Zombs (thats me)

Downshift

2010-08-02T12:53:00.000-07:00

I am writing this at work. I’ll Email it to myself when I’m done and hopefully I won’t chicken out.

I decided that its time to end this one. This blog is done.

It started as humor. It chronicled the beginning of my life as a father. It followed the fall of everything that meant anything to me. There is nothing left to say.

I have written several blogs recently but all of them end up in the scrap heap. I just don’t think I am in the same head space I was before.

I’ve done it to myself again, and I hate myself for it. I may have fooled myself into thinking I was right, but being content and having goals is something that I don’t think I was meant for. I won’t give them up, but I am pretty angry for thinking that I was that lucky. I'm pretty fucking stupid for thinking that hope and I would ever be good bedfellows. I’ll have to sit back and make some adjustments.

I like to take the training wheels off of Mikaila’s bike and make it just right for her. I like to click the settings on Emma’s skates when she tells me she wants to go faster. I want to be a better man for Glenda when she tells me to “handle it”. I don’t think I have done them any favors though. I don’t think I have been good enough. I have to try harder than I did before.

Until then thank you for reading and Emailing, as a matter of fact I received a random Myspace message (I know right?) recently asking when the next one was. I don’t even check Myspace anymore so I was quite surprised. If you’re reading this my friend, I’ll send you the link when I figure it out.

I think in another form I’ll do this again.

Soon.

It was fun, and it was sad, and it was scary and thanks to everyone who made me feel like what I was saying meant anything. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt like something of mine connected with anyone at all on some level.

I’ll never forget that. I’ll never forget all of you. I’ve saved all the Emails and messages. I’ve got all the links stored.

Time to shift gears.

Edit: 12/22/2010 http://zombilobotomy.blogspot.com/
Thank you.

Staring Contest

2009-10-05T03:03:00.000-07:00

I cannot sleep.

So much has happened in this relatively un eventful life of mine. Really there is nothing different from the next life that is being lived. I’ve got a little girl I adore but that is nothing new to the world. There are very many proud fathers.

I love someone very much, but love is not something that we haven’t heard of before in this life of ours.

I need more of so very many things but desperation is nothing that we haven’t touched before.

I have learned that I have only two friends. I am not in any way saying that the whole collective of people in my life are not thought of fondly. I am not demeaning the relationships that I have that mean something to me.

I was at a dinner today someone asked me “How did you and Nick meet?”

High School.

Nick has another friend Mike who I met back then and since meeting these two boys we’ve had 4 children between the 3 of us. It struck me that these two people know me more than anyone and we are all so different, and so removed from each other. I don’t see them very often.

When we lost Erich it was hard because he was taken from us. He was robbed from the world.

Now that Robert is gone it is a different thing to me since he chose to go. Not that he and I were close. We were not.

Investing your time into someone on any level who you feel a connection to only to have them be gone suddenly though is sobering nonetheless.

I cannot help but think to myself “Who is next?”

I mean, there was Tony who I barely knew who crashed his motorcycle. There was Ari who I didn’t like who got a bullet to the gut. Paul died in a fire. He is a part of a life that is long gone. One of my old lives. I found out this weekend John died of an addiction to Morphine. I remember him as a funny older guy who I couldn’t relate to, but I’ve had a lot of that.

Death is nothing new. Its nothing special. It’s the same as life. As birth and thought and light.

It simply is.

It’s 255 AM.

I’m making more changes but that is nothing new either. I’ve spent so much time waiting. Hoping. Wanting.

Nothing new.

I throw stones from my glass castle. Guilty. Self Righteous bullshit. That is me. It is nothing that I haven’t heard before but its nice to know that someone out there loves me enough to tell me. No one ever did or ever could with such conviction.

I was cleaning the house today, and I’ve tried to clean this fucking place for so long. Every time I do though I pass a mirror and stare at it for far too long. I talk to myself and try to convince myself that even though the things I am doing have been done a thousand times over by a million other people it doesn’t mean that the effort I am making is pointless. I try to tell the mirror that I need to keep moving.

15 minutes pass and I realize that I just wasted valuable time.

2 years have passed and I’ve got nothing to show for it. That is the longest time I have ever stared at the mirror.

Who bought that?

2009-07-08T00:17:00.000-07:00

My little girl asks many questions. At 3 she wants to know why, and how, and what and who. One of her favorite questions is “Who bought this?”

“Who buy that Papa?”

“Who bought that you mean? What Emma?”

“Your truck Papa.”

“Papa bought it.”

“Oh.”

Sometimes its an article of clothing, and other times its something that is a part of everyday life. It is not always random or non important however. Its always something she likes to use, or wants to be a party to that she is asking “Who bought this?”.

I have no clue where she got the question from, and I can’t imagine what in the 3 year old analytical mind she uses my answer could possibly mean to her. Her Nanni, and her Papa and her Mama all answer though.

I got used to it.

There are many things I’ll never get used to when it comes to parenthood. One of those things is the fact that there is a living, breathing, human being walking around my house getting into my video games and leaving toys in my pants that not only looks like me, but is eating all my God Damned food.

I’ll never get used to finding out where Emma most recently decided to put her Tinkerbell stickers. There is one on my laptop I didn’t put there, and another on my copy of Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter 2 for the Xbox 360. I’ve got another on the side of my 1986 Toyota 4runner, and a new scratch and sniff sticker has recently found its way onto the linoleum.

Sometimes I wake up to the feeling of a little hand scratching my beard, and I realize that Emma has gotten out of her bed, and moved onto mine without ever opening an eyelid (this has led to one bumped head, and a few tumbles onto the floor). Although my habit has become to open one eye, lift an arm, and use it to cover her there is always a moment of shock at the tiny face with half of my face, and half of someone elses.

Another thing, is the enormous depth that children have, even if they do not realize it yet. They might not be able to form the sentence or idea that they have brought forth, but if you pay close attention you’ll be fucking astounded.

I don’t like when Emma reverts back to baby words, so I do a lot of correcting and requesting that she speak to me in full sentences. This has backfired on me, as she now hates it when I don’t respond in full sentences.

One day while she and I were enjoying watching the same episode of The Batman for the second time in a row she looks over at a tall, cylindrical oscillating fan in the corner of my living room. I haven’t noticed that she is looking because I am busy watching The Joker become a Vampire in this episode.

