The mother of all lies

After five excruciating months of sitting in a recliner with two broken feet, the day had finally arrived when I was scheduled to get my casts removed. I couldn’t wait.
But then more bad news when the doctor informed me that I’d need to be in ‘walking’ casts for the next eight weeks.
Oh well, it beat sitting in a recliner 24/7 watching the food network. I got my crutches and walking casts and headed for home.

I never realized how having two broken feet would draw so much attention from others, at least not until I got the walking casts.
How could I have known?
Prior to the new casts, I was in the sanctuary of my home, sitting in a recliner watching cooking and travel shows. But now…
Now I was in the viewing public where I quickly learned how complete strangers are all-too-eager to go out of their way to interrogate someone with two broken feet, wanting to know all the sordid details.

In the beginning, I’ll admit I did like the notoriety, becoming a bit of an attention whore—just as eager to tell my story as others were to hear it.
But after a while, constantly rehashing the tale of how my staircase and a burned-out nightlight had conspired against me, was getting tiresome. Not to mention how it painted me as a klutz.

I needed to change things up, start glamorizing an otherwise boring story of a guy falling down a staircase and breaking both feet. It needed to be interesting, with all the romance and intrigue of a good book.
Why not? I’ll never see these people again I reasoned and besides, I could always sense their boredom whenever telling the story. Why not give them something to marvel at?

I started out fairly innocuously at first, telling the story of how my parachute blew a panel at ten thousand feet, describing the bone-crushing impact in detail. Their look was anything but boredom now.
Now this was more like it. This was the response I was looking for, as they hung on on my every word.
But like a drug addict, the high soon wore off, I needed the stories to get even bigger, fraught with horrendous whoppers.
And that’s just what I did.

There was my Formula One car crash in Monte Carlo, the child rescue from a 12-story building, and my tumble down the Khumbu Ice Fields on my 5th and final Everest expedition.
My storytelling was now in full swing, soaring even higher with each new inquiry. It reminded me of Rossini’s William Tell Overture, smooth and soft in the beginning, building slowly, until finally hitting its crescendo. (some five weeks in).
And hit the crescendo I did.

It was the night of the Elton John concert, where I was lucky enough to have gotten preferred seating, however, due to arena policy, they refused to let me climb stairs with crutches to access my seat. So as the rest of my family and friends bid me farewell, I was escorted to an area reserved for handicapped seating, where I was seated next to, unbeknownst to me at the time, a pilot.
That’s when my overachieving days came to an abrupt halt.

Pilot: “How’d you break both feet?”

Me: “Crash landed my plane.”

Having told a bevy of highly detailed lies in the prior five weeks, I droned on, unsolicited.

Me: “Well, I knew it was going to be a difficult landing, with a 60 knot crosswind  and all, that’s when I decided to just go for it and get that damned bird on the ground.”

Pilot:  Interrupting me, “Were you in a chopper?”

Me: ”Uh, no, an airplane.”

Pilot: “Sorry, please go on.”

Me: “Well, as I was saying, I was lining up for the strip when I noticed the landing gear hadn’t deployed. So after several attempts to fix it, I finally radioed the tower advising them to get the foam ready—it was definitely going to be a hard landing.”

He interrupted again:

“What kind of plane were you in?”

Me: “Uh, what kind of plane was it? …Uh, a Cessna.”

This fucker was starting to ask too many questions. I suspected something was up but I was in too deep to turn back now.

Pilot: “Which model?”

I’m stammering. Where the fuck is Elton, shouldn’t he be on stage by now? How do I know which model. Why is he asking me this. He’s got to be a pilot. Where is his little pilot hat with the black patent leather brim and the gold braids? This sneaky fucker’s trying to trip me up.

Me: “Uh, its a single engine Cessna.”

Pilot: “I wasn’t aware Cessna made a single engine plane with retractable landing gear.”

I began to feel sick as I started to sink down into my handicapped chair, this guy had to be a pilot, I needed a bigger lie to get out of this one. Think, Diego, think!

Me: “Uh, we had it customized, fitted with retractable gear.”

Whew…nice save!

Pilot: “Really, I didn’t know that was possible.”

His ‘really’ inflection tipped me off. He knew I was full of shit. I needed to reach deeper for another lie—one so big he’ll shut the fuck up once and for all.

Me: “Yeah, my brother-in-law is a retired engineer from Boeing, he designed and built the whole thing.”

That oughta silence the bastard. Now wheres Elton. I fixed my gaze on the stage as if to signal  I’m through talking.

Pilot:  ”Which airport did this happen, was it local?”

This guy won’t give up. Jesus. I didn’t know any small airports except the one near my house. I think it’s called Deer Valley.

Me: “Deer Valley airport.“

Pilot: “You say it happened at Deer Valley?”

Hurry Elton. C’mon….H-u-r-r-y up! Panic is setting in.

Pilot: “When?”

Me: “A few months ago.“

Pilot: “And you say emergency crews foamed the runway?“

C’mon. C’mon. Where the fuck is Elton???

