Naming your child…a new method

In the world of child-naming, I think the current methodolgy is seriously fucked-up. After all, when a person or couple is in their child-bearing years, what do they know anyway?

An example of this is when a couple names their kid after someone they thought was cool at the time, but later turned out to be a major heroin addict with a kiddie-porn collection. The name isn’t so cool anymore is it? But why would your parents care..they’re not around to see their idol, your namesake, now in his sixties and being led away in handcuffs and prison garb. But you are.

For this reason, I’d like to propose we get a placeholder name until somewhere around puberty, when we get to choose a new name.
This name could last for the next twenty or so years. A sufficient period of time to see whether or not the person who inspired the name has irretrievably fucked their life up. For this reason, you’d get one more name-change. Your last however.

Realizing there are no do-overs at this point, and armed with the wisdom of someone now in their forties, you’d probably opt for a more conservative name this time, one that’s stood the test of time and is not associated with negative world headlines.

Had this methodology been around at my birth and during my lifetime, I would have been:

Diego till my nuts dropped.
Tommy, till that video with Pamela gave women the idea that anyone named Tommy was bagging at least nine feet of dick.
And finally, Winston for my remaining years.
Hoping like fuck no-one besmirches Sir Winston during my remaining days.  Not like they did J. Edgar Hoover anyway.

A metaphor for living

Going through old music videos this weekend, I came across the original ‘Teen Spirit’ by Nirvana.
Fucking disturbing is all I can say.

Not Cobain’s untimely end.
Or how Grohl looks like he’d just hit puberty.
The janitor.
I think the janitor is haunting. A metaphor for how fucking hard life can be.
I think he’s me in twenty years.
I think he’d be good at churning butter too.
I wish I had Grohl’s hair.
Fuck.

My loss

It was a cautious respect. I wouldn’t hurt him so long as he did the same.

THE day we met he scared me, leaping from behind the fence, his countenance in full attack mode.
A brindle colored dog, half pit bull, half mutt coming at me as if to attack but now stopped. His instincts sharp, an animal of the streets no doubt.
I introduced myself in my own street-wise fashion by raising both arms and lunging at him, teeth bared and screaming a mighty roar.
Stopped now, mid-charge, he stood there, bewildered. I suspect he knew he wouldn’t fair well in a fight with me. Or maybe he thought I was crazy. For whatever the reason, he didn’t attack.
From that day on, neither would bare their teeth again.
Both wary of one another and the harm we could inflict, we kept our distance, this despite his nightly return.

Some nights, he would sit curled up against the fence, watching me, until I’d gotten too close for his liking as he bolted for safety.
On one such night, he was simply too tired to run, simply laying there exhausted. He needed food.
It wasn’t a fair fight between us any longer, not with him in this condition. I chose to do something about it. After all, his being healthy served our tenuous relationship. I wanted him strong. I fed him.

This changed our relationship. I was now a food source instead of a combatant.
Not a friend.
Or a pet-lover.
Simply a means to his own instinctive survival.
I liked the relationship.
I didn’t want to be his friend—I didn’t want the responsibility.
I didn’t want to care for another being.
But I didn’t want to see him die either, a result of his being too weak to fight the coyotes that came haunting nightly.
If they did come for him, it should be a fair fight I thought, for I knew he’d fair well. But not in this condition. He needed help.

Weeks went by as I watched him get strong, the result of my looking after him, feeding him, making sure he had water on those hot desert nights.
Until one day when upon his seeing me, he began barking again.
I was glad for him, he was back.
The brindle colored dog who once threatened my being was now at full strength in all his glory.
And yet only for a brief moment.

As mysteriously as the day he showed up, he had now vanished.
I always knew of this eventuality. I knew it was his nature to roam, but somehow I’d hoped for more time with him, thinking how maybe someday we would be friends. But it wasn’t meant to be.

And so it is.
Another being, mysteriously entering and exiting my life.

I hope to someday know why.
I miss brindle dog.
I miss my old friends.
I loved you all in my own way.
But like brindle dog, I just needed more time.