“Papa, who buy that?”

“Hmm”

“Papa”

“Ya.”

“PAPA”

“Mmm Hmm”

“Papa talk to me!”

“Yes Emma what is it?”

“Who buy that Papa?”

I look over and she is pointing at the fan. I didn’t really think about my answer because I remember when Vanessa and I bought it at a Wal-Mart the Summer before Emma was conceived. I didn’t want it, I liked the fan that I had, but it’s a great fan and actually does a good job of keeping the place at cool temp.

“Mama bought it Emma, like a long time ago.”

Emma's face looks confused. She tilts her head to one side and looks at me.

“Did Mama bring it over here?”

I laughed. Emma didn’t pay attention to my laughter, but I let out an amused chuckle as I answered..

“Yeah”

I realized that Emma has no concept of her mother and father being together. She has a Mama who she loves, and a Papa who she loves. She has a woman that I love who she has grown attached to and loves, and that woman has a child whom Emma loves. It has hit me that she will never know the idea of Mama And Papa, but just Mama here, and Papa there.

Emma has two homes, but when she is with me and she says “Papa lets go home now” I find myself asking “Where?” and she always answers “Home Papa to the red house”

My house is red. Vanessa’s is not. Emma associates home as home, and I am to know that she means my home when she is with me, and Vanessa is to know that her house is Emma’s home as well.

I remember my parents fighting. I remember objects thrown and tires slashed. I remember hatred and anger and the knowledge that my father is sleeping in the VW again because my mother kicked him out. I remember leaving Houston for Los Angeles with my father, and the plane trip back to Houston when my father’s pills and alcohol made him too tired to function.

I remember when Ma was hospitalized and Pop had to take care of us for a while. I remember all of it and more.

Emma and her question make me laugh because she’ll never have to know that. She’ll never want to be here or there because its “right” or “better”. She will just be because for whatever reason her mother and father have for not seeing each other at all except for every couple of months (the reasons are unimportant, but they are fact).

It might not be what anyone planned in the beginning but there is comfort that if I do it right, the idea of that will never hurt her like it hurt me for so long.

There are a number of standards we set for ourselves that I have found to be, in all honesty…

Bullshit.

Fuck love.

Fuck hate.

Fuck life.

Fuck death

Fuck me.

Fuck you too.

Fuck the idea that we meet and do a dance and drama and adhere to what was set before us. Some of us were not meant for the happy ending and white picket fence even though that is what our parents had.

Some of us were not meant for the shame and lies we were born into, and deserve better and should have it without the guilt of what we should have been.

It wont hurt Emma because we make it okay to be like this, and we wont hold our decisions over her head. Because the idea of “Woe is me, she doesn’t have her mother on a daily basis” and "I hate being a single parent" will play second to the idea that “Its time to learn and grow” and "I am me. I am special and important and there is no time to be sad when there is a life to live"

Emma has taught me many things in her 3 years on this planet. One of those things is to see what came before, and just keep going. She'll hurt so much when/if she finds out how much her Mother and Father hurt eachother.

She'll hopefully never have to adhere to the thought that she should remember any of it in order to allow her life to reach its destination.

“Who bought that?”

Because I don’t.

Civic Duty...

2009-05-05T15:37:00.000-07:00

I'm on the 11th floor of the Los Angeles Superior Courts building waiting for my name to be called for Jury Duty.

I'm pretty sure I'm working on a strong case of The Swine Flu.

I heard that some people who hold Swine close to their heart are offended by the Flu being named after their diety of choice, they say those groups have opted to refer to this pandemic as the Mexican Flu.

Thats okay with me.

Zombie Out.

Clever

2009-03-23T01:06:00.000-07:00

I don’t know a whole hell of a lot. I’d venture to guess that I know more about the fact that I really don’t know most of what I should be an expert at. The things that I am versed in are far and few between and I’m almost positive (though Im sure I don’t know enough to say that I’m positive about it) that the things I do know are things no one should know at my age.

Twenty Fucking Seven.

Fuck this.

At this point should I really still be stumbles and pratfalls? I’m the father of a child that will be 3 in a month. Should I really be so unsure of what tomorrow has in store?

Jesus H.

I spent the better part of today cleaning my home. It was recently invaded by leeching family members who decided it was better to pay cheap rent (not for me, I’m drowning in bills) then to simply get a cheap apartment. What do I care right? I’m just the twenty something prick who can’t get it together.

It was nice however, because for the first time since I moved in I was able to cook for my daughter. The kitchen cleaned, the living room tidy (but with that slight messiness that comes with an almost 3 year old little woman with the energy of the sun, and the intelligence of a fucking brain surgeon) I served Emma spaghetti.

“Emma, do you want meat balls in your spaghetti?”

“Papa look at this!” ::throws ball::

“Good job honey, please clean that up now”

“Okay Papa”

“Emma do you want this spaghetti with meatballs or the one with mushrooms?”

“I don’t like that one Papa.”

“I understand my love, tell your father which one you want him to cook please”

“I want, I want Meatball Masgetty Papa.”

“You mean Spaghetti? Spa-Get-Eeee?”

“No Papa, listen. MA-SGET-EE.”

“I see.”

Her room is done. My room is done after I spent two weeks or so airing it out, because the smell of lazy bastard took about that long to clear out. Along with half a box of incense, a fan, and some scent-diffusers I managed to make it smell hospitable again.

My next project is Emma’s studio, where we will dedicate the dining room to arts and crafts. I’ll most likely line the walls with butcher paper and paint splatters. We’ll work on getting her an art easel. This is the room where she keeps her drums and her keyboard. Sometimes she drums and sings, or blows into a horn. Other times she just pushes a baby on a stroller.

I’m attempting a number of projects that were left abandoned like a derelict vehicle on the side of the highway out in the high desert. My life is a busted radiator. I was on the fast track to something and all of a sudden the fucking steam blew my hood wide open. The only option I had was to walk.

I still walk. I got lost. A diner off the main road sidetracked me. I got held back by my own fear and self degradation that I didn’t realize that all I needed to do was let my vehicle cool off, call Triple-A, and breath deep.

It’s hard walking alone like that sometimes. One tends to really wonder what the fuck brought them here. I did too much of that and almost hit a point all too familiar.

I almost forgot myself.

I once did that. I gave in to what I thought I needed to do. When things changed I was not ready to roll with the punches and I’ve got one hell of a glass jaw.