Pilot: “The only reason I ask is because I’ve been the airport manager at Deer Valley for the last ten years, and.I don’t recall any foamed landing events.”

What a creep. He had me at landing gear, and yet continued to play me like 3rd violin.
What kind of an asshole does that?

[crowd chanting El-ton, El-ton]

Thank God! Finally.

Me: El-ton, El-ton [I'm ignoring the pilot altogether now as Elton (fucking) John finally takes the stage]

 
It was finally over. His Klaus Barbie-like interrogation. My hole-digging descent into liars hell, finished, as Elton broke into Crocodile Rock.
This was all his fault.
None of this would have ever happened had he started when he supposed to.

I wanted to punch the happy right out of him

Diego

Metaphorically speaking, I’m just another salmon

Sometimes I think there isn’t much of a difference between me and a big salmon.
Alright, so I wasn’t hatched from an egg, but we do both enter life in a hostile environment, swim downstream when its the easiest time in our lives to do so, find a mate, and finally spend our remaining days fighting upstream currents where we mate, have kids, and die.

Now that I think it through, I guess there are a couple of slight differences.
At least I won’t wind up being served on a cedar plank in a fancy seafood restaurant, or get eaten by a bear just before my wife starts ovulating.

A cowboy’s dream

I wanted to be a cowboy when I was a kid.
It made perfect sense at the time. After all, I was born in Arizona—in an era when there were plenty of ranches on the outskirts of town, making the possibility of being a career cowboy very much within reach. Besides, I lived next-door to a public stable, where every day after school I would stop by to admire the horses and talk with the ranch hands. I was sure of it as I was anything. I wanted to be a cowboy!
Anyway, that was all before ‘the incident’—after that, my cowboy dreams went up in campfire smoke.

I remember it all perfectly. It was the day my older sister turned sixteen, when dad, excited about presenting her with his gift, loaded us up and drove us down to the stable to meet my sister’s new birthday present. A five year-old mare name Precious.
And boy was I pissed.

I recall grousing to myself, how was it that my sister, who hated animals and more pointedly, horses, got a horse for her sixteenth birthday? I mean seriously, how was that possible?
I was the one with the little cowboy hat, boots, and vest (complete with pearl buttons) while she was the kid who played with Barbie and that ridiculous Easy Bake Oven.
It wasn’t fair. But as I soon learned, things were about to get a whole lot more unfair.

Apparently in our family, if you’re born with asthma, you get an automatic pass, excusing you from doing any type of serious work.
Well guess who was born with asthma?
The same person who’d just gotten a horse for her birthday. And this little factoid made it ok to ride a horse, just not groom it or clean its stall.
That’s right, dad had just appointed me as the default stable-boy, and all by virtue of not having been born with asthma.
How delightful was that?

To think of how my once happy visits to the stables, admiring horses and bullshitting with ranch hands would now be little more than a daily job was to much to bear.
And rightfully so, because not long afterward, the reality of it all started to sink in, with my daily haunts to Precious’ stall, cleaning-up after her, grooming her, and always upon always, walking home afterward with the smell of horse shit stuck in my nostrils.
Something had to give, and it did.

One day, after cleaning Precious’ stall, I decided I’d take her for a ride. I had it all carefully planned out.
I’d saddle her up, walk her out to the trail and take her for a little ride, after which I’d pen her up before anyone ever noticed.
I thought it would be good for her, and, it would be good for me too—finally cashing-in on my stable boy efforts.
Besides, my parents owed me at least that much, I reasoned.
I saddled her up.

After a short walk to the trail, I hopped up on Precious and gave her a little kick to get her going, but I guess I must have kicked her a little too hard because Precious bolted like she was in an old western movie—racing through the field at full gallop as I hung on for dear life. To say I was scared shitless would be an assault to the term.
I jerked hard on her bridal, but she kept going. And that’s when I realized how I’d forgotten to put the bit into her bridle. Fuck.
There was no stopping Precious.
At least until she switched directions, headed for a major street where, upon hitting the asphalt at full gallop she began sliding like pig on ice—all four legs aimed in different directions as we slid across the roadway, and into the side of a car.

Still in shock from the ride, the slide, and the sudden stop, I just stood there—dazed. That’s when two of the stable hands came running over to see what happened. After a short talk with the police, the stable hands walked Precious back to her stall as I limped home.

A few days later, we got the call that Precious had to be put down as a result of her injuries, and that’s when I ‘fessed-up, explaining everything to my dad, how I left the stall open, how Precious ran across the stable, through a field, and directly into traffic where she t-boned a car.

I always wanted to be a cowboy because I thought it would be cool. How we’d punch dogies during the day, ride into town at night, get liquored-up, screw a bunch of dance-hall girls, get into a brawl, get arrested and finally, spend the night in jail—where Ed Milligan, our local sheriff would simply ‘toss’ me the keys the next morning to let myself out, certain I was no longer a menace to society.
I also thought there’d be code of honor amongst cowboys such as myself.
Turns out I was wrong.

