand; it’s easy for me to fly again

And I never want to feel another raindrop

If I can’t continue journeying with you

I know we grow older

I will offer you my shoulder

Together, we could bear the sky

We can hope to endure it as one

Darling when you laugh

And share a secret dream; it’s easy to be free

And I never want to taste another warm meal

If I cannot share everything with you.

(Note that this poem is an epilogue of my previous poem, Ebb and... I tried to use the same voice as the first poem. I will most likely combine them after Napowrimo is over.)

////

Tempest

2011-04-28T21:54:00.000-07:00

Link to this photo's owner here

Tempest

Bitter wind chill howls

She packs her things in silence

Leaving him no air

Sleet batters windows and nerves

Her quiet exit deafens

Nothing so wrenching seems real

His senses rebel the scene

The sky is calm now

She’s taken the storm with her

He can’t see the sun.

Grimey

2011-04-27T22:30:00.000-07:00

Grimey

I don’t have anything pretty to say

This isn’t pretty, flowery poetry

I want you, and not at all like,

Sweep you off your feet

And ride away on a magic carpet

Naw, fuck that

I want you in an ugly, selfish way

I hope you’re not fearful but

I need for you to really feel me

In that area of your spine

Where anticipation mingles with

A scarce hint of dread

And I will have you; all of you

For what I envision of your assets

There ain’t no kind of fairy tale for this

The hell with this, get on your knees

And swear undying loyalty to me

Your reward will be my indifference

To rhyme, reason, time, or season

I don’t need your respect

As long as I have your obedience

Don’t want your silence

But I demand your will

I swear by my right hand, you will be broken

I won’t seduce you

With any form of tenderness, but

You’ll yield to my force with a smile

And I’ll have my way

Not Quite Bedtime

2011-04-26T21:36:00.001-07:00

Not Quite Bedtime

It’s not true that familiarity breeds contempt

When I kiss your face before bed, I contemplate

How much sleep is really needed to function

I’ll reserve the contempt for tomorrow’s alarm clock

It’s not true that passion fades with age

When I flirt with the blush on your lips, I falter

And lose myself within your mosaic

I invite you to smear yourself upon me

The New American Dream

2011-04-25T22:44:00.000-07:00

The New American Dream

Bring me your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

So that I might asphyxiate them and coolly call it fair dealing

I am everything foretold of the Rapture, in all its glory

Only the exact opposite, and without a hint of irony

I am the red line on the sign that reads as such:

“You must be this tall to ride Lady Justice,”

Anyone who comes up short triggers the guillotine

I am the prize that rewards shady dealings

As long as I get a lucrative kickback in return

Kinda like a pimp or a crooked DEA agent

Screw me and feel the sting of my backhand

Or worse; feel the cool steel of my justice

I am the law of equivalent exchange

Perverted, beaten, sodomized and tricked-out

To the most discriminating influential Johns

I am the system of loopholes and unpaved potholes

Designed to consume the broken remains of the nameless

So that they’re no longer public eyesores in my utopia

I erase what is already invisible.

I am the sliding scale powered only by gold and privilege

I am splendiferous bureaucracy and idiotic letter of the law

I am the thorny rod for those who dare to dream

I am the absurdity of criminalizing mothers with the audacity of hope

I ensure that the have-nots register their nots

And enforce that their have-nots are not legally binding

In accordance with the Law of Nots,

Ensuring that their nots

Are not someone else’s have-nots

Or God forbid, another’s have-somes

I am the waking, walking,

Living, breathing,

Relentless, incessant

Nightmare of the voiceless who find

Far too little comfort in the charity of others

I am the New American Dream

(Inspired by this heart-wrenching story.)

Juked

2011-04-24T20:56:00.000-07:00

Juked

Your body is reckless,

Scrambling, out of control

Shoulders leaving your waist

Waist leaving your feet

Ragged breath

Unevenly leaving your lungs,

Lungs abandoning your heart,

Depriving it of oxygen

Heart pressing on,

Furiously pumping

Increasingly anemic nutrients

To your sprinting feet,

Unbalanced waist,

Leaning shoulders,

And pressing lungs

With each pressing step of your sprint

You sacrifice your dominion

To regain your position

And just when your goal

Appears to be within reach

Of your urgent, leaning,

Sprinting, grasping,

Oxygen-depleted hands

I change direction.

Visit Me Here

2011-04-23T20:10:00.000-07:00

Visit Me Here

When the shadows run from the horizon into

Nothing; when the glowing disk retreats below

Heaven; igniting the sky and the Olympic Mountains;

When the pregnant pause of silence looms as

The bird cries yield to cricket songs; when the

Light grows dim enough to want for comfort of a candle;

When the chill rushes into the void enough to

Want for comfort of a blanket;

When there is no daylight or darkness;

Only the ambiguity of some shades of blue;

When there is no rudder or sail

Only the silhouette of a lone, unremarkable bow

Visit with me here, for it is where I miss you most.

Tension

2011-04-22T22:55:00.000-07:00

Tension

Moonless, endless void

Sometimes silence is better

Their voices unkind

The wind nips at bones

It howls unpleasant tidings

Better get your coat

Ebb and...

2011-04-21T22:09:00.000-07:00

Ebb and...

In the end, there not much more that either of us can say

We can smile, but that won’t disguise the tears

I loved you so, but now we must say so long

When I go, I won’t carry along a bitter word to say

No regrets, will my weary heart haul fore

I loved you so, but now we must toil alone

Darling, beloved one, can we take another try

I don’t want to be without you

Can’t try to breathe without you

Darling, beloved one, I will make another try

Come back inside before you catch your death of cold

This is wrong, I can’t go on fighting this, what more is there to say?

There is love, but it won’t mitigate the pain

I loved you so, but now we must walk away

As we were, that’s how I want to see us, not how we feel today

There was joy, but now we can see the bones

I loved you so, but now we must leave this grave

Darling, beloved one, is it worth another try?

The room grows cold without you

A heart grows old without you

Darling, beloved one, it is worth just one more try

Come back inside, before your warm meal grows cold

Conversation with Bookie

2011-04-21T20:45:00.000-07:00

Bizza: Baby, why do you have such a chip on your shoulder tonight?

Bookie: I dunno. I think maybe I'm PMSing or something.

Bizza: Really? It's that time of the month again? It seems like only yesterday that you were yelling at me for no reason...

*Bookie glares at me before leaving the room*

Yeah... I'll probably pay for that later, but it was funny, so screw it. I'll deal with the consequences later.

Awhile Longer

2011-04-20T22:14:00.000-07:00

Awhile Longer

If she changes her pace, I will wait here awhile.

Next day or next life, I’ll tempt fate here awhile.

In coolness of moon dust one twilight in May,

her boldness makes fondness relate here awhile.

When we should break trust with the pinpricks of light,

her voice soothes and urges debate here awhile.

But what will the glimmer of moonshine reveal?

It casts auras on what we create here awhile.

When the time of our parting comes into our sphere,

her smile commands a slow gait here awhile.

If looks were touches and gestures were kisses,

her blush would make stars figure-eight here awhile

If hours were minutes and minutes were lesser,

I’d stay and go grey; meditate here awhile.

In moments of dusk, language loses its power.

She’ll take my hand and translate here awhile.

Deep Cleansing Breath

2011-04-19T22:02:00.000-07:00

Deep Cleansing Breath

Shh…

Embrace the calm.

Be the tranquil sunset

over still waters.

With the inhale,

become one

with the zest of sea air.

With the exhale

ignore

the pop-up ad in th…

What is this?

What is

Busty Asian Yodeling.com?

No! Don’t click it!

Welcome to Busty Asian Yodeling

For when you need your

hot yodeling action

with huge Asian,

double-barreled,

Dixie Dynamitious,

Bang-Bangs

For a small monthy fee

you can access

all the steamy yodeling

you could ever desire

until your poor ears

are all chaffed and raw

Are you sure

you want to navigate away

from Busty Asian Yodeling?

It’s OK.

We’ll be here

with new free samples next week.

Now take a cleansing breath

and use your mind’s eye

to relocate your center.

Align your soul

to the rhythm of your heart;

this pulse is the foundation

of all that exists

and has

absolutely

nothing to do with

Ghetto-Booty Grandmas.ca…

Oh crap.

Please

For the love of God

Don’t click that link to Ghetto-

Goodness,

where do you find time to find this stuff?

Honestly,

I never see you with a book anymore.

Tired of using your brain?

It’s OK;

at Ghetto-Booty Grandmas

We’re here to stimulate,

Other things

You really want to close this window?

We got fresh new,

old ladies

With prominent derrieres

doing

what Ghetto-Bootied Grandmas do

We just need a credit card number and-

Now please.

We’re supposed to be finding ourselves

Now stop giggling

And just focus the mind’s eye on the heavens.

With a deep cleansing breath

Project yourself beyond the clouds

Above the rare air

Just past the moon

Then Venus…

I said Venus,

not the other word you were thinking.

Stop giggling.

Focus.

Now… deep, cleansing breath…

Passing Mercury,

Feel the heat of the Sun

It is intensifying as we approach

It is our destination

To penetrate its core,

collapsing it

and it’s known satellites

into our essence

until the reality becomes clear

that all is one and…

You’re uhm…

googling

Tina Fey’s so-called video

on Celebrity Sex-Bowling.com again,

Aren’t you…

We’ve been over this

Tina Fey is far too classy

to leak a sex-bowling video

on that site.

What? Get out.

That’s not her.

And that’s not

Christina Hendricks either;

it’s a spoof.

I don’t believe you.

Fine! Let’s prove it

Here’s my credit card…

Flare

2011-04-18T23:05:00.000-07:00

Flare

It runs hot;

Initial shock liquefying the rock

Instigating the revival

Of its star-blasted arrival

To touch it is to yield the epidermis to the damage

To clutch it is to wield that which the solar wind can manage

Fall into the core and become fodder for the fusion

Bear the brilliant spores that project synthesis; illusion

Radiating, penetration

It boils the sky in its convection

Scattered phoenix, resurrection

Consumes all in its protection

Revealed by the Moon

2011-04-17T02:05:00.000-07:00

Revealed by the Moon

When night has come
Alone to me
It seems to call your name

The moon is full
It summons me
To feel the chill alone

Run to
Touch you
Hold you
Can you feel me?

I do
Want you
For you
To reveal me

In truth, I’m all alone

Run. To. Me.
Can’t you see I’m in love with you?

Come. Home. To me.
I’ve revealed I’m in love with you

To be with you
And dream with you
Is all
I have dreamed to be one with you

The moon. Will guide. The way.

Elixir

2011-04-16T02:41:00.000-07:00

Elixir

Won’t you take my hand and try

Making me forget what’s real?

If you help me scrape the sky

I’ll consume you to the peel

Won’t you help me break the seal

And press our lips to firm the deal?

If your potion cures the sin

Consume this empty shell within

I want to taste the lie again

Your opaque temperamental peace

And when you’ve maxed your full-release

The ending lies where we began

If your potion cures the sin

Won’t you take my hand and try?

If you help me scrape the sky

Consume this empty shell within

Deprived

2011-04-16T01:42:00.000-07:00

Deprived

Sleep

Blissful, heavenly

Luring, eluding, distracting

The pastime of kings

Slumber

Dreams

Tranquil, fantastic

Enchanting, disturbing, perplexing,

The playground of devils

Visions

Lust

Wanton, Insatiable

Seducing, Reducing, Refining

Journey to holy waters

Desire

Not Feelin It

2011-04-14T21:34:00.000-07:00

Not Feelin It

Sometimes,

You simply must

Pause

Take a moment to

Take in your surroundings

Take a deep cleansing breath

And say

Fuck. This.

I’m bigger than This

Haven’t the time or patience

For whatever This is

This madness; This huge crisis

Created by small men

Is but a blip upon

The sands of

The northern hemisphere

This does not define me

I’m leaving This here for now

Perhaps to be revisited another time

Perhaps not.

Just Four More

2011-04-13T19:54:00.000-07:00

Just Four More

My heart breaks for five

Minutes at a time; that’s all

I yield to regret

But if I had five lifetimes

My next four would be with you

The Nature of Celebrity

2011-04-12T21:25:00.000-07:00

The Nature of Celebrity

Icon.

Global, colossal

Revered, emulated; trusted.

Citizen, image, temptation, lust.

Resented, reviled; mocked.

Absurd, foolhardy

Punchline.

Under a Red Sun

2011-04-11T21:46:00.000-07:00

Under a Red Sun

Isis would like to be the bigger person

and say she ain’t shook by that quiet, pretty new nigga

or that she doesn’t turn her ruby-red lipped smile inward

despite sending him straight to voicemail again

which when she listened,

was always some poetic bullshit

like “the thought of kissing her ruby-red lips

or holding her hand

was like being bathed under a red sun”

or some other gay-assed sentimental nonsense

that didn’t slicken her entrance

or get her any higher

or sparkle when she wore it

unlike when Kevin, the other hotboy

hits her up for three-am last-call, last resort nookie

knowing all along that he’s a selfish screw

but generous with his weed

unlike Jacob, who always smells like lavender

dresses nice, compliments her dress and eyes

holds the door for her and treats her nice

before returning home to his wife

who is clearly some frigid bitch

rationing out dry coochie like some

high-sadiddy, pampered princess

stuck on her high-horse, complacent

which isn’t a word used to describe DaShawn

though he’s hung like a horse,

but always high,

which is wasteful to his god-given gifts

unlike that beast of a poon-hound Datham

who always comes with a smile

and leaves her with fond memories

and new thigh bruises to brag about

which is cool, seeing how talking shit is

Isis’ second favorite pastime and

that new, shy nigga blowing up her phone

gets put on blast constantly

as she gleefully boasts

“I got that fool sprung! He say he love me!”

she and her friends howl and mime puppydog mockeries

at the misguided fool with feelings

but while the others are distracted

by some Snipes-looking chocolate-daddy

waving crisp dollar-bills in the blunt-choked air

she catches herself biting her lower lip again

allowing herself a moment to contemplate

just what the fool in her voicemail can see in her

that she cannot find in the mirror,

or anywhere under a red sun.

Like Kissing a Comet

2011-04-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

Like Kissing a Comet

Ever a woman of fine design
Refined and fine; of broad appeal
In body, nature’s divine resign
Nurtures senses with lover’s zeal

Lend her hand and the sky is obtained
Eternal matron of noodles and stars
Ally of comfort, her smile has retained
Nuance, transcending gleaming bars
Near her chest, I hear her fire
Ever the woman that I aspire

The Menacing Masochist

2011-04-09T18:40:00.000-07:00

The Menacing Masochist

To find a half penny of enlightenment

Great minds frequently scour his labyrinth of darkness

How is a man rescued from the tragedy of his own creation?

Analysts have tried defining his actions, all were mystified

No one is allowed close enough to comfort him

He is the living embodiment of despair, suffering, and rage

To advance so haphazardly and receive the retribution he has

No man who wants to keep his head would follow suit

Anyone who possesses a shred of sanity is baffled by his spectacle

He shrugs away any notion of charity or support

Therapists have tried providing solace to his wounds

Yet he accepts the blows willingly, and returns for more

Suffering what would break the backs of the most spirited men

Observers have witnessed him endure it all unblinkingly

Now it seems that this is the most obvious conclusion

Maybe he truly takes pleasure from the pain.

Just a Theory

2011-04-08T22:28:00.000-07:00

Just a Theory

From Titan to Callisto

And darting to the Sun

Uranus made el-list-o

But that’s just half the fun

Dark Energy

2011-04-07T23:20:00.000-07:00

Dark Energy

The extent you go to disregard my presence

Drives me to madness

I howl at you until my throat is sore

And you close the window

I trail you through our home

Unleashing the epic tantrum of an attention-starved child

You shield your goose bumps with a sweater and an afghan

You scarcely make out my shadowy glares in your peripherals

But I am here, living in the dusk of your essence,

I’m not leaving

And I won’t be ignored.

Mercury at Sunset

2011-04-06T20:46:00.000-07:00

Mercury at Sunset

We’ve admired one another from afar

Far longer than I can recall

Your smile reveals nothing fanciful,

Yet sends me scurrying away in a blush

Your temperate voice warms implicitly, compelling me to linger,

Hoping to glean more from a raised eyebrow

You’re here with me, reflecting beams of pleasantry

And in an instant, gone again.

Ice Bridge

2011-04-05T22:00:00.000-07:00

Ice Bridge

The timing couldn’t possibly be worse for this “reunion”

There are things you need to know

Matters that I demand you answer for

But your fragile, weakened condition precludes my closure

So instead, let’s discuss the weather

Last night’s sporting contest

Crack wise about everyone in our fam we know ain’t right

Just as long as we don’t speak of us

Even if that topic did come up

You’d just remember it differently

And you haven’t been wrong since way back in…

Well, you’ve never been wrong

At least not that you’d remember

And even those times you were wrong

Your wrong was the result of a greater wrong

Acted upon you by a more sinister, wrongful force

Like me and my incessant whining and debilitating ignorance

Or your mother, who loved your father more than you

Or the fucking El Nino effect; mild winters sure vexed you

Or the advances of technology that made your trade obsolete

Because everyone knows that school and computer shit is for nerds

And suckas like me

Anyway, the point I’m getting at is

I know that you know that none of this is your fault

None of it

And despite your being blameless in all of this

I still choose to forgive you,

Even though you’ve done nothing worthy of exoneration

Bet you had no idea my ignorance was this debilitating

You’re alright, my blind, forgetful friend

Our fam ain’t shit, but you’re clearly one of the good ones

Can’t wait until we’re done with winter

So how bout those Green Bay Packers?

Think they’ll repeat?