This time I managed to bob and weave but I’m against the ropes again. I’m looking for a way out and I’m trying to balance as best I can.

How do I mend a relationship with someone who spent 23 years convincing me I was a joke?

How do I spend almost 27 years of my life believing that they were right?

I’m up late right now. I’ve got a cup of coffee. I’m listening to an old play list that I put together a long time ago. I used to listen to it and hope that my life would be different. The songs reminded me of when Emma was born. They reminded me of the apartment she was born in. They made me feel happy and sad at the same time.

Now they are kind of funny, and they play me into a memory of myself on a pseudo date I was once on. I was incapable of looking my company in the eye. She was talking to me and I felt that she enjoyed my company, but all I could do was think about how damaged I was at that point. All I could do was my best to pretend that I was fine. I was so uncomfortable with myself that I was afraid if I looked her in the eye she would figure me out.

I don’t have that problem any more, but a funny thing happened today.

Emma got into my socket wrenches and drill bits.

I told her to put them back, they are not toys.

She listened.

10 minutes later the door to her room was closed. I opened it to find her look up and shooting her little fists behind her back.

Busted my love, who is so sneaky.

“Emma what do you have in your hands?”

::wide eyed half smile::

“Persephone show Papa what you’ve got”

“Papa I was fixing something”

(Emma has been watching me work on the house all weekend, and I want to smile at her so much but I am doing my best “stern father” impression. I feel for a moment like if I look her in the eye for too long she will see right through me, and know that I am too proud of her to be upset.)

"Emma, you’ve got something that is silver that is mine, so you’ll give that to me and not play with it again, the other thing is okay for you to play with, but I want you to show them to me. I am not upset."

“Here Papa.”

"Thank you Emma. Do it again and you’ll get a time out."

“Okaaaay Papaaaaaa…”

I think it worked. I think she saw me and respected that she was doing something I specifically told her not to do and that is why she hid what she took. I accept that this is how it goes, and I enjoy it, but I wonder if I play my roll as well as I should.

I wonder if one day she’ll think back and realize “Damn, my dad was a mess. Always lost in thought.”

I see through my mother like plastic wrap. I see through my father like the X-ray of a cancerous tumor. I remember when they were sentinels. I remember when they had weight and infallibility.

For now I’ll do my best impression of the man I should be, maybe I can do it long enough to convince Emma that I really am him but something tells me she’s too clever for that little trick.

Bleh

2009-03-17T00:47:00.000-07:00

Its me.

Im still going. Kind of.

I've been busy doing nothing with my life. That is a lot of us I think. Though, I dont know why that is exactly.

Im so frustrated. Im so far past the point of being bummed out its fucking ridiculous.

I told myself and other people that I would be way passed this point by now. I'd be better off somehow and it turns out I was only fooling myself.

I wrote a draft of many things only to erase it and replace those words with what you are reading now.

The irony.

Gasp

2009-01-06T00:24:00.000-08:00

I remember the first time I had the wind knocked out of me. I was no older than 5. It couldn't have been later than 1987. We lived in Rosemead and we had a nice big back yard. There was tons of room to play. There was an old swing set in the center of the back yard. I was running to reach up to grab what could only be described as two chains a couple of feet in length. At the end of these chains was a metal pipe. A bar.

I was running as fast as I could with my Thundercats Kite that my father must have purchased from the local 7-11. With this kite I could not only take on legions of Skeletor's army but half of the "Bad" Gremlins, one or two of the Foot Clan, and maybe if I was lucky enough I'd be able to kick the shit out of one of the Goulies. I hated those mother fuckers.

So, I was leaping gracefully with my kite, grabbing onto this pipe when one hand grabbed as hard as I could when the wonderful world of "Physics" came rushing at the back of my head. My grip was firm (This is what happens when you're a 5 1/2 year old Ninja, you understand) so firm that it snapped me parallel to the brown and green earth below me.

Now, I don't know if it was the shock of seeing for a moment my house, than the blue sky above me (oh look there goes my kite. Awesome.) and the sudden impact of the ground against my back that freaked me out. Maybe it was the stars that I saw, that I had never seen before. It might have been the strange sound I was making when my eyes started to tear and the tubes that the "Good Lord" had seen fit to fashion out of flesh and bone that got oxygen from the world outside of young William Joshua and into my body began flowing normally.

I dont know if it was any of that, which would normally be the case. Or, it should be the case but not for me.

I think it was the trip from the yard to my house that hurt the most. My mother was in the house. There were men in the driveway talking on their lunch. They were the ones who tore down the old Garage and put up a simple posts in the ground with a white roof over a concrete slab to replace it.

From the time I got to my feet to the time I got to the back door one of those men asked "Mijo are you okay?".

I couldnt speak so I just nodded. I felt silly.

I went inside and on the way I kept thinking that the only one in the world who could make this better was my mother.

When I found her she was smiling. She smiles a lot. She asked "William whats wrong?"

I blinked,

I was breathing again,

I was fine.

She didn't know I almost died. I could have fell apart into a million tiny pieces from that amazing fall or worse yet I could have never began to breathe again. Christ what if one of those old bastards had seen how good I was with my kite and decided to recruit me into the underground world of 5 year old featherweight kick boxing? What then Mom? What the fuck would you have done then?

I was stunned. She didnt do anything because she didnt know. I was hurt, I hurt myself. I was doing my thing, minding my own business and I somehow got up and did the only thing I knew to do and that was do something familiar. I went to her and I realized that I was okay. On my own and without my mother, who should have known EVERYTHING but knew nothing of her son in that moment.

I never told my mother what happened. It was my secret. Later when I poked my eye really hard I didn't tell her about that either. I rubbed it, and checked to see if my eye was still in my head. I thought it was but I couldn't be sure so I checked in the mirror. It was still there, if a little blurry.

When one of the old splinters from the garage that was now gone had gotten lodged into the palm of my hand I yanked it out. It stung, and it bled but I didnt tell her then either. I just kept going.

I never told her about the nightmares I began having when my parents divorced.

I didn't tell her that I knew why she and my father REALLY split up.

I never told her when I figured out that she was a fucking liar. I just kept going.

Innocence is a funny thing. It goes away eventually, but its an amazing thing to see in action when its pure.