The ranch hands at the stable ratted me out to my dad, in clear violation of the cowboy code of honor, telling  the entire story, albeit, slightly different than mine.
After the incident, I was grounded for a very long time.
Dad forbade me to ever go to the stable again.
We never owned another horse.
And, I had to get a job, all the proceeds of which would repay dad for Precious’s vet bills and burial costs.

And so, a dream had ended.
There would be no riding into town shooting both pistols into the air.
No getting liquored-up and screwing a bunch of dance hall whores.
And no poker games, where I’d accuse someone of cheating, jump up and shoot them dead with my Colt 45.
None of it.

And all because my sister got asthma, and I didn’t.

The end of a dream

Diego

The high school reunion

As I stood at the mailbox rummaging through the mail, one envelope in particular caught my attention, the return address read;

Langley High School
Reunion Committee
McLean, VA 22101

Thankfully, it was my wife’s high school reunion and not mine. What a relief.
I immediately began to revel in the fact that there would be no diet and exercise programs, no clothes shopping, and no old girlfriends to impress since none of the classmates were mine.
Then, mid-revel, it occurred how my wife probably wouldn’t be as happy about this as I was. Not in the least.

Having been through these events before, I knew how her world was about to change, at least for the next six months, and in turn, so would mine as she unmercifully plunged us both into the dreaded high-school reunion underworld.
A place where where fad diets and exercise regimens would soon govern her existence, and mine—purely by association.
Well I wasn’t about to get sucked into this vortex of madness, not this time anyway. I needed to nip this shit right in the bud.
I decided to tear up the notice and throw it out, but it turned out fate had a different idea.

On my walk from the mailbox to the house, I looked up to see my wife standing at the doorway, as if she knew I was up to something. I slowed my gait considerably.
Somehow, in the remaining steps to the doorway, I needed to sort through the envelopes, find the reunion notice and stash it on me before handing over the mail. However, to accomplish this, I’d need to pull some real Houdini shit out of my ass, and in the next twenty steps no less. It wasn’t going to happen.

With a disapproving look on her face, much like my mother’s when I’d solemnly approach with a (bad) report card, she stood there, arm outstretched as if saying; “Hand it over.“
I was convinced me she had ESP—actually having been foretold of this moment.

And this is the part of the story where I’d like to extend my personal thanks to Facebook.
For without it, she’d have never seen the 15 comment thread from her high-school friends, asking if everyone had received their notice about the reunion.

Things didn’t turn out too badly though.
I developed a certain penchant for cabbage soup.
Pilates—not so much.

Diego

NTM2P

The license plate on the car in front of me read NTM2P, but I’m far too slow at the personal license plate decryption game,  so my wife had to explain how this person is obviously too busy to make time for bodily functions, and, (this is what amazes me), wants the world to know about it.

Thankfully, my wife is good at this sort of thing, and it’s a darned good thing too, since I almost reported our neighbor (LVS2TCH) as a possible pedophile until my wife stepped in, explaining how the acronym wasn’t ‘Loves to touch’ but instead, Loves to teach’, saying how he was a school teacher.
I guess you had to know the guy taught school. Go figure.

My favorite was a license plate I saw years ago on a Corvette, reading; 2HOT4U. I got that one right away, without any help from the little lady.
I spotted it as I was heading into the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) to get my drivers license, which typically means I’ll incur a wait time of about two hours.
After finishing up at the DMV, I noticed the Corvette was still sitting there as I started for my truck, and this spurred a sudden desire on my part to conduct a stakeout, (despite my lack of police or espionage training) until he or she came out of the building.
I had to know just how hot this person was, and if indeed they were too hot for me and the rest of the driving public.

After only a few minutes, a young blonde exited the building. She was wearing a tight mini-skirt, fuck-me stilettos, and had fake boobs the size of a small town in Texas. She approached the Corvette, stood there for a moment, and lit a cigarette with all the cool of James Dean in ‘Rebel Without a Cause’.

I hadn’t shaven in a couple days, was wearing a pair of Levi’s with torn knees, a pair of cowboy boots, and a tee-shirt.
I had my answer.

I suppose personalized license plates can be useful, even if they do only serve to remind me how the chick magnet in me is set to repel instead of attract.

Diego

 

You never listen!

I never listen to my wife.
Not because I don’t care what she has to say, or  I don’t respect her, it just that as a man, I was built with numerous safety features—all of which designed to serve my self-preservation instincts. Unfortunately, as much as I’d really like to listen to her, physically, I’m incapable of doing so.
Let me explain.

Whenever my brain is actively engaged in some type of mental activity and my wife speaks, it scrambles into overdrive, processing her first few sentences—quickly deciding whether or not to respond, and if so, what to say. Then, after only a few seconds, it responds by giving me any number of placating  responses, such as:

1. You don’t say?
2. Really?…hmm, well that’s interesting.
3. Ok, in a minute.

While all this is happening, in milliseconds, my brain has also conveniently chosen this moment to shut down all further auditory reception, making my ears incapable of accepting any new information.
This is an important safety feature of the male design, very similar to how the brain tells us to puke after mixing tequila, Jack Daniels, and jager-bombs in one sitting. Only in the case of the ears locking down, my brain is basically saying; “If she keeps on giving me more shit to do, I’m going to explode, so for our own good, we’re switching over to wife-block mode.”