The Strong Force

2011-04-04T22:11:00.000-07:00

The Strong Force

We’ve never met,

Yet I can trace the curve of your bosom to your birthmark

With my eyes closed

I know how Venus spreads across the vista when she sits

Or stands,

Or lies motionless beneath my imagination

Watching, waiting

Airbrushing would diminish the experience

I have noted and committed each blemish to memory

And I laud them in triumph as symbols of your flawlessness

I see your whimsical, static smirk

And imagine that you smell like raspberry peach

No, wait… strawberries and vanilla

I’m probably right

I choose to believe that this tidal pull between us is mutual

And in this moment of shallow breaths

And fingers reaching towards nothing

I feel everything

Apex of Earth's Way

2011-04-03T18:09:00.000-07:00

Apex of Earth's Way

This celestial path is familiar in its unpredictability

As buoyant as it is ominous

Its destination, as inevitable as death

Yet by our finite existence

Eternally unreachable

As the heavens open above us

And provide tomorrow’s singular vantage point

It is apparent that the scenery never really changes

It is Spring, so tomorrow will certainly be brighter

It will be the opposite during the Fall

There will be comets and suicide,

Shooting stars and senseless shootings,

Super full moons and tsunamis,

Fireflies and battle-cries,

Celebrations and memorials,

None of which will slow the apex of Earth’s way

Yet I also find that

Though each soul is but a powerless passenger

To the overwhelming nature of this extraterrestrial ride

Sometimes, when I shift my perspective ever so slightly,

Tomorrow can become brighter, regardless of the season

Vertically Displaced

2011-04-03T13:51:00.000-07:00

Vertically Displaced

My rejection of this foolish notion of community is

As sure as the April sun’s inevitable

Consumption by the overcast

It is a trickster’s notion that

Misery loves company

Good times are made better by camaraderie

No man is a failure who has friends

Piercing through the blissful cumulous comfort of others

The truth lies naked in its inglorious repugnance

It was born alone; it will die alone

Illusions of the social order

Evaporate like water vapor

Like society, I too have learned to lie

On the surface, a reflection of the expected

At the core, the DNA of a recluse

If it truly takes a village

I’ll gladly be its idiot

National Poetry Writing Month - An Ode to Poetry

2011-04-02T11:55:00.000-07:00

I know I’m literally a day late, but I can’t think of a better way for me to get back into the swing of poetic writing than to participate in Napowrimo. That’s right; a poem a day for thirty days. Can I do it? Probably not, but it’s the journey that’s most important, not the destination, right? Right?
Since I’m a day late starting, I’ll try to crank out three poems before the end of this weekend. Here is my first:

An Ode to Poetry

You possess a unique power

That lies beyond your ample hips and bosom

And spies the distance between earth and heaven

Your eyes analyze and judge me worthy

Of being content to be

Plain, ordinary me

Yet they challenge me

To become so much more

The Day I Became a Super Villain

2011-03-27T19:16:00.000-07:00

Laughter
They’re all laughing at me, the tiny nerd
At him, the hulking moron
The spectacle of one social outcast
Preparing to pummel the other for their amusement

“I thought you was ma fwriend!” he stammers in fury
Indeed I was his comrade, but it seemed,
Only I could comprehend the manipulation of the masses
The cruel instigation of the cool, normal kids in the crowd

Even school security find themselves hopelessly impotent
To the oft cruelty of human nature
Morbidly amused, in spite of their intended station
They’re content to observe this trainwreck
This clash between the brute and the nerd

My pleas and appeals to the brute’s sense of decency fall on deaf ears,
For in his eyes, I have wronged him,
And the laughter ringing in his ears
Is born from my unintended mockery of his lisp,
Stutter,
And apparent slow wit

It was an offhanded, but short-sighted observation
Magnified by the chorus of our so-called peers,
Who piggyback on my rash ignorant words with their own,
More malevolent interpretations,
Adding petrol to the fire building in his heart
And so, as a matter of pride,
This giant boy must punish my ill-advised sophomoric satire

With his fists

“I thought you was ma fwriend!” he repeats his battle anthem
In addition to a few more colorful insults
His profane vocabulary seemed to be increasing with his rage

The time for words ends with his massive clinched fists raised and loaded,
With the momentum of his bad intentions
Building in my general direction
I respond with my guard raised,

A token resistance,
But my mother cautioned me never to go down without a fight
It was OK to lose to a superior opponent,
But it was never OK to cower in terror,
Or as my mom put it,
“Don’t go out like no punk”

I can see the first blow coming from his right hand,
Accompanied by his shouting, frothing obscenities
It was terrifying,
Massive,
Loaded with righteous rage

And impossibly slow

I sidestep the wayward blow with minimal effort
It whizzed by my left ear
Leaving the brute’s jaw line exposed

In that moment of fleeting physical superiority
I hesitated, unwilling to damage the manipulated brute
Even while he was recovering his balance
To launch a second assault with his left
Which I also evaded with surprising ease

This awkward dance of dorks continued for several seconds
With him swinging wildly and missing
But his timing and accuracy were improving

And I was left with the choice
Of either continuing the dance until he eventually connected,
Knocking me senseless in the parking lot,
Or overcoming my aversion to this spectacle,
Seizing on the opening he continuously left for me, to mount a counterstrike

I chose the latter

It was the awkward,
Clubbing,
Jabbing,
Slapping right hand of a reluctant pacifist
Thrown from my chest the way I saw boxers do it on TV
The palm of my disinclined, flopping fist landed flush on his fleshy cheek

It sent a shockwave rippling through the bruiser’s massive body,
Causing him to lurch toward me
Panicking, and misinterpreting the giant boy’s movement as a bull rush,
I hopped away and unleashed a reflexive overhand left
Which was still loaded, the way my father showed me

The sting of his teeth on my fist was shocking
I backed away, and watched in muted awe,
As the slow-witted hulking boy fell to the asphalt,
Bloodied face first

The cool, normal kids in the crowd roar with laughter,
A soundtrack to the astonishment I felt
The big, not-so-brutish boy rises, glowering at me,
Spitting blood and more idle threats

A vain attempt at saving face,
But I could tell by the fear in his eyes that the battle was over
When his school bus arrived, he was the first to board

“I thought you was ma fwriend!” he says wistfully, through a bloodied mouth
Yeah, kid… me too

The cool, normal kids were left slapping palms
And recapping the battle
Of the tiny nerd and the giant half-wit

One of the coolest, normal kids offers me his hand,
A symbol of acceptance into his circle of banal, jerkfaced jackasserry

My pride told me to put his cruel,
Mean-spirited,
Inglorious ass on the asphalt next,
But this voice was overruled by poor self-esteem
And the desperate need for youthful acceptance

As I reached to connect with his coolness,
His normalness,
He quickly, coldly withdraws his hand,
Leaving me spastically grasping the air
Like the spaz that I truly was

The cool, normal kids in the crowd roar with laughter again
“Look at that! The nerd thought he had a friend!”
They shout, sneering at me mockingly

Indeed he did.

Fighting for Air: My Climb

2010-08-28T18:12:00.001-07:00

Those who follow my blogging know that my mother, Terri Ann Dawson, passed away early last year due to asthma-related complications. She went quickly; was gone in literally a heartbeat, and due to my own arrogance, forestalling and ignorance, I never allowed myself the chance to reconcile our strained relationship.

But that’s my regret and my burden, and I’m straying from my point.

My brother and I inherited the same disease that contributed to our mother’s early death. This disease makes each breath a struggle for millions. I was fortunate in that my case is relatively mild and can be controlled with minimal effort. But my mother and millions like her weren’t as lucky.

Last spring I was tapped by my friend Joel Richardson (or “Soul Joel” as he likes to be called) to host and promote a comedy benefit show with the proceeds going to the American Lung Association in honor of my mother. Well… long story short, that benefit show didn’t happen, mostly because I don’t have the slightest idea how to promote such an event and I didn’t generate enough buzz. Sure I can turn a creative phrase here and there, but it’s not like I can force people to read them at gunpoint (I checked; it’s illegal everywhere but Texas and Florida.)

Ever since we cancelled the benefit show I’ve been disappointed in myself for not rallying enough interest in this worthy cause. I guess it was fitting that I came across this article in the Bellevue Reporter about the first annual Fight for Air Climb: Bellevue Towers to support the American Lung Association in Washington:

“This stairclimb event will have three divisions where participants will choose their own challenge to conquer: 45, 91, or a world-record breaking 182 stories of stairs.”

I scrambled over to the registration website and paid the $50 registration fee faster than Hip-Hop artist Redman could say “Asthma-pump take-over!” I selected 91 flights because 45 just seemed too easy, and as for 182 stories… let’s just say that I’m not in “world-record breaking” type of shape (My physique currently resembles a 6’1” E.T.) All jokes aside, I’m totally serious about this, and I’ll be training to ensure that I post a respectable time.

But in order for me to qualify for the event, I need to raise at least $250.00 by October 23rd. That’s where you come in, intrepid reader. I’ll need your generous support to make this climb happen. It’s for a good cause, and any little bit helps. If you knew my mother, or if you know someone who frequently struggles with asthma-related illnesses, stand with me now and let’s raise money and awareness for the American Lung Association.

To donate to this cause, please visit my personal page. Or, if you would prefer, you can also send your tax-deductible contribution to:

The American Lung Association in Washington

Attention: Fight For Air Climb

2625 Third Avenue

Seattle, WA 98121

Any amount, great or small, helps in the fight against lung disease. I greatly appreciate your support and will keep you posted on my progress.

The Seduction

2010-07-15T00:09:00.000-07:00

Midnight, damp and thick
Easily, she leaps good sense
Thirst quenched by moonlight

Midnight Meditation

2010-06-27T02:29:00.000-07:00

Facing West

Silhouetted beast

Of tree line guarding harbor

Star filled skyline shimmers

Facing North

Majestic towers

Twinkling abundant motion

Gleaming glass and steel

Facing East

Ridge of rising chance

Behemoth climbing skyward

Indefinite dusk

Facing Left

Heavenly crescent

Flesh and curves blossom at rest

Her tides lure rapture

Facing Inward

Provisional peace

Fleeting secret solace touched

Harmony at last

Do you ever wish you could do one year over from your past? If so, which year would that be?

2010-06-06T03:12:00.001-07:00

I don't dwell on such things. Sounds too much like regret... or senseless nostalgia, depending on the situation.

What do you want to know?

If you had to choose one of the two, which would you choose, 1. To have your pinky cut off. 2. To make out with Larry King for 5 mins. LOL. Someone just asked me this, and i just couldnt choose! :)

2010-06-06T03:09:00.001-07:00

Well, technically, I don't really need a pinky finger... but on the other hand, Larry King is just so freaking hawt, and I've always wanted to get busy with a sea-monster... mmmm... old man breath...

What do you want to know?

Whom in this world do you admire most?

2010-04-25T17:46:00.001-07:00

My Uncle Randy. He has calming influence and such a kind, thoughtful, gentlemanly nature. I've always aspired to behave just like him whenever I grow up, and I always find myself falling just short.

What do you want to know?

If you could choose between unlimited butt sex with another woman or world domination, which would it be?

2010-04-25T01:00:00.001-07:00

World domination. Duh. Once I'm ruler of the world, I can pretty much dictate how much butt sex I'm authorized to have! Come on! give me something more challenging...

Ask me anything

If you could choose, how would you want to die?

2010-04-24T16:10:00.003-07:00

Peacefully, in my sleep, after weeping from having realized that I had no more worlds to conquer.

Ask me anything

If you could rid the world of one thing, what would it be?

2010-04-24T16:10:00.001-07:00

Others.

Ask me anything

formspring.me

2010-04-24T16:05:00.001-07:00

Ask me anything http://formspring.me/TheBizza

Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?

2010-03-20T13:04:00.000-07:00

Reblogged from my good friend at Five Deadly Everythings

http://fivedeadlyeverythings.files.wordpress.com/2010/03/jack-nicolson-joker.jpg

Dress to Suppress

2010-02-21T20:05:00.001-08:00

(Warning: This post contains images and content of a sexual nature and is intended for mature audiences. Seeing how I tend to curse a lot and proclaim my love of vaginas on a near daily basis, this disclaimer almost seems unnecessary. But hey, I really, really mean it this time. Besides, someone might click this post by mistake while searching for Christian rock, especially since I just typed, “Christian rock”. Oops. My bad. But since you’re here, let’s talk about titties.)

Last night, we attended the Seattle Erotic Art Festival’s launch party. I’m not sure what I expected (I dunno… sexy art, similar to what is littered throughout this post?) but I got more than I bargained for (Extremely unsexy humanoids dancing around in their underwear.)

(Edited to add: I even labored to learn how to hide the naughty bits behind a jump-cut for those of you with fragile sensibilities. You're welcome.)

Read more »

The Lesson

2010-02-15T16:06:00.001-08:00

“So where are we going,” Mini-Dork quipped with an overeager tone and a whimsical smirk. I was so displeased by her lackadaisical tenor that I almost ended the evolution right then and there.

“Let’s set some ground rules first.” My words, combined with a stern glare, were meant to diffuse the teenaged jackassery bubbling to the surface of the passenger seat. They had the desired effect. The first psychological cage was in place.

“Rule number one; I am as serious as cancer… unless I tell a joke.” She nodded silently. The second psychological cage slid into position.

“Rule number two; you don’t know shit, so don’t tell me shit. I will instruct. You will follow my direction. End of discussion. You will not engage me in frivolous conversation, nor will you interrupt me. The only time you are allowed to speak is if you have a question, or if you don’t understand my instruction. Am I clear?” She indicated that I was clear. The third psychological cage slammed shut.

“Last thing. This isn’t a rule as much as it is an understanding. I’m not here to teach you how to pass the driver’s test; I’m here to teach you how to drive. It is my intention to make you comfortable enough with driving so that the vehicle will become an extension of your body. The way I see it, if you can accomplish this, the driver’s test will become second nature. Got it?”

“Got it,” she responded, her initial sophomoric demeanor replaced by that of an attentive student, eager to absorb the lesson. Satisfied that her head was where I needed it to be, I placed the car in gear and proceeded to a residential backdrop suitable for the lesson.

(I don’t know where I learned this method from or if anyone else has already invented it, but I find that most of my important lessons passed onto my kids come in a similar structure of mental manipulation and concept framing. Once focused properly and provided with the proper prompts, they often find the answers they seek for themselves. Essentially, I put myself in their shoes and try to determine what I would want to know if I were in their position, then I provide a framework suitable to the lesson at hand. In the case of learning to drive, as a matter of safety, I lean on the strict side. I call it a psychological cage not because it is one, but because I simply don’t know what else to call it.)

** *

“When mom took me driving, she said that you’re bad at right turns,” Mini-Dork said as I neared the spot where I would surrender my steering wheel to her and become her passenger for the first time.

“Well your mother doesn’t always signal, and she tailgates too much because she’s a very impatient woman,” I retort, trying not to sound defensive. “The way I see it, everyone has their strengths and weaknesses. For the purposes of your lesson, I will focus on the positive.”

“That’s a good idea,” she replied. And it was.

(I included this segment just to chap Bookie’s ass. How ya like my right turns now, jackass?!? Neener neener neener!! You can’t use your signals!! Nanny nanny, boo-boo!!)

** *

Prior to taking Mini-Dork on her first driving lesson, I always feigned a cool indifference to this significant right of passage. But internally, I’d been anticipating this moment to the point that it took some effort to suppress my disappointment each time she failed the written exam. The second time she failed, I pulled her aside and lectured her on her short-sighted attempt at focusing on the destination at the expense of the journey (Instead of learning the rules of the road, she was cramming and using practice exams to help her “multiple guess” at passing the exam. And by the way, I’d like to meet the idiot who provided what amounts to the “cliff notes” of passing a safety exam – an exam designed to have the test-taker demonstrate their command of safety regulations. How is this legal? The hell with legal, how is this sane? Would anyone like to see their airline pilot board their aircraft with “Piloting 737’s for Idiots” tucked under their arm?)

Mini-Dork was receptive to my critique, even declining to test again at Bookie’s insistence because she “wasn’t ready yet”. Several weeks later, and after actually studying for a change, Bookie coerced her into taking the exam, where she missed only one question. (That’s why Bookie and I make such a good team. I promote introspection, while she promotes action. I encourage the kids to conceptualize spreading their wings in flight, and Bookie pushes them out of the nest. It’s practically a foolproof system.)

I find it curious that my excitement at guiding Mini-Dork through this phase of her life is at odds with my nihilistic, lazy Buddhist, pseudo-philosophy (You know – “vast emptiness, nothing holy”, worldly troubles being as insignificant to the universe as a grain of sand is to a desert of infinite size – happy thoughts like those.) How do I reconcile this bizarre contradiction?

I don’t think I’ll bother with it. I’ll just enjoy the ride and see where it goes from here.

Vapor Trails in Winter

2009-11-27T18:57:00.000-08:00

Yesterday,
Imagination and reality wretchedly merged
As we laid your empty shell to rest in the cold earth

Unwilling to surrender my desolate place in the January frost
I narrowly resisted the spectacle
Of leaping to join you beneath the permafrost

After all,
Sub-zero winds
And emotional emptiness
Are little more than redundant sensations

So many things left unspoken
That desperately needed sharing
Now crystallized into fine mist
And exhaled into nothing

** *
I awoke the next morning to an eerie calm
Drawing back the curtain revealed the sweeping vista
Of a city scurrying to work

Illusions of fire from their exhalations
Converting into visible vapor
By the science of warm meeting cold

Their varied, heated vapor trails rose to the icy heavens
In twisting, ethereal dances of commonplace

I briefly thought I saw one smile
And beckon towards me the way you use to…

A thought I quickly dismissed as foolhardy

Recalling how you would gently remind me that
“Time passes faster than you think,”
I rushed to prepare myself for a final, private
Commemoration of your life

I would walk the Magnificent Mile with you
One last time
The path you scrolled, holding my hand,
Where you dreamt the biggest
And smiled the broadest

** *

As I stepped into the frozen morning
An arctic breeze ripped through the air

But as other walkers clutched their parkas,
Moving briskly,
Shivering through the unforgiving environment
The wind kissed my cheeks
And felt warm and inviting
Almost as if…

As if someone
Were shielding me from the harsh elements
The way you did when I was a small child

I dismissed this notion as foolish
Since my goose-dawn coat and woolen garments
Were clearly up to the task

As I scrolled up Michigan Avenue
The way we always did years ago
And window-shopped,
Just as we did back then

In that moment, inexplicably
The sorrow made room for the familiar

And I paused in my laughter
Only to keep my tears from freezing
To my goose-dawn coat and woolen garments

And in that moment
I succumbed to the absurd notion
That you were there with me

As you’ve always been.

If Only he Came with Thought-Bubbles...

2009-05-15T14:48:00.001-07:00

My loving wife, Bookie, tried dragging me into one of those dreaded e-mail thread conferences between parent and teacher. The topic, yet again, was Hedgehog, our wayward son, straying down the path of laziness, apathy, and defiance, or as I like to call it, teenager shit.

Apparently, the little cretin has been shirking easy homework assignments because, well, who really knows why a male teen does anything? At that age, nearly everything leads to the genitals anyway. I don’t know whether to hug him, put him in a straightjacket, or hose him down and wipe away his hormones with a squeegee.

I monitored the technological psychoanalysis of our kid as his teacher and Bookie weaved a tapestry of suck which became a painfully accurate depiction of our boy’s current work ethic and thinly-veiled contempt of authority.

Then Bookie asked for my input. I know this because Bookie’s final sentence of her final email sent to me, the teacher, and the guidance counselor read as, “Barry, your input?”

Instantly, I felt as if I were candid camera. Do I dare suggest driving him to the woods and returning him to the wild to see if the other wolverines accept him back into their fold? How about tasering? Cattle prod? Narcotics? (For me, as a coping mechanism.)