I was sitting and watching a movie while my daughter slept next to me. I checked her PJs to make sure she hadn't wet herself. She had. So I grabbed her up, and told her "Honey wake up you forgot to tell Papa you have to potty remember?"

I got piss all over me. I plopped her down on the toilet. Told her to finish. I cleaned her up and changed her.

At no point was she ashamed, or did I get upset. Its what you do when you are teaching. Training. Getting someone to grow and learn. She wasn't ashamed because I wasn't upset with her. I just have to remind her and keep trying till she learns to get up and go.

I want her to come to me with this. Anything. Burns and cuts and bruises. Pains and aches and rashes.

All of it.

I'm afraid that one day she wont. The day she doesn't is the day that she begins to figure out that there are some things that she can handle on her own. Those scrapes that need band aides will one day give way to anger and embarrassment. Her pals will be friends who might be short lived or life long or lovers.

One day she'll handle the air leaving her body in gasping heaves till she has corrected what she did on her own.

What good will I be to her then?

When my mother kicked me out for the last time. When my older sister had already been gone for years after being kicked out. When I was gone and my little sister had left the next day leaving my mother alone it was like the day that I first had the wind knocked out of me. I had to work it out somehow on my own.

All of it.

I hope its a long time before Emma realizes it.

5 is a bit early I think.

Death By Stereo

2008-08-05T09:12:00.000-07:00

I’m listening to R.E.M.-Losing my religion.

I’ve been sneaky and silly and getting myself into all manner of idiocracy.

I’ve so far, in this life been a loser, and a winner. I’ve been a liar and a cheater and a thief. I’ve been good and upstanding and unimportant. I’ve been a father. I’ve played father to a sister and a daughter and a lover who needed help instead of love but I gave too much of what I didn’t have anyway.

My life hit a strange but familiar lull recently. I suppose one can say that in High School life was full of mixed tapes loaded with Punk Rock, and Metal. Some Industrial and 80’s music for good measure just to shake things up a bit, and bring me out of my self-important all knowing 14 year old mind and make me more like the rest of the kids at some point or another. There was no lull then but a punk beat.

Doot dat do do dat. Doot dat do do dat. Over and over as fast and clean as you can.

You can define me by the tapes that people dubbed for me. Old Punk Rock that can’t be found because the record labels have gone belly up because the scene stopped supporting it, or grew out of it, or maybe it just got stale.

What those tapes remind me of is Miller High Life that my best friends step father used to buy us on Friday and Saturday nights. Bottles of Snake Eyes and Cisco that we drank and sang old Mexican songs and Mid 90’s Rap to. We smelled like skate park and bus rides. We looked like shit with haircuts we gave ourselves and hair dye we bought from friends.

“Dude who the fuck vomited on my Dead Kennedy’s shirt?”

“You did fucker, you don’t remember?”

“Pfft, No.”

We didn’t care. We didn’t know what needed to be cared for and over time my tapes gave way to more CD’s.

After a time less punk and more rock.

Mellow, but edgy. I walked and held my CD player making sure it didn’t skip as I headed over to whatever class I was failing at the local junior college.

The beats gave way to Sonic Youth and The Pixies and guitars that carried and spoke to us rather than screaming with conviction.

Cute girls walked the hallways. I carried a camera and a notepad and drew in my design classes. I took the bus to the local music store that I worked at. I had moved on from bumming booze and bumping coke to being snuck into bars and having drinks bought for me by older gay men who thought I was cute and didn’t mind that I was straight.

I was clean cut, and smelled of the gym or whatever cologne I was wearing to impress my on and off girlfriend. The music I used to listen to was no longer a thing to get me excited but a tool for nostalgia.

Lets trade stories and remember the time that Operation Ivy played in the background and that one dude that no one liked boned his girlfriend in the back of my mothers Plymouth.

Lets get together and realize that at 19 I am working with 30 year olds and 20 something’s and I was thinking “Holy shit you’re 24? What the hell am I gonna be doing at 24?”

Eventually, I didn’t care about music at all. I didn’t care about the scene or the art or my friends. I was working. I was driving on my graveyard shift and I didn’t care what I wore and I was becoming less and more of myself every day.

I gave in, but to this day I can’t say that I know exactly what I gave in to.

I’ve given in to sin. I’ve given in to God. I’ve given in to pressure and to sex and to sadness and to joy. I’ve given in to love and all the things that come from that which if you were to ask me to describe what love is like, I would say that its Sin, and God, and Pressure, and Sex, and Sadness and Happiness all wrapped up into a nice, neat little package (laced with fucking poison).

Then there was no music at all.

I hated it.

I didn’t like that I didn’t stand for anything but making other people happy. I didn’t like that I took love and made it a means to an end and an excuse for complacency.

A funny thing happened when the music went away. So did all the love.

And when that was gone I was listening to whatever was on the radio. I didn’t care that it’s all watered down, and filtered into easy to digest little bits of FCC approved douche baggery.

I didn’t care that it was empty and shallow and meant nothing to me until the day when it all meant something again. It reminded me of something I once had. It gave me hope when I didn’t have any again. The funny thing was it was all the same shitty music that played in the background of a life that I had technically checked out of completely.

I get into conversations with 50 year old men about pop music from the 80’s, and stale tunes from the 90’s, and I talk to an older woman about theme songs from the 70’s. I offer an underground album to a co-worker and at some point I realize that the tapes are all gone. So are the CDs I collected. MP3 files have replaced it all and my life is reduced to a laptop.

Folk singers and their sad songs play in my head a lot more now. That is the rhythm of my life, but only when I think of what I lost. It’s a steady flow of smooth sound that wraps me up and holds me tight till I figure out what the fuck is wrong with me. Long enough for me to deal with loss. Damien Rice plays me to sleep.

And then I go out and get a drink and all of a sudden those New Wave tunes I used to hate have me dancing like a fucking idiot with a pretty friend of mine, or a girl I’m dating or maybe just a buddy I haven’t seen in a while. The smiths start playing and we dance as spastically as possible till we are all smiling and laughing and ordering more drinks.

Its in all of this that my life is unsure and feeble and I teeter on the edge of something I can’t put my finger on. It matters to me less though, and as time goes by its gone. After the next morning, after the alcohol I realize that just before passing out I’ve brought a bottle of water to bed, and I’ve made it a habit to avoid a hangover.

It works.

And I get up and I go for a run.