This explains why she never tells me what time to pick the kids up from school, or when we were supposed to meet for counseling last week.

Diego

Black Friday? Try green-fog Friday

I’m a capitalist by nature.
I like buying stuff and I like owning stuff.
But I refuse to shop for anything on Black Friday. Never on Black Friday!

First, I hate crowds, especially frenzied shoppers who are under some kind of buying spell cast upon them by retailers. If I want to see this kind of madness, I’ll go to a sporting event, where at least I’m seated and they serve beer.

Second, I hate the odors, mainly from the other shoppers.
Shopping on Black Friday  makes me feel as though I’m on a ride at Disneyland similar to ‘It’s a small world‘, only the car I’m riding in is traveling through the methane-laden digestive tract of a thousand other shoppers.
If I want to smell post Thanksgiving farts, (which I don’t) I’ll stay at home and (without pomp) huff my own, because in an odd scientific way, at least I can forensically retrace my eating-steps in an effort to pinpoint the food culprit(s) most responsible for the stench.

There’s nothing worse than unknowingly walking into someone else’s gas cloud, tasting it prior to smelling it, gagging, and then wondering what the fuck could they have eaten that produced that kind of tragedy.
It makes me want to find the bastard(s), drag them into a poorly-lit room and interrogate them until they crack.

I’m guessing I’ll probably learn how they have an auntie just like mine who can’t cook to save her soul.

Diego

 

 

The imagery of words

I like how certain words, for me anyway, trigger my grey-matter to post up visual imagery.
For example, if someone mentions the word trudge, the image that most often comes to mind is the silhouette of a person against a snowy backdrop, standing upright but decidedly hunched over, leaning forward with one knee high in the air mid-step—a snowshoe attached to it. (Don’t ask me why a snowshoe, I’m weird like that).
Everything about the image makes it feel like a trudge.

Another is galavant.
My mother used it incessantly, but only when speaking to me, never any of the other family members, often using it to describe how I’d spent much of the day galavanting all over hell’s half acre when I should have been home doing my chores.
I hated that word. Not only did it sound stupid, (which in turn smudged me as being somewhat of an idiot) it played a loop reel in my brain of that dude from the Grateful Dead song—Truckin.

My notion of a galavant

I still think mom could have chosen a word far less harsh than galavant, one that didn’t make me feel stupid and didn’t have me running around like some higher-than-fuck cartoon figure.
Like for instance the word traipse.

I liked traipse, it sounded so much more eloquent, and, it was actually more descriptive of my actions whenever I’d slipped into chore-avoidance mode.

Me...traipsing

 

Small wonder why I never invoke the term galavant or traipse these days.

I do however like the imagery I associate with cavort.
Especially on weekends.

Diego

Yes, I’m a sexist vulgarian…so what’s your point?

My wife never reads my blog. She says its too sophomoric, relying way too much on potty humor.
She’s right. It is and it does.
And that’s the fundamental difference between a man and a woman.
Forget Mars Venus, or any other self-help books out there, you don’t need to over-analyze this because it’s simply not worthy of expending any brain calories. The fact is this.
Men, no matter what their chronological age, in some remote tucked away part of our brain, will forever remain our eighteen year-old selves, making potty humor just that—humorous.

And that’s why I chuckle to this day whenever I see the word titties in print. For deep down I know, in the 98% of my brain that is still functioning at a level consistent with my real age, I shouldn’t be laughing.
I should be stoic, my mind quickly converting the word titties into breasts, which isn’t going to produce any chuckle, but will make me appear my real age—from having the countenance of Dick Cheney. (Who’s desperately trying to convince President Bush to blow the world into smithereens).

But I’m not going to change. Not now anyway.
My blog, and all its musings have already established me firmly as a purist vulgarian, and I will continue to invoke the word ‘titties’ if and when I so choose.
And no-one, I repeat, no-one is ever going to change me.

Especially not my wife, who has two of the nicest mammalian protuberances I’ve ever seen.

(I hope she reads this one).

Diego

Words are like puppies

One of my special childhood memories was receiving mail from my aunt, mainly because of how she addressed the envelope as Mister Diego Serrano. I’ll never forget the feeling that came over me upon seeing the word Mister, all spelled out, and in front of my name no less.
It was simply glorious, the way it made me feel, I felt so—so, special.

So you can imagine the mixed bag of feelings I have today as an adult, when the only person to ever address me as Mister is my wife, and when she does, it’s typically never a good thing.

“Alright Mister, just what the hell was that?”

It’s funny how a word can invoke such a special feeling as a child, and yet have such a totally different connotation as an adult.
Leading me to believe that words, in a weird way, are a good deal like puppies.
They’re all cute when they’re young.

Diego

The power of suggestion

If in the event you ever find yourself on, what you determine at the time is a deserted road deep in the middle of Mexico, with six of your closest man friends, and you pull the car over so everyone can pee, (in the middle of the roadway because after all, it is desolate), and someone in the group says; (while you’re all peeing)

“Hey, you guys, how funny would it be if an eighteen wheeler came over that hill right about now.”