Digital clocks: An OCD’s nightmare

The blue LED readout on the kitchen stove always finds a way to scare the fuck out of me. This morning it read 7:37.
To most people this means nothing.
To me, it means 737. The exact same 737 I’ll board later this week to go to Vegas, which now I’m certain will go down like Sasha Grey.
It’s not always a plane crash. but it’s never a happy association either.
Like 3:57. That’s four o’clock to most.
To me it’s a bellwether, reminding me there’s a 357 in the closet with my name on one of its bullets.
Why can’t I be like everyone else? Why can’t I glance at it when it’s 4:20, or 11:11?
No, I have to look at the clock when it’s 4:34. The address where my grandparents used to reside —where grandpa caught me playing doctor with the neighbor kid and made me go apologize to her parents. I wished I had the 357 then.
But the worst is 5:42, reminding me of how getting shitballs drunk the night before my SAT’s wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all.

I hate digital clocks.

Tips on packing a lunch

Sometimes you get sick of dining out. I do. That’s when I pack a lunch.
But not just any lunch.
I use the deli meats I was going to use to make a sub sandwich tonight. And that juicy ripe heirloom tomato I was saving for a salad.
The imported provolone looks good too, throw it in there. Maybe some hot chili peppers.
Now put it on that baguette leftover from last night.
Fuck.
It’s 7:26 am and I just ate it on the way to work.
I guess I’m dining out after all.

Easter

Just finished Easter dinner.

Can’t move.

Breathing, labored.

Oh, no, please God, not now….my water just broke.

Shit.

I forgot, I’m not a woman 

Arrgggh.

 

 

Which towel to use

Someone, as in all of womankind, needs to explain to me why it’s improper to use the same wash towel I use on body, to clean pee stains from the rim of the toilet?
Using the very specific syntax of cleaning my dirty body first, proceeding to the pee-stained porcelain rim second before depositing the wash cloth into the dirty clothes pile, I don’t see anything wrong with this move. In fact, it shows promise that I’m evolving…cleaning up after my own messes.
Besides, I thought that was whole purpose of laundry detergent.

Hard as I try, I can’t understand this logic.
It seems to follow the same logic as my being scolded for drinking directly out of a milk container, despite my tongue-kissing the scolder only a few hours earlier.

Secretly, I think she believes I gave her this big wet kiss, then scurried down the hallway, grabbed the dirty washcloth, washed my face with it so I wouldn’t go around smelling like lady-love all day long, then rushed to fridge to guzzle milk out of the carton.

She would be right.
Only, again, I thought that was the purpose of soap.
Who teaches you women all these fucking weird rules anyway???

Camp Morningwood

God-

Why is it that only men wake up with a boner in the morning? What’s that about?
Was it some kind of sick joke?
Why is women don’t wake up shitballs horny?
Were you all like;

“Hey Jesus, check this out…I’m gonna design men so they wake up each day with a hard-on. And, I’m going to design women with a receptor located in the small of their backs, that when poked at repeatedly, switches off the horny. What’dya think?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. What’s he going to do if she starts swatting at it?”

“That’ll be the best part. Rejected, he simply goes to the bathroom and tries to piss with it. How funny will that be? Not only does he get rejected, she wakes up to a bathroom with piss everywhere. Now they’re both pissed off.  

“That seems cruel God. Why don’t you just make the woman horny too? Wouldn’t that be a lot easier?”

“No, Jesus. Life doesn’t work that way son….life doesn’t work that way.”

The funeral

Sometimes I fantasize about my funeral, thinking up ways to make it even sadder than it would be otherwise. I do this with good reason.
I want the focus on me and not anyone else. But this may prove an impossible task since most people who attend funerals are there to see everybody but the guy who died. I get this. Looking at some dead guy is a glimpse into ones own mortality and no-one in their right mind wants to deal with that, not at a funeral. That’s what fantasies are for.
For this reason, I want to be buried in a clown suit with clown makeup since everyone loves a clown. This will give my attendees a reason to look at me. Then cry. Because nothing is sadder than a dead clown. This, as I gaze back at their crying being, all, “Hey, what are you crying about? I’m fucking dead. You think you’re sad? Get a good look inside this coffin, I’ve got your sad right here asshole! [clown hands and gloves on crotch]

The perfect espresso

Saleslady for Nespresso espresso maker;

“Now this flavor is a number five out of the ten strength levels. It features hints of chocolate, berry, and it’s a bit earthy..not oaky but more earthy. But again, it is a number five so you might find a little peppery as well.”