Oh dear, where to start, where to start…

Hedgehog and I have a long, colorful history. I met him when his mom and I were still dating (It’s the new millennium. I shouldn’t have to go into the dynamics of broken families, failed marriages, single moms and dads testing the dating scene again with kids in-tow, voids filled by lovers who eventually become stepparents, etc. Hell, I’m a product of a broken home during the 80’s, and I’m still pretty sane and normal, right? Don’t answer that. Let’s just move on.)

When I first met Hedgehog, he was six. I introduced myself and broke the ice the way I always did when dating a single mom with kid in-tow; we played Playstation.

Prior to Hedgehog, Playstation was always a win-win scenario for me. For starters, the bond born over a game of Star Wars: Jedi Masters is typically a solid-enough foundation for a kid friendship, yet flimsy-enough that an unforeseen breakup wouldn’t require child therapy. The mom would see her potential boyfriend and child cooperating in harmony and would be put at ease, having hurdled the awkward moment of intros and moving towards something that at least resembled normalcy. She never questioned a grown man owning a video game (This was a few years before an adult owning gaming systems was considered normal or “vogue” and “edgy”. Back then, owning a gaming system as an adult just made you a childish geek or a nerd. Unless you dated single moms, that is.)

Single moms who dated me back then never realized that their visits hadn’t actually changed my evening plans much. They were left with the impression that I was giving their kid a special treat when in reality, I was going to be playing Playstation whether they showed up or not. And on the occasions when they found sitters and visited me alone, the Playstation took a back seat to the potential of a rare booty-call. Regardless of the scenario, for me, it was game-on.

In addition to Bookie, I had dated two other single moms. Their kids were already well-versed at videogame etiquette and intuitively knew how to cooperate and contribute to a common goal. Together, the kids and I had worn out the patience of their respective mothers, repeatedly saving one another from evil droid armies for hours on-end. It was glorious gaming at its best.

But Hedgehog was… well… different. I nicknamed him “Hack-n-Slash” because I had never seen such a furious button-masher in my life. I don’t know how, but he always managed to quickly run his character off the screen and kill himself, sometimes before the game’s opening credits had ended. I would advise him to keep his character close to mine so we could protect one another, but he’d always respond with something like, “Naw, I got this!” or, “I bet I can kill more droids than you!”

The result was always the same; Hedgehog would die in about 30 seconds, the droids would laugh at him, and instead of building my character’s strength, I would have to start over to appease him. He was the worst videogame partner ever. In some ways, he still is. Ironically, all that time spent not playing videogames led to Bookie and I talking more and bonding on a level unmatched by anyone else I ever dated, which resulted in our marriage and solid union, so perhaps the little button-masher knew what he was doing after all.

When Bookie and I moved in together, I learned that Hedgehog wasn’t much of a talker. He reminded me a lot of myself at that age in that his circle of trust was small, and only encompassed his immediate family. But sometimes, his circle of trust only encompassed himself, which is exactly how I tend to operate at times. That’s my truest, purest nature; I am an army of one. I don’t know if he was emulating me as his primary male role-model or if that was just how he rolled, but it was during this phase that he frightened me the most.

Yes, that kid scared me shitless at times, especially after the Columbine tragedy. And especially after the bathroom incident.

I don’t know why I relate these two events, but from my perspective, both situations feel like they occurred during nearly the same timeframe. And though there is absolutely nothing funny about the Columbine tragedy, this event, combined with my own quirky relationship with Hedgehog, drove me into a paranoid frenzy that is somewhat comical when looking back on it.

You see, when Hedgehog was eight or nine years old, Bookie caught him relieving his bladder in the bathroom. Not a big deal, right?

Hang on… there’s more.

Apparently, after showering, Hedgehog stacked his clothing in the bathroom corner on the floor… and… well, he urinated on them. To recap; our son peed on his dirty clothes stacked on the bathroom floor. To this day, I still don’t know why. Maybe it was an elementary school fad. Maybe he was making a political statement about the Iraq War. Maybe he was experimenting with physics and biology. Maybe there’s something magical and fun about going Number One on soiled Wranglers that I don’t know about. Maybe he was rebelling against the idiocy of fate and broken, patchwork families. Maybe the Toilet Monster threatened to eat his penis.

It still boggles the adult mind to this very day that anyone would opt to piss in the corner while in the same room that has a toilet and working plumbing. Even now, I often walk up to Bookie and say, “Remember that time you caught our son pissing in the bathroom corner? What the hell was that all about?”

Her reply is always the same. “Thanks a lot, Barry. I had successfully blocked it out of my mind until you brought it up… again.”

We never did figure that one out, as Hedgehog was predictably mum about the whole thing. So we punished him, showed him how to use the toilet again -- just in case he forgot -- and we moved on.

But I also started sleeping with my bedroom door locked. When Bookie asked why, I told her it was to protect us from burglars and home invasions, but in reality I was just giving myself a buffer from Hedgehog. Let’s face it; in this post Columbine world, it’s not a huge leap of imagination to have a kid go from pissing in the corner of a room to massacring his stepfather in his sleep with a cheap ceramic kitchen blade. The door was flimsy and it wouldn’t keep him out if the voices in his head compelled him to “end my game early”. I was just hoping to buy a few extra seconds to bribe him into sparing my life by offering him new decks of Yugio cards. Those final moments can make or break a person.

But even something as monumental at the Potty Malfunction Incident doesn’t slow the passage of time. We slowly settled into the familiarity of a typical family. Hedgehog is a naturally gifted athlete, especially in basketball. But by the time I was done teaching him post-up moves, his peers found him unguardable. Hedgehog would beam as he pointed me out to his basketball teammates and said, “That’s my Dad!” I would watch him perform the spin move I taught him as he destroyed some poor kid’s ankles and self-esteem, and I would bellow, “That’s MY son!”

As his circle of trust slowly enveloped me, I discovered that he was far more talkative than I was led to believe, but he rarely had anything interesting to say (In fairness, what kid does have anything truly captivating to discuss?)

Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever had a discussion with him where he contributed an original meaningful thought. Not yet, anyway. He was either…

(1) Telling me what someone else said

(2) Telling me what I just said

(3) Rehashing pointless drivel from the TV/movies/card-collecting/toy-collecting/video-game world

(4) Bragging about his athletic ability or

(5) Bragging about some mundane task like picking the family's hamburger buns while shopping, or knowing where the mop is.

Again, it’s not like I was expecting to debate the “trickle down” theory with him. He was discussing typical childish bullshit, no different from when I was a kid arguing with my cousins about who was the better hero, Batman or Spiderman (And if you’re thinking that Batman was anywhere near Spiderman’s level, go fuck yourselves. Spiderman is the shit. End of argument.)

The only problem with Hedgehog’s dialogue is that his six-year-old vernacular is interchangeable with his current thirteen-year-old one. I realize that girls mature faster than boys at the adolescent stage, but Hedgehog appears to be slightly immature for his age-bracket.

Eureka! His immaturity and reluctance to tackle moderate-to-difficult challenges! That’s what I should have shared with his teacher and counselor instead of going all mute and sticking my head in the sand! I feel like such a fool now! I feel almost as dumb as that homophobic beauty pageant chick.

I think my reluctance to discuss Hedgehog’s current problems with his teachers stems from a feeling that I have already failed him. It has always been easier for me to counsel, correct, and encourage his older sister, Turtle. She wears her feelings on her sleeve, and like her mother, loves talking. (I mean, she adores the sound of her own voice. If there’s no one around, she talks to her stuffed animals. She’s 15 and she still does this. It’s uncanny. It’s unnerving.)

But while Turtle is an open book, Hedgehog is an enigma wrapped in a mystery surrounded by a labyrinth, and that’s just fine with him. Similar to me, he doesn’t let anyone see his cards. But unlike me, he has no real emotional or creative outlet. My writing is a peep-hole into what makes me tick. Judging by Hedgehog’s progress report and his teacher’s input, he doesn’t share my enthusiasm for this medium.

Reaching his inner-dialogue is like trying to crack a secret code written in a foreign language. I've tried everything I can possibly imagine to reach him. Hands-on (not literally). Hands-off. Negative and positive reinforcement. Lectures. Ultimatums. Coddling. Nagging. Badgering. Being a buddy. Leaving him alone, hoping he'd figure it out on his own. Deferring to his mother. Confronting him directly. Asking him what's wrong. Talking to him to see what he wants to be when he grows up other than a professional athlete (When pressed, he said he wouldn’t mind being a teacher, but he offered this ironic gem with the certainty of a kid who just wanted to get his dad to shut up. As of yet, there is no firm “plan B”.)

The results are always the same. My efforts are rewarded with a blank stare, and a shrug of the shoulders. If I let our conversations flow organically, he just goes on about his five favorite topics (mentioned previously) until blood starts coming out of my nose and I lose consciousness. If I guide the conversation towards something meaningful, he clams-up.

I also notice that sometimes he acts like he's attention-starved. Hedgehog responds coolly if I ask him directly about school, but if I ask Turtle about school in his presence, he's more than happy to try one-upping her. (I've used this to my advantage on a few occasions but once he realizes what's happening, he reverts back to the blank stare and the shrugging shoulders.)

I wish he came with thought-bubbles. Other than tricking him into opening up, I don't know how to reach him.

I didn’t speak with his teachers because I feel like I’ve failed him. The failure has to be my own; who else’s could it be? That’s difficult to admit, even to myself.

Every effort to reach out and pull him towards the path to success ends in me wrestling with air. My frequent failed attempts mount like pinpricks until my heart feels like a pincushion as I watch helplessly while my son struggles. Once I held an irrational fear of my son. Now I fear for him as I vainly swipe away the shadows of his future.

Of course, being just a step-father, I could say that none of this really affects me. I could say that Hedgehog’s stumbles in finding his place in this universe are his problem, not mine.

I could say that, but I’d be lying.

To Bookie, On Mother's Day

2009-05-10T18:32:00.001-07:00

Bookie,

I often tell you that you’re one of the greatest mothers I’ve ever observed in action. Frankly -- and I apologize for this -- I wasn’t as accurate as I should’ve been.

What I should have said was that I’ve never met a woman who nurtures and cares for their kids with the passion and drive that you display 24/7. Even when taking a break, your tenacious focus never wavers. You are the Kevin Garnett of mothering, and as a sports fan, that is the highest praise I can possibly give you.

But you are far more than that. You are the metronome, the pulse that sets the tempo for our home. You are the bass and the snare; the rhythm section, as well as the conductor. With you, there is pulsing, energetic music. Without you, there is only a cacophony of disjointed sounds and horrendous shout-singing.

You are the nurturer who intuitively knows when to coddle and when tough love is needed. You are commanding and confident, yet engaging and approachable. You are swift and decisive, yet welcoming to alternate perspectives. You are a living, breathing contradiction of ironically brilliant attributes that many great mothers strive for, yet you make it all appear effortless.

I marvel at your many attributes as well as your boundless energy, zeal, and optimism…

Wait… on second thought, my first assessment was accurate after all.

Happy Mother’s Day, sweetie.

And Happy Mother’s Day to the rest of you mothers.

Dude... really? Seriously, Mr. Shamwow Guy?

2009-04-15T11:00:00.001-07:00

Source: www.thesmokinggun.com

MARCH 27--Meet Vince Shlomi. He's probably better known to you as the ShamWow Guy, the ubiquitous television pitchman who has been phenomenally successful peddling absorbent towels and food choppers. ... article continues here.

I guess some pitchmen get their own reality show while others stick to the usual, more entertaining methods of self-destruction, like prostitution-battery scandals.

Ironically, and Bookie can attest to this, the very first time I saw Mr. Shlomi peddling his magical rags, I said to Bookie, "Look at that guy... he just dosen't track right with me. Just looking at him makes my skin crawl. He looks like the kind of guy who might end-up getting caught beating-up a hooker in an expensive hotel..."

OK, so I might have embellished that last sentence, but still, you know?

Nine Years of Winter

2009-04-13T19:16:00.001-07:00

I don’t have much to report that’s of any substantial interest, so instead, I’ll just ramble until I touch upon what has me so pensive and unfocused.

I’m entering week two of the IT-market job hunt. I’ve updated my resume and contacted my professional references to make sure they all still think I’m cooler than a polar bear’s toenails (All have confirmed their allegiance and willingness to exaggerate on my behalf. Always good to have a legion of ~~liars~~ truth-blenders at one’s disposal.) I’ve also made a few local inquiries for entry and mid-level PC support analyst positions at some nearby start-ups.

I remain surprised at the high volume of open positions that I qualify for given the poor economy and rising employment rate, but the window does appear to be slowly closing. Hopefully, I’ll have a seat when the music stops.

Today is my youngest daughter’s birthday, and I’m filled with mixed emotions. Of course, by mixed emotions, I mean misdirected anger and suppressed regret. It’s been months since I’ve had any contact with her or her mother, far too long for any self-respecting father to suffer quietly. What’s more damning is that it’s been months since I’ve made a legitimate effort. At this point, I take small solace in knowing that someone is still cashing the checks.

Her mother and I have both failed her. Her mother has chosen to carry the burden of her bitterness and jealousy forward so that any effort on my part to find common ground is met with either silence or passive aggression. For my part, I have chosen to stop hedging for that common ground, opting to try explaining my position directly to my daughter once she becomes old enough to seek me out on her own.

It baffles me that even now, nearly a decade after our marriage ended, the ex finds greater comfort in an absent father to our child than in coming to terms with our relationship. I understand the adage about a woman scorned and a broken-heart taking time to mend, but come-on now… it’s been nearly ten years. How long does it take to soften a heart, especially in a situation when we were both to blame?

During the past ten years:

1. My religious views have changed from Catholic to Agnostic to Buddhist to skeptic, but open-minded.

2. I tried sushi for the first time, discovering that I love spicy tuna, but ultimately resolving never to eat raw fish again after contracting a nasty parasite in my digestive system.

3. I’ve had two new ear-piercings, a tattoo on my left forearm, and a tongue piercing inserted and then later removed once I pulled my head from my own ass.

4. I decided to augment my Madden videogame football star fantasies by getting off the couch and playing live flag football, resulting in a championship title and countless title-game appearances to add to my virtual ones.

5. I’ve partied in Pullman at nightclubs with WSU undergrad coeds who worked near campus in-lieu of going home for the summer, partied with friends I met online at nightclubs, partied with friends of online friends at nightclubs, and dated friends of online friends at nightclubs... before observing online friends fighting amongst themselves outside a nightclub just as I was having the epiphany that hanging out and partying at nightclubs ultimately sucked-ass, and I had outgrown it.

6. I’ve broken hearts and had my own heart broken, resolving that ultimately, it’s always best to date ethically, love purely, and do no harm.

7. I overcame my irrational fear of driving by obtaining my driver’s license, pushed my own limitations by obtaining a few tech-support certifications, and conquered my self-doubt by self-publishing a collection of poetry.

8. I’ve challenged my own perspective multiple times and had my philosophy shaken by 9-11, the 2000 and 2004 election, and Katrina.

9. I’ve married the friend of an online friend, inheriting her two children in the process, and with the exception of bouncing my baby girl on my knee, can’t recall ever being happier or more personally fulfilled.

10. I’ve been irrevocably changed, challenged, and humbled by the tragic loss of my mother (Note: When I tried notifying my ex of my mother’s death, I found her home number disconnected and her cell number changed. I would’ve inquired further, but the mom-thing was pretty much kicking my ass at the time, as it still is. I know, I’m a bad dad and I should feel bad too. I get it.)

During the past decade, I’ve beaten myself up countless times for the transgressions of my previous marriage while wondering if my ex still considers herself blameless, despite her own equally-appalling transgressions. I’d kept a running score before surrendering the tit-for-tat aspect of my former persona, but when I last checked, both she and I were equally responsible for the shitburger we’re currently feeding our daughter.

Yet, while I’m on the outside looking in and wondering if the ex cares even in the slightest, she’s screening my calls, purging my emails, and implying to our daughter (directly or indirectly) that her daddy doesn’t care. I guess the more things change, the more they stay embittered and spiteful.

Of course I could take my fight to court, but I have neither the financial backing nor the mental resolve. So from a certain point of view, I guess I don’t really care after all.

Or maybe I’m just too selfish and stubborn, because in my mind, it should’ve never come to this. By my timeline, we should now be like those cool TV divorce couples who go half on a pint from time to time after transferring custody of the kid and tucking her in. In essence, I lost both my daughter and my oldest friend, and both are glaring voids in my life that frankly, I’ve never reconciled. I’m just baffled that someone I once considered my oldest friend could be such a cold piece of work for so long.

I guess that’s the main difference between her and me. With the exception of her playing emotional blackmail with our kid presently, I no longer need to vilify her for our past. Apparently, she still clings to this perverse need to feel victimized by me, even though our romantic love died with the Clinton administration. It’s like watching a creature with limited intelligence fight its own reflection on the shoreline, only I’m the one who gets pulled in and drowned.

Sorry to be such a Debbie-downer today, but I haven’t felt much like joking recently. Perhaps the following links will provide a more jovial atmosphere.

What’s New

Last week, I posted new articles on HDFest and Far Running Fat Man. Visit these sites to answer the following questions:

Why am I making up new words to describe how visually-orgasmatricious the film Watchmen is?

How does my friend’s emo babysitter forecast your monthly horoscope for your zodiac sign?

What entrée was served at the Banquette in Honor of the Jay Cutler Era?

How do you discipline the child of a hot chick you're dating without coming off like a douchebag or enduring jail-time?

And Just for the Heck of it…

Pause

2009-03-16T20:44:00.001-07:00

"He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God." - Aeschylus (525-456 BC)

Thank all of you who left encouraging, kind words for me in comments, and to those of you who didn’t leave a note, but kept me in your thoughts. It’s been a long, cold winter, made much colder than usual by having to deal with losing my mother under bizarre, unexpected circumstances (complications due to Asthma).

I’ve always held the detached, fatalist perception that since humanity’s existence and accomplishments ultimately amount to less than a snail’s fart when compared to the vastness of the universe, then by default, our collective ambitions, desires, loves, hates, prejudices, and pains don’t hold any true weight, value, or meaning. But when I received word of my mom’s passing, my “universe” shrank to a clearly-defined, 73-inch, 187-pounds of misery, sorrow, angst, and regret.

Still, I find it ironic that it’s these moments of profound loss that challenge, and often change our perspective and values, sometimes resulting in us making choices that would go against our conventional wisdom had we not endured the tragedy in the first place. This shift in perspective as a result of loss can actually result in us indirectly enriching our lives with our future choices.

The relationship between my brother and I has grown to the point that we actually have a relationship now (We never loathed one another, but prior to losing our mom, we had clearly reached a “why bother?” stage in our relationship.) My perception of my father has softened, though he did punk-out of mom’s funeral (Predictably, his burden of guilt was too heavy for him to sack-up and attend.) I realized that my mother wouldn’t want me to carry the burden of acrimony towards my father any more than she would want me carrying the burden of guilt for failing to reach out to her before she left this world.