And in an instant, (still peeing) an eighteen wheel tractor trailer comes over the hill at a high rate of speed, almost picking off every last one of you, well, its those special moments that tend to bond friendships for life.

For who wants to be the person to tell anyone outside of the circle how all of you freaked out, prancing like a well choreographed ballet troupe in a tip-toed, side-step motion, one arm frantically waving at the truck driver while the other was still holding on to a very frightened and quickly retreating shrinking penis. (Who has most inconveniently chosen this moment to continue his bladder-draining quest).

Run! Its a truck!

Certainly not me.

Diego

Unpopular baby names

God-

If I happen to get reincarnated, I’d like to return as a Native American so I can have one of those cool names like ‘Ten Bears’ or ‘Sitting Bull’. However, I’m a little concerned about one aspect of that whole naming thing they’ve got going.
Apparently, if there’s some event on the day of your birth, such as an eagle soaring overhead, well guess what. You just got dubbed Soaring Eagle.
The other way, at least as I understand it, to get one of those cool names is to do something of particular notoriety, something that gets the tribal members talking—like perhaps running down a deer and killing it with your bare hands, whereupon you might be aptly named Kills with Hands.
A respectable moniker to say the least.

And this is where I have cause for alarm.
What happens if prior to my naming, my parents catch me piously continually whacking-off in my teepee? Does that mean I could get a name like ‘Whacks with Fury’ or ‘Raging Boner’?  That would be humiliating, to be coined as the tribe jack-off.
Or what happens in a case where I’m frying up some bacon for breakfast, and splash some hot grease onto my junk?
Would the tribe start calling me ‘Burning Peter’?
A name like that could keep me out of the tribal wedding pool for some time to come.

Scene of the crime

But I’m seriously hoping you don’t send me back as a girl.
I can see where I’d be hanging on the reservation somewhere—in a teepee, no running water and more importantly, no feminine hygiene products at my disposal…then what?
I’ll tell you what, it won’t be  long before the chief and his cronies start calling me ‘Rotted Flower’ or ’Angry Beaver’.

The more I think about it, the more I realize how badly this could go for me.
Especially if mom gave birth to me, while just outside the teepee two dogs happen to be fucking.

Diego

My top 2 reasons to sign up for Yoga

A bunch of women I workout with are continually haranguing me to sign up for yoga classes, saying how I’d be good at it,  how it would be soothing for my mind and body—how it would help with my finding spiritual harmony.
I don’t know about any of that bullshit, but I’ll probably sign up for it anyway.
But it won’t be for my mind, or my body, and as far as spiritual harmony goes, I can get that from some good dro and a few shots of tequila.

No, the real reason I’m going to sign up for yoga is so I can hang in the back of the room and check out the babes as they contort into those really difficult positions, where I’ll be secretly hoping and praying one of their colored spandex outfits will suddenly blowout and with it, a pair of boobs.
Those are the two best reasons I can think of to sign up for yoga.

There. I said it.

Diego

True penis envy

I checked my spam folder this morning and found over five hundred emails from spammers, most of which had something to do with penis enlargement products.
Normally, I’d delete this garbage, but for some strange reason, today, I decided to check them out.
Here’s what I learned.

Product #1

I can add up to 1/4 inch (.6 cm) per week to my johnson by using this one, but oddly enough, it didn’t mention whether there was a limit on the number of weeks it will continue to work. This makes me wonder if using it for a full year will add 13 inches (33cm) to my existing manhood.
Big, I’ll admit, but not quite what I was looking for.

Being a man’s man, (as proclaimed by others, not me) my logical thought process deduced that if there’s one product out there that will add thirteen inches, there’s probably another that will add even more. And since bigger equals better, I kept looking.

Product #2

This one promises to add both girth and length in relative proportions, but it doesn’t say anything about adding thirteen inches over a year’s time, not like the first one, but it does say “Adds up to two full inches!”
I kind of like this idea, since it did promise to add both girth and length in even proportions, and by my math, that would mean my dick would look like a butternut squash. I’m not sure how I feel about this.

This thing could hurt someone

Ok, let’s move on.

Product #3

Alright, here’s one that looks as though it’s got some real promise by adding up to 1/2 inch per week and no limit on the number of weeks.
Ding..Ding..Ding..WE HAVE A WINNER!
Why in just three months, I’ll be the size of a horse, in six—a rhinoceros, and in only one year, I should be the size of a small humpback whale, measuring in at just over three feet (1 meter) long.
I like it.

Use your imagination!

I can’t wait to get started. I’ll start taking my medication daily, and in the meantime, find a good tailor who can alter my jeans to include a train, since I have a feeling I’ll need to drag the little fellow behind me.

What?
Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I heard someone say “penis envy.”
Hah!

Diego

Hank-the non-killer whale

Last night I dreamt I was a killer whale named Hank, and that I’d broken free from my pod in search of a better lifestyle—namely, one that didn’t involve so much killing.
I know I was supposed to be this big killer and all, but somehow, I never much cared for that whole sneaking up on another sea creature and munching his shit up.
I was really more of a lover whale, not a fighter.