Me, being super witty;

“Jesus!”

Number five? Seriously?

Thoughts on being domesticated

Why you should never brake for animals

Living in the desert, I routinely witness other drivers hard-braking for animals crossing the roadway.
I think this is a mistake.
When any type of critter runs in front me, or even contemplates running in front of me, I feverishly hit the gas.
I do this with good reason.
First, I make them better animals if they survive, having found a new gear they didn’t know they had, outrunning my jeep and all.
From a Darwinian perspective this only makes them stronger, faster and more desirable when it comes to finding a mate. After all, who doesn’t want “outran Jeep” on their animal resume?

Secondly, if I do run one over, I’ve eliminated slow from their species gene pool, which I’m guessing is a huge favor to the others since this guy was probably a lazy motherfucker to begin with, otherwise he’d have lit it up when he saw me coming.

And finally, I think it teaches the others a valuable lesson in decision making.
Sit and watch me coming, deciding at the last minute to run, and wind up like ’ol Bob over there, flatter ’n a pancake,  or simply run for your life. Literally.

So in a weird way, I’m actually good for desert species, even going as far as saying that if everyone else thought this way, we’d have a stronger, much more vibrant animal population a couple generations down the line.
And this in turn would make me a better hunter, forcing me to find a new level of quick when it comes to shooting these new speedy little fuckers.

Evolution is so cool.

So Mr. Rabbit...you think you're fast? Well outrun this motherfucker!

A good place for a break-up

A Yelp review I recently wrote:

 

True Food Kitchen
Category: American (New)
Update – 3/11/2012
When guilt meets pleasure, and you find yourself squarely in the intersection of “Time to break-up with this crazy bitch’ and “But she really is the best blowjob in 48 contiguous states,’  something has got to give.

What do you do?
Take her to True Foods, the perfect place for a break-up.

It’s ultra-modern decor means your table setting is minimalist, with it’s little tiny salt and pepper shakers, and one tiny little flower in a tiny little vase.
And, the eating utensils aren’t brought out until your lunch arrives.
Major bonus.

Why?
Because just after the hostess seats you both, and upon breaking the news you’re finished, whatever she decides to pickup off the table to throw at you won’t even raise a small welt.

She’s sure to storm out after that, making your trip here a double bonus.
You’ve finally gotten rid of this nut job (no pun) and can now afford to eat here more often.
Try the Blood Orange refresher, the turkey burger and the kale salad for lunch.

Eat slowly my friend, and savor the flavors.
Of True Foods.
Of your newly found freedom.
And of that pride of cougars at the next table who are now staring at you, as your one-man pity-party lures them into a web of deceit.

I love True Foods.

Tequila…an excerpt

Tequila, scorpion honey, harsh dew of the doglands, essence of Aztec, crema de cacti; tequila, oily and thermal like the sun in solution; tequila, liquid geometry of passion; Tequila, the buzzard god who copulates in mid-air with the
ascending souls of dying virgins; tequila, firebug in the house of good taste; O tequila, savage water of sorcery, what confusion and mischief your sly, rebellious drops do generate!
Without doubt, it was the tequila that made Bernard impatient, that befuddled him into mistaking the UFO conference for the Geo-Therapy Care Fest.”

-from Still Life with Woodpecker

Crazy mad props Tom Robbins!

Why animals have to die

Aurora was a beautiful songbird who unknowingly and without care, signaled her position in the tree to a nearby hunter, ominously waiting to shoot her.
She couldn’t help it.
After all it was mating season and her song guaranteed she’d find a suitable mate, despite her knowing and sensing danger.
But this is what species do.
They sing, or bugle, or perform any number of sensational acts as part of the mating ritual,ultimately, perpetuating the breed—this despite the clear and present danger of lurking foes.
Making me certain of the nature of my own demise someday.