I am still struggling with my own sense of loss and regret, but as Bookie observed, each day gets a little bit brighter than the last.

What’s Current

Bookie exercised some personal initiative and dragged me from my barricade of mourning and depression for a much-needed date-night so we could reconnect. We had dinner at Joey’s and viewed the latest film adaptation of a comic book, The Watchmen. I’ll probably post a review later this week, but I thought I’d share another astute observation by Bookie:

Bookie: Dr. Manhattan reminds me of you.

Bizza: Why? Is it because he is losing touch with humans and human values? Is it because he’s vertically-displaced from and apathetic towards humanity, as humanity is insignificant when compared to the vastness of the universe?

Bookie: No, because you parade around our bedroom, butt-naked, with your junk hanging there like it’s no big deal…

Bizza: Wh-what?!?

Bookie: You know, it’s like you just think it’s just natural for someone to have a package like that or something.

Bizza: Uhm… alright…

Again, that’s my Bookie, ladies and gentlemen. Always good to know that she remains ever vigilant when pointing-out the important things.

What’s New

I’m nearing the end of my IT contract, which means that I’m looking for work again in an anemic job market. May The Infinite help me.

I removed many of this site’s posts from public viewing because I am removing the password protection. The good news is no more logging in. The bad news is that this means the return of the spamblocker-5000 word-verification tool that everyone loves so much.

I’m still writing for Far Running Fat Man and HDFest. My latest articles include a review of Zack and Miri Make a Porno and a sports piece on why LeBron James should be this year’s MVP.

I created an online writing portfolio because everyone knows I don’t have enough web-based nonsense to ~~neglect~~ support. Check it out if you like.

That’s all for now. I’ll be making my rounds later this week. I’m still learning how to balance work, personal life, the writing gigs, e-mail correspondences, and my ~~Internet porn addiction~~ other distractions.

Baby's Story (In My Momma's Own Words)

2009-01-28T06:55:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt written by momma when she was 18 years-old and caring for her newborn baby boy:

"As I am the mother of my first child, I know how much I love my baby, and how much I want him to be successful in life. I would like him to be strong, independent, and responsible in life. Most of all, I want him to be a man of his word (and finish school). I hope raising him the best way I know how will make him be the man I want and dream of him to be. What more can a mother ask for?"

Momma, I don't know what kind of man I am, but I hope to someday become the man you wanted and dreamed me to be. And I hope I made you proud before you left us.

I love you, momma.

Orbit You (An Eulogy)

2009-01-22T20:44:00.000-08:00

Dear Mamma,

You know that I like for things to make sense.

Whenever I’m troubled by a perplexing, unfortunate or tragic situation, I try to reconfigure the facts in my head until I can find comfort in the sculpture of my imagination. I approach the topics of death, loss, and regret no differently.

After all, death is simply the inevitable end to life. Everything that the human brain can quantify has a beginning and an ending, from the countless waves that crest and fall on the shoreline to the massive stars in the night sky that coalesce, sparkle, and burn-out over billions of billions of years.

With death clearly defined for myself, loss and regret should’ve been declawed and rendered powerless. Yet, even as I speak the words, it is I who have been muted, humbled, and unable to breathe as my lungs are compressed by the avalanche of decades of your unconditional love, years of our unspoken words, and hours of my procrastinated deeds.

To honor you, I will summon the strength and courage that eluded me in the past to tell you here in the present what I should have told you every day of your life.

Momma, you were an exceptional dancer. I know this because as a small child in your arms, you made a point of reminding me as often as possible. When I was a teen, you even confiscated my favorite pair of socks and cut out holes in the toe and heel to make dancing shoes.

(I probably shouldn’t bring that up because it’s still a touchy issue for me. After all, I like for things to make sense, and momma, those were my favorite socks! Why would you do that, especially since I already had plenty of holey socks for you to choose from? We were poor, remember?)

(You know what? I forgive you. It’s water under the bridge. Let’s just move on.)

In addition to your dance skills, you were also a gifted artist. I recall viewing your scrapbook filled with portraits of daddy, me, and yourself, along with your sketches of dress designs that were worn only in your imagination. You dreamt of becoming a professional dancer and fashion designer, and as a child I was honored that you confided your dreams in me.

But I found your unspoken words the most moving. Though you never said it, nor would you even allow yourself to think it, deep down I always knew that you sacrificed your most cherished dreams to nurture and help cultivate those of your children.

Indeed, everything I am, and everything I ever will be, I owe to you.

But you sacrificed more than just your dreams. Far too often, you went without so that my brother and I could eat. You cobbled together whatever garments you could find for yourself while ensuring that my brother and I had new school clothes.

Throughout my childhood, I know of no one who suffered as many indignities and setbacks as you. I know of no one who was knocked down, battered, and bruised by the stark realities of life as you. And I know of no one who picked themselves off the floor, dusted themselves off, and continued the business of caring for her boys as often, or with as much dignity and class as you. Grace, thy name is Teri Ann Dawson.

You taught me to read and shaped my interest in basic science before I began school, which instantly gave me an advantage over my peers. You taught me that the moon orbits the earth and the earth circles the sun using a Nerf basketball, a blue rubber ball, and a golf ball. You continued to stimulate my interests and intellectual curiosity by providing me with astronomy books that illustrated the planets and their respective orbital patterns. With your devoted guidance, the world surrounding me began to make sense.

You frequently took me away from the slums and the projects on private trips to museums, planetariums, and the stock market. You expanded my culture, paradigm, and world view to include far more than what was on my block or down the street at the corner store.

You taught me to dream, and challenged me to realize those dreams.

You encouraged me to think for myself. Though I was undersized and a prime target for bullies, you taught me to stand up for and defend myself at all costs by any means necessary, fair or unfair. But you also tempered my fire by encouraging me to prevail with my brain instead of a clenched fist.

But you were also unbelievably fun and spontaneous. I still remember being in first grade, when you pulled me from school to ditch so we could see the Cubs play at Wrigley Field. I also remember each time you did the exact same thing in grades two through five. Those events stand-out as some of my fondest childhood memories (Though the Cubs lost each and every game we attended. If you were here now, you would chuckle at the irony , smirk at me, and say, “Every once in awhile, a moment of truth.”) The annual broadcast of The Wizard of Oz was always a family holiday, complete with popcorn, Jello, and ticklefights.

Few people know how hilarious and witty you were. Though financially impoverished, our home was rich with laughter.

Your silent strength and courage when facing adversity and negativity is a template that I will pass on to your grandchildren. Though I observed as a few mean-spirited folks mocked you and underestimated your intellect, you were always unfazed, refusing to stoop to their level. They often confused your boundless confidence for unfounded conceit, mistook your kindness for weakness, or misinterpreted your composure and pleasant demeanor as ease and simple-mindedness, but I always knew better. Those who clamored to break your spirit unwittingly became the butts of our own private jokes later.

You once told me in a moment of candor that even though you knew you made a few mistakes raising me, that you tried with all your heart to be a good mother to me and Phillip. At the time, I was so taken aback that all I could manage was a feeble compliment and an apology for not always being the best son. I’d like to correct my response now. Yes, you made a few mistakes raising me, just any other human on this planet. But unlike any other human on this planet, unlike any wave crashing ashore, unlike any star in the known universe, unlike any other pristine snowflake falling in January, unlike any mother that I can wrap my vast, but still limited imagination around, you were unique and beautiful and special in your own way, brilliantly blessed with a generosity of spirit that is indeed unquantifiable.

And I was extraordinarily fortunate and blessed to have known you in any manner, let alone to have been raised by you in the slums and the projects. It would have been physically impossible for you to be a better mother to Phillip and me because you were the greatest mother imaginable.

And I will orbit your light for as long as I live.

President-Elect Obama

2008-11-04T23:12:00.000-08:00

Kinda has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Barack Obama will be the 44th President of the United States. My faith in humanity has been slightly redeemed. Now it's time to roll up our sleeves and fix this giant shitburger left by #43.

I Did My Part

2008-11-04T13:15:00.000-08:00

I just got back from voting. Like many, it was a harrowing tale of waiting in unprecedented lines. There were at least two… maybe three people ahead of me! It took a whopping five minutes for me to get in a booth with a ballot! When will this injustice end? Fortunately, I was back in my home within the hour, after stops at Starbucks and an Italian pastry café.

Before anyone who dealt with actual voting struggles drives to the Pacific Northwest to blast me in the face with a shovel, allow me to come to my point. I live in a predominantly-wealthy, progressive suburb that is somehow still growing despite this country’s economic downturn. Of course I had no problem voting. But I could put the television on Seattle’s cable news network and view a guy standing in a long line in the rain, leave to vote in my own district and run a few errands, and then return to find that the unfortunate gentleman has only progressed a few steps. Something needs to be done to tweak out voting system to account for high-turnout during critical elections like this one... and not just in affluent, wealthy locations.

I feel like we’re all a part of a key moment in history. The weight of this momentous occasion weighs heavy on my consciousness. I feel change stirring the leaves in the air. The aura and electricity of this present, right here and now, is palpable. It’s like sharing intimate foreplay with your loved-one at the very moment when she mastered that tricky gag-reflex and relaxed her throat just enough for nirvana. In fact, henceforth, I think that we should refer to moments like this as Moments of Oral Epiphanies.

In all seriousness, I never thought I’d live to see this day. I mean, sure, we had Jesse Jackson in 84 and 88, but come-on now. The prospect of that guy being the first Black American President was about as likely as a White House Correspondents Dinner sponsored by Afro-Sheen and Care-Free Curl.

And as for Al Sharpton… well… uhm… no. Just no.

But here we are, standing on the preciface of history. Americans are now faced with the choice of either moving into a completely different direction into uncharted waters with an intelligent, charismatic Black man at the helm, or staying the course to Armageddon with an honored war hero who is only slightly batshit-insane, and his even zanier running-mate.

Oh yes… I’m totally fair and balanced.

Still Senator McCain is uncharacteristically calm and measured despite trailing in the polls. He’s keeps saying that he’s going to shock the world tonight, and I find that rather unnerving. What does he have up his sleeve? I’m visualizing viewing a live news telecast in Ohio, where reports of the voting progress are interrupted by World Wrestling Entertainment announcer, J.R.:

Reporter: And with 75 percent of the votes counted, it’s still too close to call, but Obama still maintains a slight lead over-

JR: OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! IT’S KANE!!! KANE JUST ENTERED THE POLLING HEADQUARTERS! WHAT THE HELL IS HE UP TO?

Reporter: Indeed, a rather large man in red and black tights just sauntered into the polling place. I’m not sure what he’s… hey Jake, can you get a close up of that guy?

JR: OH NO!!! OH NO!!! SON OF A BITCH! IT’S THE UNDERTAKER TOO!! COULD WE BE LOOKING AT A RECONCILIATION BETWEEN BROTHERS? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?

Reporter: Uhm… who are you, and why are you yelling?

JR: GOOD GOD! GOOD GOD! THE UNDERTAKER AND KANE ARE BEATING THE UNHOLY DOGCRAP OUT OF THE VOTING OFFICIALS!!

Reporter: Jake, are you getting this on camera?

Off camera: Yeah, I got it. The voting officials are screaming something… I can’t quite make it out because the guy next to you in the cowboy hat won’t shut up. I’ll enhance the mics… Wait… I think they’re screaming, “McCain wins Ohio.”

JR: JUMPIN JESUS ON A LILLYPAD WIRH A PAIR OF HORNEYTOADS! IT WAS A TRAP! A GODDAMNED SETUP! GODDAMNED VINCE MCMAN!

(Senator McCain, Sara Palin, WWE Chairman Vince McMahon, Kane, and The Undertaker emerge from the polling headquarters, arms raised in victory.)

(Scene ends)

* * *

Last Saturday, at Hedgehog’s football game, Bookie was involved in an altercation with a game official. Apparently, this guy got in Bookie’s face and berated her for not stopping the time-clock when he instructed her to. He was extremely nasty and rude to her for a simple human error. Now, here are the issues as I see them:

1. I was sitting in the stands, beneath the press box, and was not within earshot of the altercation. Obviously, had I been within audible range of some power-mad jerkoff yelling at my wife, there would have been a severe misunderstanding between him and me that would most likely not have resulted in violence, but possibly could have ended with the guy soiling himself in terror. My quiet presence combined with my God of Death glare can be somewhat intimidating, often brokering agreements without throwing a single punch. It’s a bit like Jim Brown’s grim visage minus the alleged domestic violence. No one truly knows if Jim Brown can still kick someone’s ass, but no one has tempted fate yet.

2. It’s not like Bookie needs my help at all. She is a former soldier of the U.S. Army. She’s no shrinking violet. Hell, earlier this year, she helped create and promote a mom’s social group, and then broke from that group to help create and promote another mom’s group when the first group failed to meet her ideals.

The first moms group leaned towards, “Let’s organize playdates for our kids and discuss breast-feeding and the perils of being stay-at-home mothers,” which is fine if you’re into that sort of thing. But Bookie was leaning more towards, “Let’s go get drunk and come up with ways of making it legal to lock-up our mouthy, know-it-all 14-year-olds in Public Storage until they either apologize or graduate from high school.” The first group became kid-focused when Bookie envisioned a more mom-focused group.

But when Bookie broke with the kid-focused group, there was a massive schism that rocked social websites to the core. Some women felt betrayed, and the passive-aggressive, thinly-veiled emails flowed like rivers into lakes. I refer to this era as the Dynastic Desperate Mom Wars of 2008. It was an ugly scene. The battlefields were stained with blood, baby-wipes, lip gloss and styling gel.

Though wounded by these snotty messages, Bookie persevered and chartered a course to victory and co-existence for her group. Her drunken-mom-focused moms group flourishes to this very day.

Why do I bring this up now? Because not only was this game official yelling at a woman who could have easily kicked his ass, he was disrespecting the Benjamin Franklin of online social groups. Do you have any idea of the number of women that he’s never even met that currently want to break off a stiletto in his ass? It would have to be like getting your ass kicked by Oprah's entire studio audience.

Like I said, it’s not like she needs me to fight her battles.

3. The game official was obviously projecting his anger onto Bookie. He was actually angry because the jerkoff parental volunteers running the public address system were showing him up by obnoxiously humming the Jeopardy theme whenever he stopped the clock to discuss a penalty. In that case, I understand, but sack-up, be a man, and address the problem that has you angry, not the chick that forgot to stop the clock once.

3a. As for the cowardly public address guys who later admitted that they fled the scene as soon as the official began yelling at Bookie… these fathers who have sons on the exact same team as mine… to quote Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.: “In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

These guys were the main catalyst for the official’s meltdown with their Kids in the Hall “High Fivin’ White Guy” routine on the PA, yet when guy came to face the crew, they tucked their tails and broke north like delinquent graffiti-taggers running from the law. By the way, the High-Fivin’ Parents are big, burly, man-sized men while the disgruntled referee is barely 5’3”. Once again, my faith in the human race goes unfounded.

4. And this is the biggie. On any other day of the week, this probably would have pissed Bookie off, prompting her to ruminate for an hour or two, before blowing the whole thing off and moving on with life.

But guess what week this is? Can you guess?

Oh yeah… Bitchy McAngrytitts is in town and in full-effect.

Have you ever watched a natural disaster like Mt. St. Helens and felt completely helpless? That was me in the aftermath of Ref Versus the Volcano. Bookie implored me to enter the booth, both in case the ref returned, and to calm her down.

But no… on this day, there would be no calming down.

My typical technique to calming Bookie involves a passive, calm reassessment of the situation in a neutral, soothing voice, coupled with a slight manipulation of the ego. “If you remain angry, the official wins. He’s moved on with his life as if it never happened. Let’s do the same. Let’s squash this. Let’s not let him win. You’re better than he is…” etc, ad-nauseum. Believe it or not, but under normal conditions I succeed.

Bookie hissed, “You’re not helping!”

And after reassessing my position, I found that she was absolutely right. I wasn’t helping. And seeing how catastrophically pissed-off menstrual chicks have a nasty habit of eating their own, I retreated from the press box.

I held Turtle close and whispered, “Your mom is as angry as I’ve ever seen her in my life. When we get home, I suggest making a hole in the atmosphere and just being as quiet as possible.”

I gave Hedgehog no such warning, since he’s “the chosen one”. Since Bookie still strikes a somewhat lenient tone with him, I consider him as cannonfodder. When on the warpath, Bookie may lash-out at me or Turtle in an unprovoked assault, but Hedgehog has to actually say or do something stupid in order for Bookie to set her sights on him (it’s practically inevitable). With that knowledge, sometimes I let him wander the minefield alone with a large stick (a tactic I learned by observing Turtle doing the same thing).

Bookie gets the satisfaction of chewing an ass, Turtle and I remain out of the line of fire, and Hedgehog gets his ass chewed justifiably, potentially correcting any future transgressions from him. Everyone’s a winner.

The only exception is when she’s sleeping. Then I just wave him off with angry hand gestures.

I thought we had a reprieve when I remembered that Bookie was scheduled for a Halloween party in the evening. Then I overheard her cancelling her RSVP because she “wasn’t fit to be around people”. Great. Just beautiful. So yeah, guess who benefited from her pleasant demeanor for the reminder of the evening?

And that’s the main difference between Bookie and me when it comes to rage and adverse situations. I implode, while she explodes. If I’m having a bad day, just let me retreat to my cave with my laptop and a six-pack, and tomorrow might be better. If Bookie is having a bad day, warn the oldest child, trip the youngest child, and play dead for about 12-18 hours.

Nevertheless, someone had to pay for my family’s lost weekend. I wrote a letter of complaint to the youth league’s athletic director. Here’s a copy. Names were changed to protect the innocent. Actually, names were changed because I felt like it.

November 01, 2008 at 12:00pm: Complaint about a Football Referee

To the Athletic Directors:

My name is Bizza My son, Hedgehog, plays for the Gold team in the League. My wife, Bitchy McAngrytitts, volunteered as the clock operator during our team’s home games this season.

On Saturday, November 01, 2008, during halftime of our 12pm game, my wife made me aware of an altercation that took place in the press box between her and one of the game’s referees (unfortunately, I didn’t manage to get his name, but he was short in stature and his hair was gray).

According to her, and several other volunteer parents that witnessed the altercation, the official yelled at her and addressed her in an extremely disrespectful manner when addressing her missing one of his signals to stop the clock for an official timeout during the first half.

I don’t recall specifically what was said, but this official’s words and behavior devastated my wife and left her unable to enjoy our son’s team experience. She is reluctant to volunteer or participate in any future youth football nor any other Club events.

We appreciate the efforts and contributions of all staff, coaches, officials and volunteers for the Youth Club. That and our son’s love for the game are the main reasons why we have budgeted a considerable amount of capital for our son’s equipment and field-use fees during this era of poor economic strength.