After the 2nd mile or so I am listening to my music as loud as I can and sometimes It’s the old stuff. Sometimes it’s the new stuff. Sometimes it reminds me of cruising the streets with my daughter in the back seat and she is nodding her head back and forth to something I passed by on the dial.

Shoe loves Modest Mouse and pronounces it “Moss Moush”.

“Moss Moush Papa!”

Or was it an import of “The Kooks”?

Or was it an old Tupac tune I have buried on a playlist?

Eclectic now. At 26 I’ve started collecting again and now I wonder if I’ll ever make a tape again. Or hell if I even have the balls to make a CD or a playlist for someone.

I’ve gotten to the point where there is so much I’ve listened to. There is so much that I have given in to that if I were to sit, and really map myself out by the silly beats and the parties and the music I’d simply stop existing because in that moment I have been defined by a soundtrack.

Fuck I’ve come so far.

I have written myself into a corner. I have played myself into oblivion. I have listened to so much that I begin to wonder how the fuck I’ve managed to make a life of listening to music when what I should have been doing is listening to myself. I need to make my own soundtrack and make it the best that I can.

I need to add to it continuously till the day I die.

I wonder if anyone will listen to it.

A Little Something for the Ladies

2008-05-10T21:36:00.001-07:00

This is a different night than one I am used to. Its dark in this living room, and I look out the window at palm trees that are black, and a sky that is a deep and dark purple. I have pulsing music playing on this little laptop, and a tiny child sits on the sofa.

I’m baby-sitting Elise, while my sister and her boyfriend celebrate his birthday. Tomorrow is Mothers Day. I never bothered with it before, and I don’t care for it now. The first Mothers day I ever cared to remember began with Pancakes and Emma by my side, and ended with the demise of my relationship. My family began to fall apart on Mothers day.

Funny.

I grew up with women. My mother, single and crazy and constantly looking for something better. My older sister growing and stumbling through life discovering that her father was a lie, her family was something strange and foreign. My little sister being raised by an 8-year-old boy who knew nothing of the world except that as long as his sister had food, and was in bed when Mom got home everything would be okay, even if I knew it wasn’t.

Latch Key Kids for the win.

On we went, moving constantly and all the time my mother surrounding us with crazy bible thumping older women who raised us on stories of The Lord and how men never treated them right. I was raised on these stories, and smooth jazz, and taught at an early age that a gentleman…

1Walks on the outside of the sidewalk.
2Opens doors.
3Nods, smiles, and acknowledges conversation.
4Leads a good dance.
5Doesn’t really exist, so try not to be too much of a dick when you’re old enough to fuck.

4 out of 5 ain’t bad huh?

I’m not 8 anymore. I act like I am most of the time but times are vastly different than I remember. I like Scotch, I like Red Wine, I hate crowds and I like a good smoke now and then (a pack a day is now and then right?). I’m still surrounded and defined by the women around me.

I even made one once.

And my big sister did too.

So did my little sis.

It’s different when you’re surrounded by women who care about you like a brother, a son, a father. It’s different when you never spent your summers under the hood of a car, but at the business end of a mood swing.

How do I say thank you? How do I apologize? How do I say that I am trying to become the standard you all set for me, but I have no idea how to do it? How do I admit I am not the man you want, but the one you got and now I’ve got to make up the difference?

Tonight is different because when I leave this apartment, after Leslie and Jeremy have come home to their child sleeping soundly in her bed I won’t know where to go. I could go home but why? I could go out but for what? I don’t know if I will sit at this computer writing nonsensical things, or uploading photos, or if I am going out to see if a friend or to feels like drinking themselves silly.

I woke up this morning with someone next to me. I looked at the ceiling and out my dirty windows while music played in my speakers. I lost myself in thought for a moment. I remembered things.

Somber, pulsing music from across the pond played me into a daze as I remembered where I was when we first picked up the album and talked about its simple but honest guitars, and soulful voice.

My companion asked me what was wrong, and nothing was but I was in thought.

I remembered the beginning of my adult life.

Leaving home angry.

Sitting with my sister and some friends for an evening drinking a bottle of Tequila into oblivion.

Driving up the 5 freeway to San Francisco while Emma grew in Vanessa’s belly.

This is the album I began to grow up to. It wasn’t punk and it wasn’t unusual but it meant something to me, and it played me to San Francisco. It played me to Erich’s Funeral and back home. It played Emma to sleep more nights than she will ever remember.

It played this morning and it didn’t stop until I got here to carry Elise to her bed. I put it on and began to write.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the end for me. It marks the beginning of a new person that was born of me on that day.

I’m uglier on the inside. Angrier. I’m something else that wasn’t what was surgically removed from my mother’s womb. I am not the little ball of fat that my mothers friends used to dance with. I am not the exceptional young man with good manners and a gift for art.

I am not what I want to be.

I am nothing like I think I should be.

Today when Leslie kissed and told me she loves me and misses me and she’s so happy her bother is here it struck me that it doesn’t matter to me what I am. As long as the women in my life know how much I love them.

The little girls, the nieces and daughters and mothers.

If it weren’t for you I would be nothing.

I love you.

And then...

2008-04-14T13:17:00.001-07:00

And then…

And then there I was standing on the edge of the Pacific Ocean with the warm sun facing Emma and I as I held her little hands to avoid the rip tide. She has never been old enough to play in the water with all the other children and families running to and fro. Today she is, and she loves it, and I love this more than anything.

I take her away from the water, and change her behind a towel and get as much sand off of her as possible before putting her into a comfy dress and a comfy Umbrella Stroller and walk the Promenade with her. I am nervous and stressed but she is content and sleeping as we pass by beggars, and vagabonds. Street vendors and street musicians lull us into a tired trance that I don’t care to snap out of.

And then I am passing out on the floor while my friends from all over the country play video games and laugh and eat and joke with each other. They came to visit as we do on an almost bi annual basis. We who were here from the beginning play funny games and drink alcohol. Its in this that I realize that feeling alone in your own skin might be a permanent thing for me no matter the company, or the level at which such company and I can relate to each other.

Still. I wouldn’t be anywhere else at this moment, because Joy has made me a Penis cake.

And then I leave my job for something better. It’s the smart move. It’s the safe move. It’s a stroke of genius on my part. Or so I feel. I dive headfirst like I do from time to time only to hit a wall.

It’s the same wall that there always is.