So my idea, at least as presented to my mom and dad, was to find my prey and chase them around the ocean till they keeled over from a heart attack or something. That way, when they did finally die, it wouldn’t be my fault.
But mom, being ever the mom, explained how I was a killer, and how I needed to dismiss these kinds of thoughts in favor of getting out there and eating something.
That’s when I left the pod and headed for Hawaii.

When I got to Hawaii, I rented a boat slip and made the marina my home. Where every now and again, I’d go into the marina store, for a popsicle or some kind of ice-cream treat. Until one day, when the harbormaster asked me to stop coming into the store, explaining how I was frightening all the other marina patrons.
I woke up shortly after that.

I’ll never forget Hank.
He was someone who tried to make a difference, but as usual, the man stepped in to beat him down.

Diego

Why God didn’t give me a uterus

It’s kind of funny how the human psyche works, at least in my case.
I’m talking about how I can do something once, become an expert (in my mind anyway) and without so much as giving it a second thought, move on to something bigger and better despite my obvious lack of qualifications to do so.

Last week, I suppose out of boredom, I decided to climb trudge up a local mountain to test my fitness level. In my mind, I reasoned that if I made it to the summit, I was fit. It didn’t matter how slow I went, or that another climber helped stay my balance as I wobbled on a precipice, the fact is, I made it to the top and proudly declared myself fit in the process. Which then qualified me to climb one of the highest peaks in Phoenix this weekend—Tom’s Thumb.

This is the part of the human psyche I don’t understand. How my ego, conniving shit that it is, could actually make me believe I could do such a thing. Well it did, and then I did, and now I’m laying here with seven bruised toes, muscle spasms in my legs, and cactus needles precariously littered throughout my nether region. Oh well, at least I have some pictures to ease the pain.

 

 

No more climbing, not yet anyway. Not until I’m healed, at which time my ego will will talk me into doing something else equally as dumb.
I’m pretty sure the male ego has something to do with our grand design and why we don’t have a uterus.

Resting uncomfortably, (for now)

Diego

On ruining yet another Thanksgiving

I wish for once, this holiday season I could change my eating habits.
More specifically, I’d like the ability to eat my meals much in the same way as does a snake—unhinging its jaw and devouring an entire meal or object in one fell swoop.

I would, upon my being summoned to carve the turkey, quickly, take a look around see if anyone was watching, unhinge my lower jaw and eat the entire turkey, gobbling the whole thing down in one frenzied motion.
But my little niece Madison would probably be standing there watching, since she always stands at my side in her Oliver Twist manner, begging for scraps as I carve away. So I’d bite her, so she wouldn’t rat me out to the other family members.

Then, as the others come into the kitchen to see what’s taking so long, only to find me laying on the ground with the all-too-noticeable silhouette of an entire (uncarved) turkey lodged in my neck, I’d warn them to stay away or I’d bite them too.
Especially Uncle Frank and Aunt Dorothy, both of whom I’d bite in a New York second. I’d even save a little venom for my cousin Larry and his new whore-girlfriend. The one who works at ‘Peep’s’ gentleman’s club, but none of us are supposed know.

After a short time, the remaining family members would gather to see me (and the turkey) where I’m sure they’d start sniping about my eating habits and how I left them without a turkey this Thanksgiving, but I’d manage to scare up enough energy to bite them all too.
One by one, until I picked off every last one of them.

Then I’d lay there and enjoy my Thanksgiving dinner, by myself, thinking about how I probably should have scarfed down some mashed potatoes and gravy, cole slaw, broccoli, turnips, and those weird orange potatoes with the marshmallow topping my cousin Alice makes, prior to devouring the turkey.

Shit.
Some Thanksgiving dinner this turned out to be.

Diego

How to get an A in english lit

The assignment was to choose a musical artist, select one of their songs and write an antithesis about its lyrics. In addition, we were asked to bring in a recording of the song, play it for the class, and follow it up with an oral presentation—our antithesis.

“Does the song have to be mainstream pop music, Mr Bridgewater?” I asked, already knowing which artist’s work I planned on dissecting.

I should have been able to guess his answer judging from conspicuously placed  indie-rock cd’s routinely sitting on his desk.

“No restrictions, in fact the more obscure the better if it leads to a stronger literary position.”  he retorted.

How great was this. My english lit professor had just given me carte-blanche to disassemble a Frank Zappa song, presenting its contrarian viewpoint to the class. This was going to be easy—for me and for him.

Easy for me since I would pick Dinah-Mo-Hum. A song about a woman who was unable to achieve orgasm despite her rigorous (as wonderfully described by Zappa) attempts at doing so.
But for my professor, the assignment would be easy too I conjectured, since all he really had to do was sit back and listen as we opined on lyrics which I presumed he would summon the next time he was on acid, (Timothy Leary disciple) or at the very least, as fodder for his next cocktail party. At any rate, it was all brain candy for him I thought.