With that said, though I realize that the intensity of a playoff game -- even a child’s game -- can offer some stressful situations that may affect our judgment in the heat of the moment, this official’s behavior was inexcusable. His behavior was so offensive that one of the parents who witnessed the altercation tried consoling Bookie with the fact that he tracked down the game official to verbally admonish him for his harsh words.

Later, an unidentified person (assumedly a staff member or another volunteer) entered the booth to inform Bookie that she had been in contact with the official that verbally abused her, and if Bookie failed to heed his commands on the field, she would be removed from her voluntary position, and someone else would run the clock.

I don’t know what grievances this official harbored against Bookie, but again, these positions are filled solely on a voluntary basis. Bookie and the other parental volunteers took time away from cheering for their children to make a best possible effort in what are often confusing and unfamiliar surroundings.

I don’t know the circumstances of how game officials are appointed, I don’t know if they are employed or if they are volunteers like the parents. If they are employed by the Club, then this official needs to be reminded that not only are the parental volunteers volunteering their time, some are making considerable financial sacrifices for their children’s love of the game. As such, the unprofessional, reprehensible behavior that was exhibited by this official should not and will not be tolerated.

If these officials are volunteers like the parents, then the actions of said official are equally puzzling and disturbing.

This altercation caused Bookie great emotional distress. As a matter of respect, we parents are encouraged to refrain from berating the game officials with offensive or abusive language. I believe this to be a sensible request, and in the interest of enriching my son’s experience, I abide by it to the letter. I realize that the game officials are human and like the rest of us, are prone to human errors, even when making their best-efforts to make the right call.

I implore you, please be sure that the game officials return our courtesy in-kind and refrain from berating the parental volunteers that are also putting forth their best-efforts.

Respectfully,

Bizza

A youth sports fan and avid supporter of the Boys and Girls Club.

Only the greatest thing I have ever seen thus-far...

2008-10-18T15:55:00.000-07:00

I don't even have the words for this. Inspiring work.

The Man, The Myth

2008-10-18T00:19:00.000-07:00

(NOTE: I was going to delete this post, but I decided to keep it as a cautionary exhibit of what can transpire while blogging under the influence. My laptop should be retrofitted with a breathalyzer connected to my power button.)

Bookie's been pressing me hardcore to hang out with her and her friends, which I've heard is what normal people do. I get it. I understand. I empathize with her situation.

But fuck that.

It's hard to explain, but I'm currently chasing Vodka with Jim Beam, so I'm pretty sure I know what I'm talking about right now. Allow me to break it down for ya...

Look, I do the best I can, but I'm not normal. I'm a schizoid. My circle of comfort is extremely small. I'm wired differently from the socially-acceptable folks. Sometimes I wish I were normal because it would make my life that much easier. But the fact is that I am decidedly not normal. My personality trait is that of a loner. I didn't chose to be a schizoid much like homosexuals don't chose to be gay. In order to break through my wall, either you have to be an extraordinarily intriguing individual, or you have to be a hot chick with a gorgeous ass and flexible standards and/or libido. And unless you're a double-jointed freaky female who doesn't threaten Bookie, chances are, I'm not interested in getting to know you in person. That probably makes me sound like a dick. But the actual dickish part is that I recognize and can live with this reality.

Please don't take it personally, but if you do take it personally, then fuck you. I told you, I'm a super-villain.

But sometimes, in the interest of love and mutual sanity, I venture beyond my comfort zone and make a public appearance. These appearances are exceedingly rare, and friends who miss me tend to dish-out a ration of shit to Bookie.

Look, I never claimed that being married to me was easy. I don't know how Bookie does it, but she does, and God bless her for it.

Recently, some of her friends have taken to clowning her relentlessly and claiming that I don't actually exist; that I am merely a figment of her imagination, or a myth. Though I'm reasonably certain that they're joking, the repetitive nature of this joke has become rather banal, and dare I say, insulting.

So I came up with proof of my existence. this is irrefutable empirical evidence that I am alive and flourishing on this planet.

Doubters! Here is your proof!

I'm 18 (With 16 Years Experience)

2008-10-11T22:19:00.001-07:00

Turtle and I left the house early this morning in pursuit of football. Hedgehog had a game and we had to freakin' be there at 9:15! To make it even better, the field is 24 miles away. I'll give you a second to do the math on how long it takes to get there on back roads littered with county cops. (5 minutes later.....) Yep! 45 minutes! That's right, we left at 8 friggin 30.

So we drop the boy off at 9:15 for weigh-in and go look for a Starbucks in the hick town we are so fortunate to visit. Turtle and I both notice we may have time warped to 1950 while driving down their Main street. We look and look and there is no Starbucks. I see a little espresso/bakery and pull in, because at this point, I just need a friggin coffee. My favorite comment of the morning came from Turtle. "Ooooh....its a hill billy Starbucks mom... cute." Yes, she's got jokes and we laughed our butts off at that gem.

Fast forward 3 hours. Wolverines win!! They eat pizza, turtle and I venture to the mall for our quarterly hair make overs. We are now at the mall at a cell phone kiosk. I'm jabberin' it up with the sales guy, since we both work for said company and we can't wait until our awesome new phone drops so we can get one. Turtle then asks about a cover for her phone and blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda. When I tune back in, the sales guy was like "how old are you?" Turtle says 14. He then said, Oh. Then who are you? he said to me. I said her mom. Then he said it. The words that every mother loves to hear. The ones they dream about. "I thought you were both 18 and just friends hanging out." I smiled and said thanks then promptly texted Bizza. He HAD to know this just happened.

You know what he texted back? Ya, some bullshit. "Sounds like he wants to get his carrot wet."

Anyhow, screw that, and who cares. He said it and I can't un-hear it so I'm going to tell EVERYONE!! That boy said I looked 18!!! Excuse me while I drop it like its hot.

Ok, fast forward 2 more hours. Turtle and I now have super awesome hair and I think I now look 15. We go home, model the hair and I show off the goods to Bizza, who likes the hair (but not the price) :) All in all, a fantastic day and one in which my daughter and I did not argue once about anything and had some much needed bonding time. I don't care how much the hair was, it was worth the time with her.

Oh, and don't forget, this bitch looks 18! I'm Young Biotch!

Bonus Entry: A Rant about the Hygienic Gap

2008-10-11T21:43:00.000-07:00

So, my son, Hedgehog came home, fresh from helping to whip some Pop-Warner football ass. He went into his bedroom and emerged two minutes later with a pillow and a blanket, and walked right past the bathroom (you know… the room with the shower) headed directly towards my couch for a good rest.

I observed him, slack-jawed and in stunned silence. Now, we don’t own any fancy, imported Egyptian-cotton plush sofas, but I do have expectations on keeping my stuff clean and relatively funk-free.

Am I really seeing this?

Finally, the words came.

“Dude, after sweating and rolling around on a dirty field for two hours, you’re not even thinking about showering right now? You were just planning on kicking back and relaxing your nasty, sweaty-ass on my couch, is that it?”

Hedgehog stared at me blankly. It was that kind of blank, “lights are on, but nobody’s home” gaze that instantly fills me with rage.

I continued with, “Seriously, you don’t smell yourself right now?”

More blank staring.

“Dude, no wonder it always smells like teen spirit at the elephant habitat up in here! Now get yo’ punk-ass in that bathroom and wash yo’ stankin ass!” Because that’s how I talk to them. Like the late great Bernie Mac said, I don’t patronize them kids. I tell ‘em straight-up when I think they’re effin-up.

But this little muthaphucka was walking away and looking at me sideways, shaking his head as if I was the one making the effed-up decisions. As he departed to the shower, he actually had me questioning my own expectations of cleanliness, so I had to call Bookie for reassurance that my expectations were valid.

What the hell? Where did I go wrong? Why are my kids so against soap? I’m sayin though, damn playa! Respect my shit!

A Captive Audience!

2008-09-27T22:03:00.000-07:00

HAHAHAHA! You've all fallen into my trap!

Instead of you gaining access to my innermost thoughts, you have all been tethered to a never-ending source of fart jokes and grand penis references!

Now recoil in horror as I pass gas beneath the confines of my comforter before pulling the blanket over your head! MWAHA! MWAHA! MWAHAHAHAHA!!

Seriously, since you've all been good sports about my blog jackassery, I'm compelled to reward you. And since I'm not feeling well, this is all I could find...

Submitted for your ~~amusement~~ education, the only helpdesk training video that matters.

Note: I also posted my Chicago Bears keys to victory versus the Philadelphia Eagles on my other blog. Shuddup! I know the Eagles are far superior, but that doesn't make them invincible!

I need another drink.

Vegas Mini-Vacation 2008: Operation Sitty-Tlap (Special guest commentary from Bookie)

2008-09-02T01:24:00.000-07:00

This is a long one, so get comfortable.

(Caution: This entry may contain themes of a slightly suggestive and questionable nature. It's nothing pornographic, but if you don't want to know how a geek and a dork awkwardly enjoy themselves at a titty-bar, you might want to stop here.)

(For Ozfemme: Please do not read this while enjoying a tasty beverage. The contributors at My Libido are not responsible for damaged PC's or liquids spewed-upon monitors from readers' lips as a result of spontaneous laughter at our expense.)

Bookie's comments will be in bold blue font.

Before I begin rehashing the Las Vegas highlights, I’d like to discuss “free vacation packages”.

Yes, I know they’re mostly scams to get naïve tourists to mortgage their future on a timeshare condo, but this is not just about that.

I first got the idea to “con the conmen” from Bookie’s former colleague, Mother Goose. Having a daughter who attends UNLV and being somewhat overprotective, Mother Goose and her husband find themselves in Vegas constantly. They frequently take advantage of the “free vacation” packages and endure the lengthy, pretentious presentations, knowing that they will NEVER buy whatever’s being sold so voraciously.

My initial thoughts were, wow, what a bunch of cheapskates. Later, my thoughts evolved into, wow, what a great idea for a mini-vacation! So I went with it and told Bookie we were going.

I’ll come back to this later, but just know that I’ll never do another free vacation with The Company and Hotel That Shall Remain Nameless. I don’t regret it at all, but let’s just say that I’d rather not risk waking up some morning with a bloodied, severed horse-head at the foot of my bed.

Departure

We nearly missed the first bus to the airport thanks to some “Blue Hair”, as Bookie refers to elderly women. The Blue Hair waived-off the bus as it was stopping, with no regard for the two people behind her who actually needed the bus. No matter though. I got the bus driver’s attention at the last second and he stopped.

After I dragged our luggage aboard and paid the fair, we were addressed by another smiling Blue Hair sitting on the bus. I was polite and respectful despite my aversion to conversing with strangers, but this woman left me feeling a tad unsettled… I mean, even more so than usual.

She had this irrepressible Cheshire Cat smile on her face, and if the eyes were the window to her soul, then I could see that someone set her oven to broil, then promptly blew out the pilot light. I’m not even trying to be mean, but seriously, if life were a comic book, her thought-bubble would contain nothing but question marks and unicorns.

What’s worse, whenever I answered one of her banal questions, she’d respond with a bloodcurdling laugh that was a cross between Walt Disney’s Goofy and the Evil Skeletor. The whole situation was about as comfortable as a prostate exam. Bookie was either way more compassionate than I, or a tad slow on the assessment of this character.

With that setting, the following conversation took place:

Cheshire Cat Lady: Y’all goin on a trip, huh?

Bizza: *glancing at my luggage, expression remaining neutral* …uhm… yeah

CCL: Huh-yuk-huh-huh-huh-yuk-yuk *smile widening*

Bookie: Yeah, we’re going to Vegas! I’m so excited because *long-winded reason why she’s excited*

CCL: Huh-yuk-huh-huh-huh-yuk-yuk *smile widening*

Bizza: *glaring at Bookie out the corner of my eye*

Bookie: *shrugs, smiling gleefully*

CCL: So y’all goin to VEGAS… on a plane, huh?

Bizza: *glances at the sign on the bus that says TO AIRPORT, expression still neutral* uhm… yeah… that’s right.

CCL: Huh-yuk-huh-huh-huh-yuk-yuk *smile widening*

*I noted a scenario that popped into my head and ended with, “Scotty, beam me to Las Vegas! No, not by the slots, near the craps table!” I chuckled to myself.*

Bookie: Well… *quizzical expression on her face slowly turning into realization that she might as well be talking to a sock-puppet* Yup… that’s right… on a plane.

CCL: Huh-yuk-huh-huh-huh-yuk-yuk *smile widening, rocking back and forth*

No words were exchanged for the next two minutes, but CCL’s expression never changed, and her gaze never left my face. Mercifully, her stop was next. After she exited, Bookie said to me, “What a sweet, little old lady!”

Yeah… sweet. I bet her homestead looks like something out of Amityville. We should check beneath the rosebush in her backyard for bodies. I was creeped-out and we weren’t even at the airport yet. Not a good sign.

From Bookie: In my defense, I couldn't see the Blue Hair to gauge her sanity. All I heard was her voice and it seemed pleasant to me. I try to be nice to old people.

* * *

Before our flight, we stopped at the airport’s bar-n-grill for a bite. The service was exceptional, complete with mild flirting from the waitress. Mild flirting my ass, she might as well have asked him for a nooner right there!!

When she checked my ID, she took one look at my dreads in the picture and gushed, “Oooh, I like the animalistic look! Meow-rowr!” She punctuated her statement with the dorky, universal cat-claw motion. She had major Jungle Fever.

Now, in my limited experience, most good waitresses compliment good service with some non-threatening flirting to make their tip that much sweeter. I’m not so brain-damaged to presume that every waitress who flirts with me actually wants to tickle the pickle (As The Boondocks’ Riley said, “Game recognizes game.”) Still, I soaked it up and pretended to be bashful.

In Focus

At Bookie’s urging, we took a photo together before boarding. Little did I know that this would be just the beginning of a disturbing trend of picture-mongering. Whatever, I didn't get shit for pics last time, so I wanted to capture this trip for all posterity.

Night One

Again, I won’t mention the name of the casino/hotel we stayed at because (a) I don’t want them finding my blog through search engines and (b) reasons to be revealed later. But don’t worry; this shithole isn't one of the high-end, established venues like MGM Grand or the Luxor. This place is a dive that you will never find on Vegas.com. They have a Subway and a Denny's for their restaurants. Nuff said.

I can only assume that one of the main reasons why said hotel casino partnered with the Timeshare Nazis to give away free accommodations has something to do with the fact that the casino reeked of sweaty taint and beer-farts at all times.

I can see the logic behind that strategy:

Timeshare Nazis: So will you mortgage your future on a timeshare with us?

Customer: No! I… I just can’t afford it!

Timeshare Nazis: I see… you know what this means right?

Customer: No! Please don’t send me back to the casino! It smells like 40 fat men on a toilet in there!

Timeshare Nazis: I have no choice. See, had you bought from us, we’d move you into your luxury condo immediately, but now… I’m afraid our hands are tied…

Customer: Wait! Please have mercy!

Timeshare Nazis: …And I hear that the portly, sweaty bartender gorged himself on cheap beer, nachos, and refried beans this afternoon… What an unfortunate decision for you, my friend. Not good times…

Customer: I beg you! Let me crunch the numbers one more time!

Timeshare Nazis: Very well…

I started using the stairs on the 2nd day to avoid the stench, and the crazy "press your luck" elevator that would shut the door and move up at the same time. I almost lost Bizza that way.

* * *

Our timeshare appointment wasn’t until the next day, so after we checked in and rested, we hit the ground running. Keep in mind that:

1. Bookie has a nearly debilitating back injury and probably should take it easy.

2. Bookie in Vegas is like an ADHD kid at Toys-R-Us. It is virtually impossible to convince her to take it easy. Really? You want me to take it easy in Vegas? Puhleeese.

3. Goal conflict: Bookie wants to see lots of stuff and take lots of pictures, while I want to do lots of stuff and burn all the evidence. Gung-ho tourist meets depraved vacationer. Collision, much? All the time baby, all the time.

4. It is blazing hot in Vegas, so hot that the junction of my boxer-briefs was reduced to primordial soup after only five minutes of walking (Consider the mystery of the casino that smelled like ass solved.) But aside from the ass-sweat, I don’t mind the heat too much.

5. Bookie effing hates being *choose all that apply: hot, cold, itchy, uncomfortable, in pain, inconvenienced, etc…*

Now, throw all of the above into a microwave-safe bag, bake in the desert at about 105 degrees Fahrenheit, add alcohol (but not nearly enough to satisfy my own taste), and you have the recipe for a meltdown soufflé. Fortunately, my meltdown was relatively benign. I protested the excessive photos by refusing to cooperate. Bookie perceived this as just another annoying little antagonistic game of mine, so she bore my initial meltdown well. I didn't even know you had a meltdown, but whatever.

There would be others. One of the best in history to be exact.

In Focus

We did get some great pictures though.

"Really? We haven't been here for 45 minutes and we're going to break out the camera before I even get a beer in my hands? You know this is a shitty photo, right? I mean... You see the walk signal screwing up the shot, right? right? Sigh... Shuddup Barry. Just be patient and go with it." Yea, fucking go with it, I just want some danged pictures.

This is Bookie in front of Poseidon... or is that Neptune? Bah! who cares! It's not like we're really in Rome. Some jerkoff tycoon bastardized foreign artistry in an effort to get folks like us to take photos in the blazing heat lieu of drinking beer. Still no beer for Barry, but it's cool... I'm... I'm doin good... I thought it was Zeus. Hmmm. Oh well.

That's me getting into the spirit. Look, I'm a lion. Rowr, I'm a lion. Speaking of lions, did you know that there's no open container rule on the Las Vegas strip? That hand could have been holding a cold one. But hey, standing next to this phony statue is just as good. Whenever I go out for fun, I either slam a cold one, or I find a really gay statue of a lion to stand next to. Living the dream, baby.

I haven't the slightest idea what the backdrop was in this photo, but Bookie didn't have her camera set for nighttime, so all you get to see is a loving couple and a disgruntled vacationer who is almost done cooperating. He did have a mini melt down, but I splashed beer on him and he was fine.

"C'mon baby! just one more picture! I want my friends at work to have proof that we actually go places together since you're such a wierdo!"

"You asshole! You screwed up my picture! Now we have to do it again! Be serious this time, ok, baby?"

"Hah! I got you back, you dick! Ok, forreal this time... Naw... forreal, forreal... one more... ok?"

She thought my revolt was a game. Still no beer. The revolution was not televised. (Don't let his little montoge fool you. These pictures were taken on day 3, by then he had plenty of beer and we were gonna take a gondola ride!! Oh, and Nice purse straps on my arm. What the hell was I thinking. What, I couldn't put the purse down for one dammed second?)

(f''ing purse straps...!)