“He quit you see, and because of that we have to let you go. We just don’t have the bandwidth to train someone new right now.”

But you wanted me, and you asked for me to come and interview.

“Yes I’m sorry. Really I am but please feel free to use us as a reference.”

And then I call Vanessa. Because when times get tough its my habit. She knows that this has happened to me time and time again. She knows that no matter how bad its gotten, even if she’s the reason its been bad. I make it out somehow.

And then I was almost in love again. I turned my back on it though.

And then we broke up.

And then I gave in.

And then I was a father.

And then…

Zombie Writes...

2008-01-21T22:40:00.000-08:00

I’ve accumulated several journals in which to write.

Don’t expect my pen to ever see the last page of any of them. Such is a habit of mine with any journal or sketchpad I’ve ever owned.

Fresh like a new pack of Crayons to a child. New like a pack of cigarettes for the night out on the town. Crisp like the package of food stamps my mother used to feed our hungry Mexican mouths. Journals that I won’t complete but will most likely keep for years.

In them are not entries, but notes and quotes that are said by random people I run into. Lyrics to a song I hear while working, or driving.

Something Emma did to make me smile.

Unfinished blogs written to ring in the new year and rather than put them together like I usually do I thought I’d try something different.

I’ll just type them for you exactly as they are written in any one of my three journals.

12/25/07 Zombie writes...

South on Fremont to Monterey Pass Road from Muerta’s warm bed…

Industry becoming…

Past Cesar Chavez Blvd. I see Andy’s Porn Shop off of Whittier Blvd.

Turn left to visit my daughter on Christmas Morning.

Tamales. Red Beef. Green w/Cheese. Dulce Brown w/ Rasins and Pineapple.

I want to decline a gift from hands that tore me apart.

I hold my composure.

12/26/07 Zombie writes…

Futility. Fight yourself for Christ’s sake motherfucker.

He got let go because of his drug addiction. Why didn’t he listen to us?

12/27/07 Zombie writes…

I see dead people.

Emma keeps pointing at nothing and talking to something we can’t see.

Mia takes pictures of it all.

Someone moved all the chairs from under the table but we were all in the front of the house.

I aint fraid a no ghost!

1/4/2008 Zombie writes…

J- I love you so much.

V-I love you too Joshua

J- But I’m not in love with you.

V- Good, neither am I.

We smile.

1/13/2008

Softer and sweeter than…

Was it a lie from the beginning?

Thats a very long time to lie.

1-14-2008 Zombie writes…

The morning’s tint gives the break room a light blue glow to contrast the cookie cutter corporate design of the tables and chairs. Another Airplane takes off and the sound of it rattles the window as I sip my coffee.

Happy Aniversary?

1/21/2008 Zombie writes…

They’re moving in.

How did that happen?

A fire?

If I had known I would have done something to help the situation. Honestly.

No, I don’t mind if you bump coke in the parking lot. Why the fuck would I mind?

Today Zombie writes…

Someone once told me our chapter ended. But the thing is I was still fucking writing the novel when the book was shut on me.

I should make this into some sort of blog, might be fun.

Over Breakfast

2007-12-17T21:18:00.000-08:00

Emma waves me close and I have to smile at her. I lean in to her little face and ask her what’s up.

Emma and I are at The Diner, in Alhambra grabbing breakfast together. I am having the usual Ham and Egg breakfast; she is eating Pancakes I cut into bite-sized pieces for her. Music is always playing here. It invades my head for a bit reminding me of the car ride to Utah…

I’m skimming my ipod in the passenger seat of Joy’s little Toyota. I see old 90’s tracks and current new wave bands. We are munching on dried Mangos and talking about relationships. My most recent failed relationship, and the bullshit that follows something that ended in children and debt and humiliation. With bags full of clothes, toiletries, video games and computers we head out to pay our respects to Erich.

What I love about the friends that I keep close to me is our strange way of making each other happy. Our ability to be blunt and honest is shocking. Sometimes it scares me that I can say the things that I say. I used to be accused of being an asshole for telling someone they were acting like a heartless prick. The only problem with that is that the person I told that to was in fact acting like a heartless prick.

Go figure.

Not Joy though. I say that someone feels like home, and she agrees to the fact. She warns me of the follies of falling hard and what she thinks may or may not happen. She talks to me about family and religion and politics. She tells me that I am a silly boy, and that I deserve to be, but I am a silly boy nonetheless.

“Eyes?” asks Emma, as she jabs a finger full of pancake painfully into my left eyeball.

I smile and say “Eyes baby”.

Its Christa’s eyes that caught me first, before the scars. I saw her for the first time in person in the hotel lobby. At times her eyes were the only things clear enough in the pictures that I have seen of her for so long. I just got off the phone with someone who was worried about me, and all I can think is that I am the last person anyone needs to worry about. Christa is my only concern at this moment, and I have come to Utah not only to say goodbye but also to be a presence in case she needs it. If she doesn’t, then at the least I want her to know I was here.

Christa is smaller than I thought, and thinner than I figured. I hold her and fight back tears. She has had enough of that I feel, and I am not about to add to what she is already feeling. She cries in my arms and I wish I could live closer just so that I could be a better friend. It’s a long way from L.A. to Connecticut though.

“I’m gonna make you cry aren’t I? I’m sorry.” She is a bit muffled from my shoulder but this is what I hear.

“No I’m okay.” I tell her as I nod to Rick who I am meeting for the first time as well.

We have traveled across the country to see people we consider dear friends. From Oregon and California and Florida. From Colorado and Wisconsin. It is Joe who said it best (and I am sure I am misquoting)

“You can’t really measure friendship by the ability to shake someone’s fucking hand you know?” (as long as the F-bomb is dropped, then you have the most accurate quote of Joe and I)

“Yeah you’re right Dock.” I responded (at least I think. I’ve got a horrible memory).

“Nose?” Emma asks me as she puts pancake syrup as far up my nostril as she can manage.

“Nose Emma that’s right.”

I cannot feel my nose in Utah. Rick (Scooby) and I are walking to the store nearest the hotel. I don’t know what the hell I did with my gloves but I need a pair fast. Smoking a cigarette is the only thing I can think of that will warm me, but I find that it does precisely dick. Scooby is doing a great job of humoring me in all my rambling.