As I said, the assignment was simple and to wit, I had knocked out my entire antithesis in only a couple of hours, in fact, the only thing difficult about it was waiting to share my opinion with the class. (And to a lesser extent, the professor)

It was finally game day. I had my recording, my antithesis, and I was ready. It was go time.
Time for me to go and make a gigantic ass out of myself.

I played the song for the class, which in retrospect, I should have stopped right there, asking professor Bridgewater to call it an F and be done with it, saving me from the embarrassment about to follow. But I didn’t.
I went on to explain the various reasons why the protagonist was unable to achieve orgasm, citing everything from the absence of love, to the absence of a vibrating device with the cyclical waveform of a Saturn 5 rocket.

It was about this time all of the female students, in an almost premeditated response, stood up and left the room, leaving me standing there with only male classmates in attendance, including the professor, who was freakishly applauding me.

I was confused.
More than half the class had just walked out in some half-assed show of solidarity, protesting my unusually high grasp of female sexuality.
But then, as if to temper their anger (and more likely, disgust) my male counterparts, including the professor were wildly cheering me. As if I’d just said something important. Something that needed to be said.

The remainder of the session was spent talking about my antithesis, the professor like it that much. And for the rest of the day, my classmates would high-five me whenever one of them spotted me around campus. Hell, I was getting high-fived from guys who weren’t even in my class if you can believe it.
What a day that was.

I got an A in the course, but failed to ever speak with Gerry Seibert (crush) again.
Oh, success, how bittersweet the cost.

In retrospect, the assignment should have covered irony as well since I was a virgin at time, pontificating on subject matter I knew nothing about.

Go figure.

Diego

I should have stayed home

Today was going to be a good day. I knew it why?
Well first, there’s no hangover and that’s always a good sign, but perhaps even more telling was the fact that I actually remembered my dreams from last nights slumbers. This rarely happens.
The cast and characters, the events, the weirdness of it all, I recalled everything. Including the part where I climbed a mountain to speak with a deceased friend.
And that’s when the thought first popped into my head that I should go hiking today. And that’s just what I did.
I went for a hike.
But not just any hike.
I decided I would climb Piestewa Peak, a mountain located in the Central Phoenix area known for it’s rocky terrain and particularly steep ascent.
The fact that I’m not a world-class athlete mattered none. Nor the fact that I was highly likely to sustain some kind of pulmonary event.
What mattered was how my friend Howard had a message for me, and somehow, I needed to get to the top of that mountain to retrieve it.
I was going, consequences be damned.

Sometimes I wonder where thoughts come from. How one second your mind can be on autopilot, and the next, there’s a crazy thought that for no apparent reason, pops out of nowhere, landing directly in the middle of ones hippocampus.
Well such was the case this morning, because for some strange reason, I decided to climb a mountain I was in no way physically meant to climb.
I can only assume the part of my brain meant to protect me, the reptilian part, the part that says; “If you do this, you might die” was either still asleep, or was busy with some other task. (Like demanding I make a pot of coffee and go take a leak).

Foolishly, I grabbed my hiking boots, dressed in my workout garb, grabbed a couple bottles of water, a generous slice of 4 day-old german chocolate cake, and headed for Piestewa.

7:00 a.m.—I’m driving south on the 51 when the mountain comes into view. Jeez, it appears bigger than I had thought. Maybe I should turn back.

7:30 a.m.—Stuck in traffic, inching closer to my destination. The mountain is now coming into focus. Fuck it’s big. No, it’s not big, this fucking thing is gigantic.  Turn back now I thought. It’s not too late. Really brain? Where was this thought an hour ago as I was making coffee?

7:45 a.m.—Arrived at Piestewa Mountain Park. Parked truck and called a friend to tell him what I was doing. Dragged out conversation way too long in hopes an override signal would magically pop into my brain, signaling me to load up and get the fuck out of there. It never came. My friend needed to get off the phone since he was at work. A runner passes by, she’s adorned with climbing gear of all kinds. I survey my gear: two bottles of water and a cell phone. Tried to call another friend, no signal. Fuck.

7:59 a.m. Feeling nauseous and I haven’t left the parking lot.  C’mon, who’s the master and who’s the slave I reasoned. Grow a pair and lets beat this thing. I slowly walked toward the mountain, looking up all the while.

8:22 a.m. Legs are trembling, my old football injury just dropped in to say hello. I’m sweating so badly it’s like being in the shower. I remove sunglasses so I can see where I’m going. Just lift one foot and move it in front of the other I kept thinking.  Other climbers (athletes) are racing by. I hold them up by hogging the trail. If I can’t compete with them, I can at least fuck with them. That’s a form of competition I believe. I want to throw up.

8:30 a.m. I think my lungs are about to spontaneously combust. I need a drink but I’m all out of water now. Everyone who’s passed me is wearing white headphones. Shit, I should’ve brought my Ipod. I need musical motivation. I see an older woman ahead with hiking sticks. I think I can pass her.  Another wave of nausea. My lungs are trying to abandon ship, one of them attempting to exit  along with the vomit. I find a rock to sit down but there’s nowhere to sit without getting a jagged spear up my bum.  I remain bent over pretending to take pictures as other climbers continue to pass by.  There’s no water to clean the puke. I rub dirt on my legs. I stink. I can’ t breathe, and my knees are now pleading with me to end this foolish pursuit. I trek onward, dismissing the negative thoughts coming from my knees, lungs, feet and nose.