The Bellagio fountain show was pretty cool. No joke. It was seriously worth seeing at least once in my life.

But I'd definately see this show more than once. These are go-go dancers at some dive casino on the strip.

They're dancing as a centerpiece for a cluster of blackjack tables, no doubt as an attempt to draw attention to their casino and keep the male patrons distracted. Nice job.

Bookie and I decided to stop and... eh... rest our feet for a while. At this point, I was guzzling my first beer, so I was reasonably pacified.

Bookie was particularly captivated by this one, as she was the only go-go dancer who could actually dance. Seriously, she is the only one who danced and what a fantastic ass!

Day Two

Bookie wants me to tell the story about my second, more powerful meltdown that occurred as we boarded the shuttle for the timeshare presentation, but I’d rather not. I’ll let her tell it if she wants. That was an embarrassing time for me.

I'm normally the calming influence, regardless of any conflict. I won't put myself in the same league as Jimmy Carter, but if there's drama, I'm typically the one mediating a resolution, not the one raining terror and hellfire (I save my terror and hellfire for this blog.)

I'm not saying that I don't have a temper. Quite the contrary. I loathe losing control of my temper under any circumstances. It makes me feel naked and exposed. My ill disposition scares even me, which is why I take great pains to restrain myself. Once I "let the dogs off the porch", it's difficult to get them back on the leash, especially when defending someone I care about.

And since the situation in question nearly culminated in me tomb-stoning a sassy, bitter, rude attendant with no customer service skills for causing Bookie additional pain and suffering, I’ll leave it to her to regale you with her “dark knight” story.

The Dark Knight Story:

Okay, so we check in around 6:00pm and the Timeshare Nazi Rep is not in. We get our hotel room, packet for the next day and go on our way. Fast-forward to the next day. We come down and again, the Rep we need to see is "missing". So we hunt down the SS officers that pander the passers by to check on what we need to do. We quickly learned they have no f'ing idea. They asked if we "checked in" I said, to the hotel? Ya, we got our room and this little paper with our pick up appointment. (showed her the appt. sheet) The girl was very nice and said that we should be fine. We waited out side for the "shuttle bus".

Okay, so the shuttle bus arrives and right away we knew this was gonna be bad. The driver was a complete dick face. He asked for our check in, and apparently our credentials were insufficient. So he told us to get on the bus and fill out a questionarrie, which we did. He had to go get the other victims, so we waited. Now, I can't stand for long periods and I needed to sit down (back injury). So it was nice that he let us on the bus after being a total dick about our paperwork.

The driver returns and the head rep. is with him. This woman has the demeanor of a jilted mob boss and seemed to believe that making others miserable was her lot in life. Misery loves company I guess. So, she summons us off the bus and admonished us for not checking in with her. I then kurtly said, we checked in yesterday no one told us we had to see you. That would have been nice to know. She checked our ID's and, the rest was for Bizza to take care of; signature on forms, etc... I asked if I could go sit down as my back was really hurting.

This is where the meltdown started. The Nazi said, in the rudest, self entitled tone I've ever heard: No, you have to get on the bus together. (bitch is lucky I didn't slap the weave off of her ugly face) I was like, whatever, it would only take a second to get this done and I could go sit down. Bizza though, he reacted, shall we say...differently.

His face twisted at her and he looked at me and said, "Baby, go on and get on the bus." So I started walking towards the door. This bitch holds her arm out and said, "No, you have to get on together." Bizza moved her arm and said to me again, in a very angry tone, "No Baby, why don't you get on the bus, this is bullshit. She has back trouble and can't stand out here." The Nazi then made a threat that would have found us paying for this trip out of pocket and I regained my composure and said, don't worry babe, just sign the form and get this over with.

Oh no wait, it gets better. Bizza made the comment that this was crap they way they were treating us and she had the nerve to say "I'm sorry you feel that way" Without missing a beat, he retorted, "No you're not. Don't lie to me." He pushed the paperwork in her face, bodied her out of my way and we got on the bus, cussing the whole time. The whole ordeal was awful and spectacular at the same time. The entire ride, all we did is loudly state how we "ain't buying shit" and this says a lot about this place. Needless to say, we arrived at the presentation, ready to leave and the best fuck you attitude to match. Bizza and I found many problems with their pitch but faked our way through and finally got to leave.

Now, back to your story:

Bookie seems to have a gift for hyperbole.

Bookie thinks I blacked-out during my bout with "unmitigated rage", but I don't believe her story is completely accurate. As pissed-off as I was, I'm certain that I never put my hands on that bitch-bat. Had I done that, given her disposition and our location, I would have been immediately (and rightfully) arrested... or at the very least evicted from the casino.

I suspect that on the rare occasion that I release the seal of Rufus the Irate Negro, the spectacle is so jarring and in graphic contrast to my normally mild demeanor that it creates the illusion that I went totally sickhouse on some poor jabroney.

But Bookie was right about one thing; what does that tell you about a company trying to sell big-ticket items that employs inflexible douchebags? I wondered how this organization ever managed to sell a towel rack, let alone a vacation package.

I soon found out.

To be continued…

HA! Sike! I’ll finish the story now…

Once we arrived at the condo resort, each couple was assigned a “host”. Our host seemed pleasant enough… she was rather soccer mom-ish. We lucked out because some of the other couples got folks they could barely understand. Seriously folks, picture the telemarketer pool in person.

The event had a luau theme to it and the hosts tried to make it seem festive, but it was easy to see through the pasted-on smiles. These folks had one hand wrapped around our shoulder while the other searched our pockets for our money clips. The pitch went something like this:

“With the price for a Las Vegas resort hotel room rising due to ‘corporations’ building bigger, lavish, more expensive casinos, wouldn’t it make more sense to invest your money into something that will give you a return for your cash, like a piece of earth that you technically own, but not really? How about 'owning' a place that you can visit anytime you want as long as you check with us first to make sure your residence isn’t already inhabited by some other poor sap we suckered into purchasing an 'ownership'?

"In ten years, this area we just bussed you to will no longer be surrounded by desolation. In ten years, the Vegas strip will reach all the way down here! And I have absolutely no trend analysis or statistical data whatsoever to back up the claim I just randomly pulled out of my ass, but doesn’t that make you wanna buy a timeshare with us now?”

The act was further augmented by the hosts over-laughing at their spokesperson's jokes during his presentation, and other vacationers "spontaneously" agreeing to this major purchase of real estate without a legal consultation, site-unseen. Sure, they can't afford to provide their own vacation accommodations today, but just like that, they will agree to purchasing the equivelent of a tricked-out luxury vehicle. Those people were either brain-damaged or...

...or paid actors, perhaps? (We agreed there that this was probably true)

Full-disclosure: Bookie and I had already decided to dig our heels in and say “no” no matter what was offered, but we pretended to have an open mind. Once it became clear to our host that we weren’t buying her pitch, she handed us off to her “boss”. (But not before losing her mind and calling us ignorant for not buying. Bizza was wise to keep this nugget of info from me until we were well-clear of the presentation. Lucky bitch that I didn't hear that comment, or I would have had a meltdown of another type.)

"Boss" was some piece of work. I was instantly uncomfortable with him from the moment of our handshake. He wore snake-skin boots, and his suit seemed altered to make him resemble a super-villain. I wouldn't buy bottled water from "Boss" without having it tested.

And his eyes… oh man… every time he gazed at me it was if he were coiling himself around my throat and slowly suffocating me with a soft, gentle touch. He was that unassuming babysitter that made it difficult for a kid to convince his parents that he was being fondled and touched in private places when left alone…

Sure the veneer he cloaked himself in was affable, but if you look close enough, just beneath the surface… you could see his mind’s eye preparing the Jesus Juice. (I swear, he raped me with his mind, he was that fucking creepy)

Through the miracle of New Math, "Boss" crunched the numbers and managed to get them even smaller, even though Soccer Mom said that the numbers would only increase if we waited even one more day. What a great deal for us, right? We'd be fools to pass on such a grand offer! (Ignorant fools, no less! :) )

Yet the persistent recurring thought in my head was, "If this offer is too good to be true, then why the hard sell?" As Chris Rock astutely pointed out, you might sell encyclopedias, but nobody ever has to sell crack cocaine; crack sells itself. If this timeshare was a highly coveted item, there would be no need to pay for my room and bus me to a painfully fraudulent party in an effort to pitch it to me. (because they are selling babypowder and trying to pass it off as cocaine)

(Thanks for piggy-backing on my analogy, Bookie, but I find your knowledge of the drug business slightly unsettling. Moving on...)

Why make such a monumental spectacle out of pretending to relate to me by pointing to my Chicago Bears shirt and spouting-off random names of former Chicago Bears as if to say, "That’s a Chicago Bears shirt! You like the Chicago Bears! I know them! I know some of their names! I know the name of their stadium! Isn’t it great that we’re communicating and connecting on a common level? "

“Nigga, get yo’ hands out of my pocket!”

Long story short(er): we told them no, they dropped the pretense and treated us like shit until they returned us to Ass-Sweat Casino. They forced us to suffer one final indignity of walking several blocks in the blazing sun because they couldn’t be bothered to actually give us curbside treatment.

Night Two (Operation Sitty Tlap)

Finally, after all the photo-taking, timeshare-ducking, and non-debauchery, we arrived at the true intent of our mini-vacation; throwing away wads of sweaty money to pay a bunch of half-naked women to not have sex with us!

I know it sounds illogical on the surface, but there’s a certain rush in being titty-slapped by a reasonably hot stranger, hence the necessary pretense (I’m reasonably certain that it’s still inappropriate for me to try making a singles-for-titty-slap proposition to the hot chick who jogs by my apartment each afternoon. I'll have to check with Dear Abby.)

Despite the bravado, Bookie and I aren't regulars on the exotic dance circuit. At most, we indulge every other year. Our lenghty breaks in commercial debauchery are long enough for us to approach each outing with relatively no idea how to carry ourselves. The only thing I retain for each visit is that I shouldn't throw all of my money at once and/or ejaculate while at the club. I have to at least wait for the titty-slap first.

I'm not a huge fan of paying for non-sex, but I admit, it does have its benefits.

The game plan: Pay the cover, drink our two drinks while gazing at boobies, find the “diamond in the rough”, tip her well, have her lick my bald head while Bookie photographs it, get titty-slapped, exhaust titty-slap budget, say no to any private dances (why pay more to not have sex in private when we can pay less to not have sex in public?) return to the hotel, drink more, get titty-slapped again, and… as Hip Hop artist Mos Def put it… smash it like an Idaho potato, ya feel me?

Total estimated titty-slap budget (excluding cover) $40.00

We paid the cover and were seated in a booth, overlooking the main stage. As expected, the beautiful women were few, and the busted, skanky-lookin chicks were numerous. The Girls of Glittery Gulch is a tourist trap and we knew that going into the trip. But the staff and girls are friendly and courteous, and since it’s touristy, we were comfortable being there. There are plenty of high-end strip clubs that we may visit in the future, but for our budget, we got the most bang from our buck at the Gulch.

The ladies took turns parading onto the stage for our eyes to either grope and fondle, or examine and note each clichéd flaw. You know the standard flaws... the ones that aren't a big deal unless you're in a profession that involves being partially naked. The lady with the stretch marks. The woman with too-much muffin-top for professional stripping. The chick with the bangin body who doesn’t dance, but sways from side to side as if she’d rather be getting an appendectomy than dancing topless in public. The one with the jacked-up boob-job (Bookie’s take; “Oh that poor thing…”) The girl with the bullet hole in her left ass-cheek (OK, so she wasn’t there this time. Last time I saw her was in Portland.)

Out of nearly a dozen women, only three were truly hot, including the shy one.

One of those hot chicks was named Shanie, and she was certainly not shy. She was rockin the naughty librarian glasses (I love that look!) and had one of the most righteous booties I’ve ever seen. I swear fo’ Pete, her butt should have its own blog entry. Songs should be written and sung to her booty at least twice, once per cheek, then never sung again, in deference to the Power of Her Hind-Parts.

I don't think you understand. Please allow me to clarify here. Photography is banned inside the club, but here's an approximation of her booty:

No, that's not quite right. Her glorious hindquarters looked something like this:

No, that's still not right. I mean, I really want to do her bootay justice. I really do. Let's try one more time:

Perfect! Yes, her ass was just like this! But something's still not right... what is it? Oh yes... I forgot to provide the proper perspective.

Here is the same booty, with the correct perspective:

That's what her butt looked like. As if it were touched by The Infinite Himself. And oh my stars and bars did she ever put that thang to work! She probably could have juggled with that thing if she wanted to!

Our eyes met briefly while she was on stage. While getting her hustle on, she must have filed it away for later because she came right over to us after her set. She and Bookie hit it off immediately while I was still searching for my comfort level. It didn’t take long because before I knew it, she was resting that glorious hiney on my lap, still chatting it up with Bookie as I awkwardly pondered to myself, “Is this free, or should I be like… you know… tipping her or something?” (Personally, I wanted to shove money at her too, but she kept going, FOR FREE)

As I mentioned previously, game recognizes game, but this Shanie was rather unfamiliar in that she was so familiar. For lack of a better description, she almost seemed pretentious in her unpretentiousness. She wasn’t about the typical phony politeness or cliched exotic dancer flirting that we were accustomed to being exposed to. Shanie seemed grounded, pleasant, and downright approachable. She mentioned that she likes couples best, so I assume that's why she was cool with showing more of her personal side.

Shanie is from the Midwest and she was heading to Seattle to “see someone” the same week we were returning home. I would have given her my cell number to hook-up in Seattle for a game of Scrabble (shuddup), but I didn’t want to be the desperate guy in the club who’s drinking a bit too much of the dancer’s approachable cool-aid. (In the Navy, one of my subordinates thought he had a stripper girlfriend, even though he didn’t know where she lived, never took her out to dinner, never slept with her, or never even saw her outside of Déjà-Vu. Seriously, who wants to be that guy?)

Bookie became comfortable enough to ask her for a photo of Shanie licking my bald head. Sadly, photography was not allowed, but after obtaining Bookie's permission (classy touch, by the way) she promptly licked and kissed my head before whispering into/nibbling my earlobe, burying my face in her bosom to give me a good sitty-tlap (spelled that way because by then I was way too excited for spell-check) before reaching down and biting my nipple through my shirt. Each evolution in the foreplay was fluid, seamless, and well before I could adjust to my space being violated. And yes, I quickly got over myself.

Oh, she was good. (Like, REALLY REALLY REALLY GOOD. I can't stress this enough)

Before long, she was on both our laps, relaxing, still casually talking with Bookie, about what I can’t say since all the blood had already rushed away from my ears (shuddup). Suffice to say, she took exceptional personal-contact liberties with us and I hadn’t tipped her a freaking dime.

(I wasn’t intentionally being a dick; I just didn’t know the protocol. She had done everything short of breaching any orifices, so she certainly deserved, at the very least, all of my money, my fashionable, $3.00 sunglasses, and maybe the shirt off Bookie’s back. But I felt that giving her cash outright might insult her. You know, like, “Thanks for biting my nipple and grabbing my wiener. Here’s a ten-spot.”)

(Yes, I worry about insulting exotic dancers -- dancers for money -- by giving them money at an inappropriate time. Yes, I really am that stupid. But in my limited strip club experience, the dancers only did favors after money was exchanged, which is why her radical, free-spirited freebie approach threw me for a loop.)

Ah, and here lies the hook; only after she felt the chemistry was just right, only after I was willing to walk back to our room bare-assed naked, having turned over all secular possessions to Shanie, right at that moment, she suggested a private dance for us.

Oh yeah, she was real good.

I won’t go into detail about all the hot, steamy non-sex we paid for during the private dance (I’ll let Bookie fill in the details), but obviously we exceeded our sitty-tlap budget. And yeah, it was worth it. (Sorry folks, I'm gonna keep this moment just for us, but just know it was awesome and I was almost escorted out for breaking the no hands rule. Yes, it was pretty awesome)

Oh, and the last part of our game plan went as expected. Shuddup. (We made sure every guest knew what was going on in our room that night. It was like the 4th of July without the audience.)

Day Three: The Calm

I honestly don’t remember much of day three aside from visiting the Stratosphere’s observation deck and attending a free show featuring celebrity impersonators (compliments of Ass-Sweat Casino and Batshit-Insane Timeshares).

I dunno… the show was entertaining I guess, but honestly, I would have preferred that we visited the strip club again. Shanie the Fannie pretty much spoiled me for any other Vegas event that trip. And since I have nothing further to add, here’s a few random Vegas-isms I overheard (some may also be direct quotes from Bookie).

1. From a group of guys at the Venetian:

Guy one: Let’s get outta here.

Guy two: But I wanted to go on the ride!

Guy one: Dude, we’re not puttin five dudes in a gondola!

Bookie: *under her breath* Yeah, cause that would be kinda gay.

2. “Watch out now lady. I ain’t the real Michael. I’ll come down there and get ya!” – Michael Jackson impersonator responding to a flirtatious chick in the front row during a break in his performance.

3. A dinner conversation:

Bizza: You have some exotic Native American traits... especially in your eyes and cheeks.

Bookie: Well that’s because I'm part Native American, among other cultures.

Bizza: One night... we need to dress you in a traditional Native American outfit, complete with headdress and one of those leather jackets with the fringe and tassels.

Bookie: … Yeah?

Bizza: Totally. That would be so hot.

Bookie: I would totally do that for you.

Bizza: …for real? You don’t think that’s weird?

Bookie: No, I’m totally down. You could… like… ravage the savage.

Bizza: *trying not to spew beer from laughing* I can’t believe you just said that.

Bookie: That’s going on your blog list, isn’t it?

Bizza: What do you think?

"Caaaan yoooou dig iiiiiiiiiiiit?"

2008-08-28T21:12:00.000-07:00

We got back on Monday. Bookie had a procedure on her back, and lies in agony. I've been tending to her, which is why I haven't posted a Vegas update.

Do not despair, my friends! It is coming in a few days.

But for now, I was so blown away by Barak Obama's acceptance speech that I had to steal a moment to post a blurb about it. Senator Obama builds his platform on hope, unity and change and is such an inspiring orator that I'm rendered slack-jawed. For a moment, I allowed a sliver of hope for our future to trickle to the surface.

But on a lighter note, I'm reminded of Bill Simmons' observation that Barak sounds eerily like Cyrus from the Warriors.

But don't take my word for it; judge for yourself:

Of course, on the flip-side Cyrus was a gang leader trying to unite the city's gangs under his tent, and he was promptly killed by a jealous rival at the beginning of the film, so I don't really want to draw too close a parallel here. But on a purely superficial, topical level, the speaking style and the charisma are comically similar.

No Risk, No Reward

2008-08-22T01:19:00.000-07:00

And, on that note, we're rollin...