After most of us have arrived we head out to the house Erich used to live in. It over looks Salt Lake at the foot of the most amazing mountains I have ever seen. We say hello to family members who associate us with Erich’s online video gaming/blogging friends. We all watch Christa to make sure she is okay. Joy is next to me and leaves for a while. She was closer to Erich than I was and is handling this with grace. I go outside and smoke.

“Head” says Emma. Though she pronounces it like “HAT”.

Yes Emma that’s Poppa’s head. She smiles at me and goes back to her food. I smile at her because she makes me do that.

All the time.

There is snow on my head. I have never seen the snow fall, but when I woke up this morning it was falling right outside the window of the room that Joy and Baller and I stayed in. Tonight I intend to be drunk, I intend to crack jokes and have a good time.

“What do you folks do for a living?” asks a random hotel guest.

“Play video games” says Christa.

We all laugh at how silly it is and how true. Airme, Cornballer, Dock, JB, George W. Bush, Powder, Scooby, Tiffa and Zombie. We all met online and have spent the better part of the last 3 years visiting and partying and becoming real friends. Hell, I found that of all the stupid bullshit I was trying to avoid after high school, that most of the people I used to know are still stuck worried about their childish drama and silly pipe dreams.

Meanwhile I am living my life watching real friends of mine have children who barely survive pregnancy, or don’t survive at all. They move cross-country for love, and for family. They face bad real estate deals, and crooked lawyers. Crazy family who disappear and come back with anger and pain. They venture out and some of them never come back

Some of us have left to the funeral and others of us are piling into a mini van that Scooby rented. We have all this ability to make each other laugh even though we are all so sad. We smile at each other regardless of the murder that brought us here.

5 grown men who who have been singing Holiday by Madonna.

J.B. says “How about some donuts in this bitch?”

Sounds like a good idea, but Scooby is a seasoned snow driver, and can handle a mini van like Steve McQueen handles stunt cars. Dock reads a eulogy. I listen to my music and smile.

Emma and I are walking out of The Diner now. I’m so proud of her. She smiles and waves to everyone. She makes them smile with her big red beanie and her little Chuck Taylor shoes. Her flared jeans and vintage looking jacket makes her better dressed than I.

You can hear the smile in her voice as she says “Bye bye” to random people.

Its time to say goodbye for the last time.I see the American Flag over his coffin. I see family holding composure. I see Christa talking about the love of her life, and Joy is behind me in silence. I sit with Joe and Christa and Keith as Erich’s best friends tell anecdotes; they read Blogs that he wrote so eloquently. It hurts.

It feels as though moments have passed before I am out in the snow next to Joy. George W. holds Christa’s shoulder. Dock is reading off comments written by dozens of people from across the country and the world. Baller and Airme were Pallbearers. I don’t feel worthy of touching his coffin.

I don’t, and instead leave with Joe to smoke some more.

Dock and Zombie standing in the snow taking the classiness of Upper Crust Salt Lake City down by smoking Parliaments in the snow.

“Erich would have loved this snow Josh.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah man, he would text me when ever it was snowing and ask me to guess what he was gonna be doing in a half an hour. Fucking skiing.” (edit per Joyous)

Emma and I are at home now. Sitting watching the same Sesame Street DVD as usual, I warm her Vanilla Soy Milk and give it to her as she snuggles under her Dora the Explorer blankets. It’s about 9 or so at night, and she’s letting me sit next to her as she falls asleep. She is so warm I intend to fall asleep as soon as I know she is.

I’m drunk in the snow laughing with Dock. The guys are inside along with Joy playing guitar hero. God Bless Sailor Jerry’s spiced rum. We are laughing hysterically at yellow snow on the floor, and our ridiculous imitations of our friends. I am staying awake for Christa, and when she and Scooby walk to the room I take a deep breath.

Christa and I talk until 3 in the morning. We talk about Punk Rock and Love. We talk about pharmaceuticals and suicide and death. We drink tea and coffee and smile and laugh. I look outside from time to time and marvel at the snow. We sit next to each other in this hotel lobby for some time before we decide it would be good to get some rest.

We hug and say goodbye. She’ll be asleep when I leave at 5 in the morning.

I can’t wait to get back home and take Emma out for breakfast.

Short one.

2007-12-17T13:00:00.001-08:00

When you're options have been expended...

When you can actually see everything in your life on the edge of a vacant space, with no end to it in sight...

What do you do?

I face that right now. Am I willing to take a step back from it all for a moment to re correct all the things that have been going on in my life? It would mean losing a lot of myself in the process, but when you have a little girl to think about you'd be willing to do anything.

Anything.

Allegory

2007-11-23T17:48:00.000-08:00

I am sitting in the back off my truck watching airplanes take off from the Burbank Airport. The irony of this is funny to me. I have never been comfortable seeing low flying planes. It makes me un-easy to see thousands of pounds of metal take flight into a sky that was never intended for it. In just a few miscalculations metal and flesh can become a flaming ball of wreckage and there is not a damn thing you can do while you ride it into the ground.

Even more disturbing is the sound of the engines preparing to take off. It is a sound that has come to define me as a person. It is consuming me right now.

I am standing in the kitchen speaking to my friend. I am composing myself because my daughter is sitting in front of me smiling at me. She calls me Poppa with food on her face and milk on her hands. She does not know what I am hearing on the other end of the phone.

“Josh I took him from all of you. Its all my fault.”

Engines roar between my ears. They started at low hum yesterday when I read the bulletin. I saw that there was something wrong and I spoke softly to myself that I hoped everything was okay. As I first heard those propellers powered by jet fuel in my temples I remembered the past six months or so. I remembered all the times that this beast of a sound took over my head. I remember back to the first time it took its hold on me…

“Joshua, I don’t think that you and I should be together anymore”

The engines have been turned on. They are revving up and everything behind me and in front of me fades into a black, tarry mix of night and tears. This is the beginning of a great many things. Those engines are screaming now, and the ground is shaking and the air is filtered and distorted from the heat that the turbines are giving off.

All of this. In my head. In seconds that feel an eternity.

In the following weeks I changed. I learn to roll with the punches and decide that if I can through this I can do anything.

Regardless of that I stumble. I falter in ways I didn’t know I could manage. Apparently I am good at all sorts of Fuck-Uppery. I prove myself the weak pile of flesh that I have been trying to hide for so long. Pathetic. Tiny. Begging for another chance.