8:45 a.m.—Nearing the summit now and as I glance skyward, I see many of the climbers who passed me sitting on top of the peak. Their gaze fixed on me as if laughing, knowing, just as I do, how this body should not really be where it is right now.  The look on my face was one of pain, my facial muscles contorted into a grimace that was actually frightening. Someone shouted at me from atop, “Are you alright?” I’ve got no breath with which to answer. I look up and nod. What am I doing here? How am I going to get down? I’ve obviously shot my wad getting to the top of this motherfucker, now what? Alright, calm down. I was here for a message remember. Howard was trying to contact me from the other side. Just a few more steps.

8:55 a.m.—I’m at the top. I can’t breathe. My body is aching and now, now that I’m here, the reptilian part of my brain finally decides to wake up, telling me how I’m in deep shit with no water, trembling legs, and lungs that feel like a blast furnace. Way to fucking go, brain!

8:56 a.m.—I’ve just come to the realization that the summit is a whole lot smaller than it appears from ground level. And that every climber who preceded me has now laid claim to what little real estate the top of this fucker holds. The only place left to sit is on a small outcropping with jagged spires. I’m so tired I don’t care. I slowly lower myself onto a formation that looks like it could be the least invasive. I squiggle and squirm on the spire, hoping to get it into just the right position so as not to hurt me.

8:58 a.m.—I’m being butt-raped by a mountain. I can’t breathe, and my brain, who is now wide awake (go figure)  is telling me to call the local news and tell them somebody just fell off the mountain, in hopes of hitching a ride out of there with their news chopper. I’m tired and wet, my clothes are soaked, and every inch of me is hurting. I try meditating, hoping to get into the ‘zone’, where Howard will contact me, but the spear up my ass is too painful. I start looking around at the others thinking how maybe someone will give up their spot. That’s when I see two young women, obviously athletes, dressed only in sports bra’s and tight fitting workout shorts. Both had an unused bottle of water, (as if to show-off) as they giggled and laughed. What the fuck were they so happy about I thought. I’m in the grips of death, and these two are having a summit party.  Bitches.

 

9:00 a.m.—Still no word from Howard, only my brain, telling me to get the fuck out of there, before the others. That way, if there’s an accident, they can lug my big ass down, or at the very least call for paramedics.

11:00 a.m—After a slow and painful walk down this pile of rocks, I arrive safely back at my truck where I immediately phone my wife.

“Hi, where’d  you go, you didn’t leave a note.” is how she answered.

“Oh, I just went for a hike up Piestewa.” I responded, thankful she couldn’t see my perma-grimace.

“How was it, are you ok?” She had a happy tune in her voice.

This is where my reptilian brain decided to chime in, knowing that if I told her the truth, there’d be a lecture that would follow, probably lasting  the better part of the drive home. How it was too dangerous, how I wasn’t in shape for a climb like that. How I could have had an accident. All things which my obviously checked-out brain should have told me. I didn’t need her telling me now, after the fact.

“It was great, we’ll have to climb it together sometime. I got some great pics. I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

And so it went.
With two trembling legs, a look that could frighten a pit-bull, sore knees, a sore back, and the foul stench of vomit, I got in my truck and slowly drove home.

11:45 a.m.—Last entry. I’m not listening to my reptilian brain again, other than when it says to make a pot of coffee and go take a piss. Fucker.

 

 

Diego

On being an Italian-American redneck

Being of Italian ancestry, for whatever the reason, whenever I find myself in the company of other Italian-Americans, I manage to switch off my redneck dialect in favor of an accent that Tony Soprano himself would be proud of.
I don’t know what it is that possesses me to ‘act’ so very Italian, but I do and it drives my friends and family crazy.

Last night, for my birthday dinner we went to a swanky Italian restaurant where I put my linguistic skills to work once again when I ordered the chicken parmesan, which, to the non Italian-American would be pronounced chicken parmesan.
But that’s not how us 3rd generation Italian-Americans pronounce it.
We say; chicken pada-moon-johnna.
And then we ask for extra mozzarella, but again, not like that.
We ask for ‘mooootz-a-rrrrrell, always being careful to roll the r, especially when ordering rigatoni or ricotta.

Then, when I’m finished ordering my meal, and my Italian waiter is standing there with his head cocked sideways, much the same as a dog does who doesn’t understand the command, I glance around the table to see how impressed the others are with my linguistic prowess.

But they’re all busy trying to figure out what to order, all except my wife who’s giving me the skunk-eye, asking;
“Was that really necessary?”

I think she’s afraid the waiter will think I’m goofing on him, and will respond accordingly by spitting in my food.

But I know better.
Deep down, he knows I’m Italian and respects me for it—my having all the tongue rolling skills to prove it.

Diego