After a summer of rollercoaster changes, my mind is troubled and my soul is weary. I need to pick myself up by the bootstraps and hit the ground runnin. I need to get this guy out of my closet:

I need to rise from the ashes renewed and ready to kick life in the balls, give it a toilet swirley, and make it run that lunch money, kid.

But first, I need to wet my whistle by descending into the kind of excess, debauchery, and depravity that can only be found in a city where Carrot Top somehow makes a living, and David Copperfield and Barry Manilow can rub elbows with the Blue Man Group, proving once and for all they're not all the same people.

Sure the hotel is a dive, but it's free and right in the heart of the strip! Sure we're on a hotdog and Pabst Blue-Ribbon-type budget, but the Girls of Glitter Gulch never seem to care about financial status.

I just need to be away for a minute, you know? Just a temporary change of venue to pull myself off the mat and come back swinging (so to speak).

That's all for now. See ya next week!

Bookie, let's do this. Let's light this candle!

Adrian Passes Away at the Age of 27

2008-08-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

Today's normally scheduled irreverent smarm has been interrupted by a very real tragic event.

From Baldy's Blog:

Its Liam here, I am sorry to be writing the post I never wanted to write. I was sent this email by Adrian' dad Keith Sudbury:

Adrian Sudbury died peacefully in his sleep with his dad Keith and mum Kay last night.

Keith Sudbury said: "Every parent thinks their son or daughter is special and we are no different.

"Adrian touched all who knew him. We're very proud of all his achievements in tragically such a short time.

"Kay and I hope that all Adrian's good work will be continued by all those who knew and loved him."

There will be a private family funeral followed by a service of remembrance at Sheffield Cathedral at a date to be confirmed.

I'm sure you will all join me in offering you condolences to Adrian's family and friends at this very difficult time.

Like many bloggers who never met Adrian, I was captivated by his story, inspired by his courage, and moved by his selflessness as he devoted his last days to cancer awareness. His efforts even caught the attention of the British Prime Minister.

Adrian was an amazing person, and I will honor his memory the best way I know how; by passing on his last wish.

Also, If you feel the need to, please pass on your condolences on Adrian's Book of Remembrance.

Rest in peace, Adrian.

2008-08-15T00:30:00.000-07:00

I'm hot and grumpy as all hell, but I told JOOLZ that I'd do this meme, and since I like to keep my word, here I go:

The rules:

1. put your mp3 player or computer music player on random.

2. post the first four lines from the first 20 songs that play, no matter how embarrassing the song (skip repeat artists & instrumentals *duh*).

3. post, and let your friends guess which song and artist the lines come from.

4. NO googling!

Anyway, those were the rules as I understand them. But I'm hot and relatively pissed, so here are my rules.

1. Google all you want. I don't really give a shit.

2. Have fun with this, or I'll fucking punch you in the fucking face.

3. Just kidding about #2... but have fun anyway.

4. Play along if you like, but I'm not tagging anyone because (a) tagging folks is fucking annoying and (b) few of the people I tag ever actually play along. I'm playing along because I said I would, and plus it's too hot for rational thought or sexual relations

And that's not an invitation for all you so-called horndogs to look down upon me from your porn-star-wannabe pedestals, thumb your noses, cluck your lips at me disapprovingly and say something like... oh I don't know, "Too hot for sex?!? It's NEVER too hot for sex! All you have to do is position several icecubes on top of your buttocks near your rectum and... "

With all due respect... the fuck outta here with that bullshit!

(Don't do it, horndogs... don't test me on this... I'm hot and frustrated enough to pull off some seriously diabolical shit right now.)

Sorry about the rant. Must be the heat. OK, on to the meme:

1. Bag lady you gone hurt your back

Dragging all them bags like that

I guess nobody ever told you

All you must hold on to, is you, is you, is you

2. Every time I move I lose

When I look I'm in

And every time I turn around

I'm back in love

3. You're getting the way of what I'm feeling

You're getting the way of what I'm feeling

4. I reminisce for a spell, or shall I say think back

22 years ago to keep it on track

The birth of a child on the 8th of october

A toast but my granddaddy came sober

5. f I asked you to trust me on all things,

Could you do it?

If I needed you to map your position,

Would you try it?

6. Angeli i demoni kruzhili nado mnoj

Rassekali ternii i mlechnye puti

Ne znaet schast'ya tol'ko tot

Kto ego zova ponyat ne smog

6. (translation)

Angels and demons were circling above me

Cutting thorns and Milky Way

Don't know happiness from

Who knew it but couldn't give it

7. If you looked in my life

And see what I've seen...

If you looked in my life

And see what I've seen...

8. Never judge a book by the cover; discover the soul brother

With the mecca don, workin brunette to blonde

How many edison con when I respond in full black

With us havin the vernon villians back to back

9. I can't imagine how it would be

(without you here)

I heard all the people say that you're really

(in love with me)

10. I'm on a path not thinkin bout a average man

Black Sedan my way through pitfalls and scams

Let the whole world know about this Likwit camp

Programmed to ignite on site

11. I'm a soldier, znachit ya

I otvyetchik i sud'ya

Ya stoyu na dvukh kontsakh ognya

Ogibaya virazhi, obgonyaya smyert' i zhizn'

11 (translated)

I'm a soldier, meaning that I'm

Both the defendent and the judge

I'm standing on both sides of the fire

Going around turns, overtaking death and life

12. Fake thug, no love, you get the slug, CB4 Gusto

Your luck low, I didn't know til I was drunk though

You freak niggaz played out, get fucked and ate out

Prostitute turned bitch, I got the gauge out

13. I'm wishing on a star.

To follow where you are.

I'm wishing on a dream.

To follow what it means.

14. Deadly melodic, robotic steez-o blur your optic

So you can't see the topic, condition combo

Blaze bring the heat to your Mourning like Alonzo

Head honcho like Eastwood, gun in my pancho

15. I'm a player..... girl I thought you knew

When you started messin around with me, knew I wouldn't commit to you

Cause I'm a player...... and I know you can't see it in my eyes......

Everyone says that I'm innocent, and it should come as no surprise....

16. Sitting here thinking about you

And all the things we used to do

I never thought that I would lose you

Cause you were always my boo

17. Laundered linen sheets

Touch me their coldness

And thoughts I can’t repeat

Shock me with their boldness

18. Oooooh baby, Not tonight

I don't wanna fuss n fight

I just wanna make it right

Ooh, ooh there's work to do

19. My flows remarkable

Doc walk like Kane from Kung Fu round the globe

Throw obstacles I'll hurdle them

Herb and whack MC's, drum racks, to the rims to the caps

20. Hey kids, shake it loose together

The spotlight's hitting something

That's been known to change the weather

We'll kill the fatted calf tonight, so stick around

Bookie-isms: The Glossary

2008-08-14T00:04:00.000-07:00

Before I begin, yes you guessed it, here's another shameless plug for my film reviews over at HDFest. On tap this week: Hulk and The Incredible Hulk.

For the duration of this blog, I will continue to update this blog entry as my running glossary on Bookie's singular wisdom. As I update this entry, I will make it current, so there's no need to search my archives for Bookie's famous quotes. I will probably update them every other month or so.

Disclaimer: Some of Bookie's quotes are sexual in nature. Actually, the majority of Bookie's quotes are rather raunchy, so if you have a fragile sensibility, why are you here, and how have you been reading for this long? Pervert!

So, once again, without further delay, the complete glossary of Bookie-isms.

Added 8-14-2008

"I'm kinky, but I'm not 'stomp on your balls' kinky."

"I don't care if it gets in my hair. I'm not Black. I don't have a weave or anything."

"I like the black bone."

"I don't need the love of the Bizza. I just need the d!ck of the Bizza."

"People are so stupid. You deserve to be kicked by a moose."

"You are the MLB. Not the Middle LineBacker. The Mighty Large Black C**k"

"Well I can't be like Pussy Galore or anything, but we can do it."

"Bizza clearly you underestimate the power of your penis." -Clearly, I do.

"Go-go Gadget butt-plug!"

"OK fine! I'm fucking weird, you're fucking weird, we go together." -Who can argue with that ironclad logic?

"You are hot. Get your fuckin hands off me." -What? Wait... what?

"This is how I stay cool when its hot. I gotta put air through the girl. I gotta cool my flaps." -And you don't even wanna know how she was posed when she dropped that gem on me.

"I don't know why you want me to stay out of your colon when you want in mine so bad. Fuck off." -Touche'. You win this round, Bookie.

"Are you, like a heterosexual wizard that could fuck some magic into me?" -What? Wait... what?

"Why don't you take your pants off and unbunch yourself in my vagina?"

From last year:

“You know… I shaved my legs today… I’m just sayin, that’s all…”

“We just gotta figure out how to keep em alive till they’re eighteen. We’re almost free!”

“Well, I’m not asking to suck your knee!”

“Texas is part of the United States. Texas is not its own country, no matter what your father tells you!”

“You’re hot. No, wait a sec, come back! Wait, I just want a hug, honest!”

“I don't know. Maybe we’re just fooling ourselves. Maybe we’re not Jedi after all.”

“I’m gonna L-word all over your dick!”

“OOOOOH! We have to switch banks! These bastards are incompetent!”

“I only like African hazelnuts. And I only like two. And I like shaking the tree to get em off.”

“God, I HATE *insert random utility or public service here*! Fuckin incompetent assholes!”

"Sonofabitch! My ass just knocked down a candycane."

"Whenever you come up in conversation with my friends and coworkers, they all say, 'Oh your husband's so cool!' What the fuck? I mean, are they just sparing my feelings or what? You show up to a party for a short time, act like a dick, and leave as quickly as possible, and they fucking love you. I don't get it."

“You’re such a chick. But I love it.”

"Show me something out there!" - Yeah, what he said!

2008-08-09T20:05:00.000-07:00

Misty May-Treanor invites Still President Bush to second base. OK, so I kinda made that up, but it's kinda true! Read theactual article here.

Thanks to Dan Shanoff's blog for linking this one and bringing it to my attention.

This marks the first time I've ever been envious of our Commander-in-chief. I need to figure out how to run a government into the ground, shit on the middle class, and squander the sacrifices of several thousand servicemen and women so I can get to slap a hot chick on the ass in a foreign country run by a government with questionable human rights policies.

Seriously though, aren't those women absolutely delicious? If I were a wonder-twin I'd spend the majority of my life as the form of one of Kerri Walsh's Speedos, I swear fo' Pete!

But Seriously... A Very Special Housekeeping

2008-08-06T01:44:00.000-07:00

Salutations, blogmates!

Yeah, I'm still around. Yeah, I haven't posted much. And yeah, I have plenty of lame excuses.

Excuse:1 - My laptop display fizzled-out permanently, instead of the intermittent flickering I've become accustomed to. This compelled me to actually work on the family desktop which would lead to my socializing with the children far longer than the limits of my sanity could allow. Seriously, thirty-five minutes of listening to Yugio cartoon dialogue, anything on the Disney channel, or the latest asinine repetitive chorus from a song shouted by unjustifiably-wealthy, tone-deaf, shirtless jerkoffs with more gold in their mouths than actual teefus is enough for me to comission a round-robin game of "Is this Staple-Gun Loaded?" Temple-shots only, of course, and kids try first, because I believe the children are our future.

Excuse 1a - The desktop in the living room was a piece of crap. If I wanted to do any serious writing, I would have to actually cobble together a decent-working PC from the replacement hard drive and desktop PC like I said I would when I purchased these items several years ago. Bookie's been breaking my balls about it forever, but I never got around to it because it was mainly for the kids and... well... you know my stance on the kids. Oh? You don't?

Well, fuck them kids.

Seriously though, Bookie gave me a daily ration of shit over that computer, not realizing that once I started working on it, she'd have to actually LEAVE ME ALONE FOR A FEW HOURS.

The way I saw it, it was simply a matter of which argument I wanted to have with her, for how long, and balancing that with how frustrated I wanted to be during a given time. For years, the, "YOU'LL NEVER FIX THIS DAMNED COMPUTER!" argument was far more palatable than the "WHY MUST I COMPETE WITH THAT DAMNED COMPUTER!" argument.

Like I said, I'm lazy, and therefore non-confrontational. Path of least resistance, my friends.

But my recent PC problems compelled me to re-evaluate the variables and "spring into action". The result; a decent-working PC in the livingroom.

Excuse:2 - It's summer, and those of you who've trekked with me from the beginning know that my posts always lull during the summer. Not because I have a life, but because I'm lazy and uncomfortably warm, and it seems as if the other family members are frantic busybodies that aren't content to live between their own ears. Everyone wants to take up residence in my head, like some kind of forced mind-meld.

Seriously, there's nothing amusing about anal gang-rape, especially when it's metaphorically happening to my brain. Perhaps I'm overstating my case, but hey, I'm hot, sticky, and irritated, Bookie is hot, sticky, and frequently pissed-off about Some Thing that she urgently needs to share with me as demonstratively as possible, and the kids are out of school and up my butt with a seemingly unending stream of, "Can I have/Can I do/Can I go/Can we get" questions.

I don't even hear the questions anymore. I'm like, "What? You want to go over to Sara's for birthday cake, unsupervised fireworks and depleated uraniun? Did you ask your mother? Then why are you asking me? Go, have fun with the artilliery and watch your fingers."

Excuse:3 - I'm seriously stressed-out. My career at my current employer is tenuous at best, and Bookie graciously green-lighted me to take drastic measures which may force us to tighten our belts as a family. Though Bookie is justifiably frightened, she trusts me enough to support me through this. This should be a benefit for me, but now I find myself wrecked by self-doubt and gripped by a nearly paralyzing fear of letting everyone down. But I've already submitted my resignation and/or recommendation for restructuring, so regardless of my trepidation, the die is cast. More on that as the situation develops.

Excuse:4 - And the reason for my post - The jury's still out on the fate of my personal blog. I received some good feedback on my post about ending my blog, and I greatly appreciate it, blogmates. Some of you have given me much to think about. A few of you have given me some really excellent topics, suggestions, and ideas to explore before my decision. The rest of you were just plain cute. To that end, I will respond to your comments in a mini-housekeeping session:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another Suburban Mom said...
How about some HNT of you Bizza!

And perhaps some commentary from Bookie!
7/10/2008 4:01 AM

ASM, while I cannot predict when Bookie will be moved to regale us with her "emergence", I can say with absolute certainty that any future Half-Nekked Thursday posts from me will be of the boring, benign, Disney-rated, fully-clothed variety, so why bother, right? Perhaps it's a personal failing, but I'm just not that comfortable with my body nor will I ever be. Sorry, but request denied.

Besides, there are folks who read my blog that I actually have to interact with in real life and I'm sure they're still recovering from the fact that I have genitals and enjoy having them fondled from time to time among other things.

As for the rest of you cringing at the thought of having your optics exposed to my E.T. physique, you're welcome.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth said...
A list of things that make marriage great.

A list of things that make parenting confusing.

The most ridiculous conversation you ever had (that you remember).
7/10/2008 4:57 AM

Great ideas, Elizabeth. Consider them added to my list. Though the ridiculous conversation bit could be considered a relative term. I could give you a ridiculous conversation every freakin week that could be considered the most ridiculous one I'd had at that moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

janice said...
I've been reading your blog for a while and I've commented twice. Introducing Bookie as a comtributor was a great idea, I love her postings as well. I've even seen your book at a garage sale in our community.

I would like to hear more about your (anti-social?), fear of crowds phobia. I too suffer to a small extent from large social situations. How do combat, if you have, feelings of anxiety.

I enjoy reading your blog and understand the need to move on.

Wishing you and yours all the best.
7/10/2008 7:20 AM

Sweet! I've made garage-sale status! I made it, ma! Top of the world!

Janice, thank you for your kind words. I've always meant to expand on my own bizarre little personality quirk. But for me, it's not a fear of social situation, it's a deep dread and loathing... it's a preference for smaller, familiar groups over larger ones, and a preference for being alone above everything else.

I can function in large groups, but my true personality is "masked". For me, it's not a matter of anxiety, it's a matter of possession. If you're outside my circle of trust, you only get to see what I want you to see, and if you try to press me, or get me to open up when I'm not ready, I will either become evasive, or I'll flat-out shut you down. It's not like it's something I can control either, it's subconscious.

I can best be described as a Schizoid, which in essence, means that I prefer to be split, or removed from social situations (Not to be confused with Schizophrenic, or a split from reality. Some folks like to incorrectly lump us into the same category, but I assure you, I've never worn aluminum foil on my head to keep the alien brain slugs from reading my thoughts and stealing my pudding. Honest.)

I don't necessarily have a fear of social situations, or anxiety, though admittedly, there are times when the urge to remove myself from certain social situations is so overwhelming that I shut-down, or remove myself mentally.

But it's also more than that... and sometimes less than that... but if you get confused, just say that I'm a dick, because that's true too.

I will dedicate an entry to my social-fucktardedness. Thanks for the idea!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Weekends Off said...
Sniff, can't ya just stay here forever?
7/10/2008 8:46 AM

Oh, pish-posh, Weeks! Do not despair! I'll still be around in some capacity. I just haven't figured it out yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bre said...
I don't like it!

But hey, I'm selfish, so whaddaya want from me???

But I know you have to do what you have to do....so good luck and I'll have to ensure I'm up on all your posts from now....until....

The End
7/10/2008 1:00 PM

Bre, I feel ya. I'm pretty selfish myself. But know that whatever it is I'm about to do... it will be good for me.

Heck... might be good for you too. (Get yer head outta the gutta! That's not what I meant!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hihankara said...
While I completely understand a normal feeling that what you are doing is trivial, or less meaningful than a blog about dying from cancer, but you are underestimating the power of being a regular guy that the rest of us can relate to, someone that makes our own foibles and crazy relationships and whatever seem OK because we are not the only ones having those experiences.

I dont have a bucket list of unanswered questions, being relatively new to your fan club, but a fictional story might be fun--especially if it isnt about football! :P

PS - Thanks for liking my shoes! What do you think of my toenail polish color? Should I stay this red or go more burgandy next time? Or go totally over the edge and wacky like blue?!?
7/10/2008 3:15 PM

Hihankara, thank you for your kind words. You really made me think.

I think the failing was my own crudely-chosen wording. And I still may not have the words to convey my intent. Plainly stated, I didn't find only my blog insufficient and insignificant, but my entire existence. Life is too short to be spent as professionally unhappy and unfulfilled as I have been. Existing is no longer enough. Surviving is no longer enough.

And I am convinced that the key to my fulfillment is not in my blogging about the many things that leave me unfulfilled or whining about what I don't have. For many, personal blogging is still worthwhile, cathartic, and fun. For me, personal blogging has become like running on a treadmill while bitching about not getting anywhere.

Hence the move in a different direction.

Short story eh? I'll see what I can come up with. No football? That's going to be hard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ozfemme said...
No no no no no no no no no no no no.

Um...what if I promise to not run away screaming at the icky bits?

I want more.
7/17/2008 9:20 PM

Femme, scroll up. there won't be anymore icky bits. I've already promised to keep my clothes on from here on out.

I Believe I'm about to Join the Migration

2008-07-23T20:10:00.001-07:00

By all means, check out my new reviews on HDFest. On tap this week; Batman: Gotham Knight, The Dark Knight, Super Troopers, and Fearless.

I am not happy with my current place of employment. The reasons are unimportant and will not be discussed. My dissatisfaction fuels my depression, which unfortunately, bleeds onto the veneer of my interaction with my family.

Like a wounded animal, I withdraw into seclusion to mend, which is scarcely an option when I'm expected to provide a moral compass for my children and an extra backbone for my mate.

Nevertheless, my mind is troubled and my soul is weary.

Recently, it seems as if I've lost my place in the world. I find myself living life as if it were nothing more than a troublesome dream, and I am numb to both joy and sorrow.

I wait, for that which I do not know. I brood in the shadows, lost among the penumbra of my own thoughts.

I am pushed to the edge of the crevice overlooking the abyss, depth unknown, footing precarious and tenuous, regard for my welfare evaporating with the fog as the summer sun burns through the humid evening atmosphere, held fast only by my concern for my loved ones.

I know not of what awaits on the horizon at sunrise, but instead of embracing the joys of life, I passively wait in stagnation.

I believe the religious types might refer to this as limbo. And I'm about to stop waiting and step into the void.

Though I know not what tomorrow may bring, though I cannot predict the windfalls or setbacks that await my fateful choice to leave the safety of the cliff, though i cannot track the warm air currents needed to keep my grand endeavor aloft, the calendar provides me some solace.

Because, I know... it's almost time.

Though I cannot trace the weather patterns, the position of the sun suggests an all too familiar time of year.

They are returning.

They are training.

They are almost here.

And though I know not what will happen to me once I choose to slip the binds of gravity, once I step into the great unknown...

They will be here to take my mind off the fear.

Welcome back, gentlemen. It's been far too long.

Death of a Friendship

2008-07-16T02:10:00.000-07:00

“This will change our relationship forever”

The words trembled in your throat
You pressed them into my chest
Along with your own body
Crushing them into
A foreboding song, soon forgotten
Between our tightly pressed skin
I held you fast, adhering to your melody

“Once we cross this line, there’s no going back”

The heat of your warning echoed
From your lips
To my chin,
Reverberated down the nape of your neck,
Planted its teeth into my chest,
And proceeded to all points south

“Baby, are you sure about this?”

You asked this while we were already uncorked
As if reason had any say in the matter anymore
As if ten-thousand realities hadn’t already passed
With each one of them finding us here, entwined
Entrenched, yet still tantalized, tormented
And wanting

“Are you ready to take this to the next level?”

Your voice forewarning of something greater than this
More addictive than your scent
But with all the dangers of addiction
Unfathomably sweeter than your nectar
Intoxication through the pores

I nod dumbly, unable to muster the words

Blood rushing from the brain
Creates an odd tingly sensation in the fingers
My wrists are sensitive
And you seem to know my body
As a sightless scholar knows his Braille

What you suggested next, I dare not repeat from blushing

That night I achieved clarity without understanding
Your eyes demanding
My will complying
Your hands contracting
My flesh exalting

But I did exactly as you asked
We played our duet out to its conclusion
We danced inside joy
And then loftier places than that
Our pitch and angle were righteous and beyond Jovian
A tumultuous battle, a climatic blending, and
A catastrophic peace

And you were right

There was no going back

The End of the Beginning

2008-07-10T01:17:00.000-07:00

Before I begin this entry, please feel free to check out my recent movie reviews on HDFest, specifically, Love Jones, Mixed Nuts, Rambo, and especially, The Bucket List.

Go ahead… I’ll wait.

All done? OK.

I’ve been mulling this over for quite some time now, and it took a random indulgence in a new piece of technology, as well as a random visit to another blog, to put things into perspective.

Ever since I discovered this new phenomenon called Twitter, I have dissed it in the same manner that newspaper journalists scoff at bloggers, social club owners belittle Internet chatters, and crazy-old-coots once complained about the invention of the telephone (To be completely honest, my initial reaction to Twitter was, “A gadget dedicated to where I am and what I’m doing, 24/7? Twitter can kiss my dick!”)

Try as I might, I couldn’t conceive a scenario where family, friends, strangers, and only The Infinite knows who else would want to know the exact time that I worked out on the elliptical, went to the movies, bought that loaf of bread, or visited the crapper.

But then I had an epiphany! I could use twitter to chronicle my real-time reactions to one of my favorite shows, “So You Think You Can Dance?”! That way, I can keep my blog updated, and stave-off my transition into That Crazy Old Coot Who Hates Technology for another three or four years!

So I signed up for Twatter… oops… I mean Twitter, and added the code to my blog. You can still see it on my side panel. I have two entries there from roughly eight days ago. I haven’t used it since because just after I added it to my blog, I had another epiphany.

For me, placing a device that I secretly loathe onto a medium that I enjoy was equivalent to Fonzie setting aside his motorcycle for a set of water-skis in order to jump the shark. This disturbing image compelled me to examine my blog under the harsh glare of my own microscope (Surprisingly, I rarely revisit the archives of my own entries, though this blog was supposed to be about me gathering my own thoughts to bring order to chaos. Ironic, I know.)

What I found was a blog that began as a cathartic journey through self-discovery, much like any other personal blog or vanity blog. Soon it was transformed into a medium to unleash my pent-up aggression and anger that would be considered socially unacceptable in most real-time settings. Finally, it became an outlet to make strangers laugh while distracting me from the blemishes in my own life that leave me feeling unfulfilled.

And so, ultimately, in the one place where I vowed to always be completely honest with myself, I began to lie to myself and willingly accept the very lies that I spewed. My entries became increasingly masturbatory and self-deluding in nature, and boy did I ever love me some me.

And yes, I know… nearly all personal and vanity blogs are masturbatory and self-deluding in nature, so what’s the big deal?

Actually, there is no big deal, but consider this; recently, I came across the personal blog of a British gent who received a death sentence from terminal cancer. Since then, he has lived life to the fullest that he possibly can, and has shed blood, sweat, and tears promoting cancer awareness and raising money to find a cure. He blogs about the joys in his life while suffering chemo while I blog about fart jokes and whine about unfulfilled potential. What the pho? This remarkable gentleman has unwittingly helped to shift my perspective.

Perhaps it’s my insufferable propensity for empathy, but after reading some of his entries, anything I’ve ever read from not only my own blog, but the blogs of my blogmates, were rendered insignificant by comparison.

And that’s not to trivialize the very real problems that my blogmates experience and are brave enough to share with complete strangers. I totally feel your pain too. I’m just illustrating how one insightful, selfless, obscure blog written by a man --who is facing personal tragedy with far more dignity than I could ever imagine mustering-- has helped to alter my own paradigm.

I’m not saying that I can cure cancer or that any of my future essays will be groundbreaking Pulitzer shit, or change the world for the better, but there’s more to life than bitching about what may or may not be happening to me, or griping about what someone is or isn’t doing to me, or for me. I should be doing more. I can do more. What the fuck am I doing wasting precious time on the sidelines? It’s time to become more than just “an observer, rather than a participant” in the world around me. It’s time to sack-up and weigh-in.

Am I getting too deep or overstating my case a bit? Well let’s look at it a different way...

Look, it happens all the time. Eventually, Gilligan had to get off the island. On the sitcom “Good Times”, the Evans family had to finally escape the housing projects at some point. Even the three decent Star Trek series (The Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, and Voyager) lasted only seven years each. If you do something long enough, inevitably, everything that needs to be said will eventually be said, and then there’s nothing more that needs to be said on the topic.

And then that’s the end of it, right?

I think this is the end of the beginning for me.

Sometime, between September and the end of this year, I intend to put an end to this irreverent little blog.

What does that mean?

Well, don’t get it twisted. Unlike Mike Tyson, I will not be “fading into Bolivian”. I’ll still be around in some capacity, either blogging about film reviews, topical humor, pop-culture and how it needs to be systematically assassinated, or I might even try my hand at full-time *gasp* sports blogging about my favorite team, the Chicago Bears.

I haven’t decided my direction yet, but what I do know is this; by the end of this year, my singular brand of navel-gazing, masturbatory, self-satisfying, self-loathing personal blogging will be no more.

No, I don’t intend to remove my blog completely, and no, I’m not ashamed of or embarrassed by anything I’ve written. No one has emerged from my past to dick around with me or make me feel uncomfortable. Admittedly, I have censored myself somewhat since I introduced Bookie to my blog and she shared it with some of her trusted friends (Hello ladies! Nice shoes.)

But for the most part, the main reason why I’m choosing to end this blog is because I feel it’s time to move on to something new.

But with that said, I haven’t decided on how I will wrap this blog up. There are some things that I want to write about before I end this blog, and after polling Bookie (get your heads out of the gutter!) she has given me a few writing prompts as well.

So the question I ask to you, my blogmates, is this; what are some things you’d like to hear from me before I end this blog? Are there any questions I’ve left unanswered? Are there any topics you’d like for me to expand upon? Now is the time to make your voices heard! Tell me now, and I may add your questions or suggestions to my blog's "bucket list" before I end it.

"Three cheers for the red, white, and blue!"

2008-07-04T18:02:00.000-07:00

"...The star spangled banner bring hither,
O'er Columbia's true sons let it wave;
May the wreaths they have won never wither,
Nor its stars cease to shine on the brave.
May thy service united ne'er sever,
But hold to the colors so true;
The army and navy forever,
Three cheers for the red, white, and blue!
Three cheers for the red, white, and blue!
The army and navy forever,
Three cheers for the red, white, and blue "

- from Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, written in the early 19th century

Don't EVER question my... eh... patriotism!

Though I have many issues with my country's political direction, for better or worse, I am an American, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Happy Birthday, Nation!

Random Thoughts before and during Mini-Dork’s (aka Turtle’s) Eighth Grade Graduation

2008-06-24T23:54:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the crummy formatting. I must get this crap out of my head quickly, before it turns to mush. No one kept a copy of the program because "it's only eighth grade".

Funny, when I thought the very same thing to myself, I imagined being berated for my apparent insensitivity. Shows how much I know.

Anyway, here are my other thoughts:

~ ~ ~

While en-route to the school, Bookie received a call from her father. It was thought that he and Bookie’s step mom wouldn’t be able to attend due to step mom’s job. Fortunately, she found out that she would not have to work. Unfortunately, they live about an hour away and due to misconnects, they managed to notify Bookie thirty minutes before graduation, rendering the good news moot.

This unfortunate event nearly sent Bookie into a tailspin as she began damning a few oblivious drivers and driving up the tailpipes of others. I could tell she was about to break out the six-shooters and go all Yosamite Sam on me so I petted her leg and reminded her this was about her daughter, and her daughter knows her grandparents love her. This calmed her down a bit, but I was still worried that I might need a tazer, a tranq gun, or one of those blow tubes to force Valium down her throat. Thankfully, it didn’t come to that…

~ ~ ~

Actual conversation while walking to the school gym:

The Bizza: *trying not to sound bummed about the large group of people ahead* So where are we going?

Bookie: *in a curt tone* See that large group of people up there?

The Bizza: Yeah...

Bookie: *continues curt tone* Well then.

The Bizza: *stiffling a muthaphuckin Samuel L. Jackson rant* …Uhm… so… yeah… are you going to answer my question?

Bookie: *suddenly aware of herself, partially due to my abrupt change in tone* Oh, you mean without the attitude?

The Bizza: Yes, please.

Bookie: *only slightly less prickish* Oh, well we’re going up there where that large group of people are.

The Bizza: Thank you.

Bookie: Sorry.

The Bizza: No worries.

(I slowly put away my tazer.)

~ ~ ~

Some guy with a thick accent led his family to the bleacher seats nearest us. This. Guy. Reeked. It was as if he spent the last three weeks not bathing and pooping without wiping. Ever the kind Samaritan, he apparently attempted to mask his odor with copious amounts of cologne. He smelled like Obsession for Men and Flatulent, Sweaty Asshole. Yum.

Stinky Cologne/Rotten Ass Guy asked us to move down a few spots to allow his family to sit together. No problem dude. Normally, I'm prickish about my seats, but that guy's scent compelled me to move down as far as possible. Hell, why not move to Canada? Bookie nearly bowled me over like Jerome Bettis getting away from his stankin ass.

~ ~ ~

I should also mention that it was unreasonably hot in the bleachers, and the school faculty implored us to sit closer together so everyone could fit in the gym. Whatever happened to planning and logistics? My eighth grade graduation was in a large church. Granted, some folks flip out about keeping religion out of public school (Hello Bookie!), but I’ve also been to some pretty decent graduations in both churches and public auditoriums, and the faculty even pitched in a few bucks for ventilation.

Oh, and the heat was not blending well with Scent of an Asshole over there. It cannot be overstated; it smelled like a roasted turd in there.

~ ~ ~

My view:

Objects are closer, smarmier and smellier than they appear. But on the bright side, at least there weren’t any overbearing parents or grandparents taking up precious space with sophisticated video equipment.

~ ~ ~

I stand corrected

This guy appeared to be documenting his grandchild's big day for the PBS special series, "Irrelevant Home Movies that will sit in the Old Shoebox, Never to be Seen Again by Anyone until Grandpa Records over it with his Unholy Viagra-Juiced Home-Porn Scenes with Grandma for Adult Social Websites".

You should’ve heard his running narration. He was actually narrating his film about Precocious, but Bashful Apricot Fannie’s dramatic conquest of middle school.

Sure, there were other folks hellbent on finding the perfect lighting and angle to film their proud moment so they can bore friends and family for the next three weeks…

…but only one guy was providing an eloquent, reverent running commentary like Father Carmichael during a Pope visit.

Dude, next time nix the James Lipton routine, buy yourself a portable handheld, and sit the fuck down. We should have forced him to setup his equipment next to Cesspool Sphincter over there.

~ ~ ~

The graduates ambled in with no apparent pageantry. There were no caps and gowns, which I found odd, but progressive, not to mention beneficial to my incredibly shrinking wallet. But there was no real graduation march, no Pomp and Circumstance, No national anthem, not even a march of the penguins. It was as if they were all managing to find their way to English class. An inauspicious start.

~ ~ ~

A group of graduates kick off the festivities with a poorly rehearsed skit about how rough life is at ages 12 through 14 and how the whole middle school experience was challenging, alien, and downright tough.

What? Wait… what?

OK, fine, I concede that for me, 12-14 was difficult with all the peer pressure, bullies, and the occasional drive-by shootings and/or muggings. I can totally see how easy it could be to fall into the wrong crowd and join a gang, or how difficult it could be resisting the urge of making money the easy way by selling drugs. I know the humiliation of running errands for my housing project’s armed security guards just to collect enough change for Top Ramen for me and my younger bro. I can certainly understand being afraid of both the gun-totting gangstas AND the gun-totting, power-mad police officers…

Wait a sec… I was thinking of my upbringing back in Chicago. These kids were raised in Bellevue, WA. Sack-up and quit yer bitchin, Spanky! If the hardest part of your day is having to give your desert to the school bully at recess, count yer lucky stars and move on!

Seriously though, I kid, I kid. I’m sure it was rough for the poor tykes…

Pussies. No, I kid! I'm not bitter. These are just jokes! Really!

~ ~ ~

The student orchestra was jaw-droppingly good! I mean, really good. I brought that up to point out my observation of Bookie internally kicking herself for insisting that Turtle give up her viola and expand her horizons by trying something new. I’m also kicking myself for being strangely mute and detached during that process. We fucked that one up as a team. The lesson: We parents don’t always have the right answers, even when we have our kids’ best interests in mind...

~ ~ ~

We observed a clusterfuckeriffick transition as the orchestra yielded the stage to the choir. The two clusters of children clashed like opposing armies during the battle scenes from Braveheart. You know, I’m starting to think that maybe the school faculty didn’t think this one all the way through…

~ ~ ~

The choir sang “Good Riddance” by Green Day. I rolled my eyes, as obviously, yet another teacher misinterpreted this awesome song. Bookie was instantly weepy, as this song was featured at her brother’s funeral, which once again reminded me that I am a fucking moron. Pay no attention to me. The kids did a good job with this song.

~ ~ ~

The choir’s second song: Lean on Me. I patiently awaited either the end of the song, or sweet merciful death, whichever came first. Why the break of this song always induces such soulless, rhythmically-challenged clapping is beyond me. It’s like a switch in some schmuck’s head that says, “Hey! It’s the ‘Call on me brother if you need a hand’ part! Let’s all clap like seals and sway together like Ray Charles on Vicodin!”

~ ~ ~

Another skit about the perils of middle school. Look, I get it. Math is hard. I’m a believer. There is no need for the hard-sell on the hard-knock life of suburban middle school. It is difficult being in this school. I feel you. If it sucks this bad just being in the gym, I can’t imagine how it must be in the library or the lunchroom. I’ll bet the teacher’s lounge is fuckin Shangri-La right now.

~ ~ ~

I was incredibly disappointed by the cattle call commencement procession. They sped through our kids with such rapid pace that they didn’t even have a chance to shine in their own right. That’s what this is supposed to be about, right? Aren’t our kids supposed to get their moment in the spotlight, as a right of passage? Not enough time? Perhaps we could have dispensed with the asinine skits that some frustrated screenwriting hobbyist teacher came up with and devoted that time to allowing our children to get their shine-on? I was so mad I could spit.

But I did get these lovely photos of my beloved Turtle being spirited through the sea of humanity like a common canning facility.

There she is! See her? What do you mean no?

Right there! In the brown dress!

How about now? No? Look harder! Quick! She’s about to sit down again!

Missed her? It’s OK. So did I. Suddenly, Mr. Professional Cinematographer is looking a lot smarter, isn’t he?

Fortunately, Bookie and I caught up with our lucky graduate just after the guest speaker, a middle school and high school alumnus on his way to USC, ended his "keynote speech".

(By the way, this "honor student" speaker looked like he just stepped out of the Abercrombie and Fitch catalog for beach-bums and sounded better suited to indoctrinate our children about the joys of keggers and roofies. “Dude, whoa. Middle school was like, real hard, ya know? But yo, high school’s gonna be even harder, yo!”)

(Bookie’s take on the intrepid keynote speaker; “Nice to see that he dressed for the occasion. Boys. Sheesh.” In a related topic, I’m now legitimately frightened of the next generation.)
~ ~ ~

Here she is! Our graduate and her proud mama! I bitch, gripe and complain, but this an important milestone for Turtle. I’m extremely proud of her, and I’m excited about what the future holds for her. She has tremendous upside-potential, especially once I figure out how to wake her before noon and stop her from randomly running into walls.