I drone along at work and at school. I write and stare at images and videos on the web. I work in an office but I do not shave. I do not tuck in my shirt. I do not cut my hair. I do my job to the extent that Tyler Durden did his. “In Tyler We Trust”.

“Did you or didn’t you?”

Engines ready

“I did”

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Please grab your ankles and kiss your sorry asses goodbye.

The engines are at full throttle, and I am tearing pictures and paintings and photos from the wall. I am anger personified. I am what happens when you think your life is going just fine, forgetting just how fallible even the most important people nearest to you are. I am strapped to the wings of the plane as it takes off. It is just that loud in my head.

I am standing in front of my classmates, and pretty much the whole school. I am giving my final portfolio presentation. My clothes hang off me after losing too much weight. My face itches from hair that should be shaved off. I looked forward to this day for so long. I wanted this day to be the start of a new life. My little family in the back of the room smiling and waving to me; what I have built, what I have created, witnessing all that I have worked for come together in the form of cheap photoshopping and commercial art.

Instead of my family there is some Douche Bag asking if he can take his slice of pizza to his class because his 3D animation project is due in a week. I wonder how long it took him to blow dry his Morrissey hair, and how much those dirty looking jeans cost him at Diesel. I wonder if he knows that one of our classmates is fucking his girlfriend. I smile at him as he leaves.

“Josh can you see me in my office please”

I tell Christa I have to go meet my boss. She has been consoling me nearly everyday along with Joe and sometimes Erich and I chat randomly. We are chatting via AIM. She is telling me I should go out, have fun, get laid, be a guy for once in my life. I tell her I’ll give her a call when I can. In spite of a 3 hour time difference she listens to me because we both have children. We both had families once, and we both deal with our exes in our own ways.

“Josh close the door please”

Engine lights? Check…

“Josh I hate to say this but the company is cutting costs and I am going to have to let you go.”

Louder the engines get, and my face burns. I think about not being at work, and where I will go after this. I wonder if it was my fault and how the hell am I going to make ends meet in the coming days looking for work. I say goodbye to the ones that matter to me, and the others have already been laid off due to the poor real estate market.

I go out and grab some coffee with Muerta and talk.

In months I am freelance. I am broke. I am giving advice to people who are facing the things I am living.

“How are things with you and Rukh?

“Erich is amazing Josh.”

Christa and Erich are falling in love. They speak all the time and when that is not happening they are chatting or messaging. I don’t understand it, because I had love once, and I don’t have the ability to handle something like that again.

I manage odd jobs for odd people. Vanessa struggles to make ends meet in the wake of my recent lay off, and an unwilling job market. I get dressed everyday as if I have a job and I go to interviews, and submit resumes, and present myself in a manner I think suitable. I have nothing to offer the world at this point. No drive, no skills to speak of except for the ones I forced myself too learn for a family that is broken and gone from me. I keep going though for fear of what might happen if I were to stop.

“You should come out here Joe. What the fuck are you gonna do out in Colorado when you want to make films”?

I should listen to my own advice. What the hell do I know?
He will do it in his own time. I want him to know I will badger his ass till he does it though, just so he understands that I care.

Joe Gish is in love. He is building from where I am now. He is so much like me its gay. The day I met him I understood him, and where he was. We are two self-destructive motherfuckers.

Erich and Christa have met and are so deep into each others minds there is no going back. I wish I could have been there for the first time they actually met in person. I wanted to see sparks like that. I wanted to say that I was there to see two of the most hopeless romantics become this ridiculous force of warmth, and smiles.

Both have been ears to me, and words to me that no one will ever know. I have become more secretive of late.

“Erich is moving out here to live with me.”

We talk about this. I hope it works, and I hope they are happy. They both deserve to be happy. All they want in this world is to be in love and it shows.

Time goes by, and I manage all sorts of trouble. All in the name of the single life that I was thrust into unwillingly, here I am and I might be getting the hang of it. I don’t write as much, but I drink a lot more. I smell like Parliament lights and Pabst Blue Ribbon when the budget allows (which is not often). I listen to music I didn’t know I still had, and I get rid of the music that began to define a certain point in my life.

I appear out of nowhere and focus on only a few things. Me. Emma. Me. Emma. Me. Emma Emma Emma Emma. I have never loved anything more than fatherhood in my entire life. It is the only thing I wake in the morning for. It is the one thing I feel I can do well. The only thing that makes me happy is this.

I begin to wonder if I have spread myself too thin. I begin to wonder if I have popped up into old scenes at the risk of people not knowing exactly why or what I am about. Part of me hopes that this is okay. All I know is that it causes more problems.

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

Those fucking engines again.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of the 747 that just crash landed into my fucking skull”

I pack up my stuff because it’s been a busy day anyway, and this freelance gig is coming to an end. I wonder how Christa is doing, and I wonder when Erich is gonna move out there and make Christa the happiest girl in the whole world.

It’s been months. Anniversaries that used to matter somehow missed my calendar completely. I was never good at them anyway. Birthdays I don’t care to recognize come and go.

I am working a processing gig. On my breaks I listen to my mp3 player and watch the planes take off. They shoot into the smoggy sky and disappear over the Hollywood hills. They come in and circle the San Fernando valley. “The Valley”-Porno capital of the world. I see myself in the windows and don’t recognize who is looking back at me. I walk around and try to remember what I am learning. I am penniless and eager for my first check. I am trying to cut down on my smoking because I don’t want Emma associating nicotine with her daddy. All I think about is me. All I do is try to make me better. I have been doing this for months.

What a selfish fuck.

So much time has passed. So many things have changed. So many perspectives have been skewered. Lives have molded into things I didn’t know they could become and I find myself wondering about Joe. I think about Christa and Eric. Christa knows things about me I didn’t know about myself. She was the first to see it.

Her words were always so soft and always careful but they carried a weight in my head. They always hit their mark and linger in my head like delicate perfume. We correspond she and I, and I wonder when we will talk again about how things are going all the way out on the eastern end of America. I wonder if she and Erich are okay.

“Josh I took him from all of you. Its all my fault.”

Her voice isn’t just soft right now. It is frail. It is weak from effort and the thought of why it is so difficult to speak cuts me to the marrow.

“Christa don’t say that he..”

The crescendo of these engines blast louder in my head than they have ever before.

“Josh he didn’t make it.”

I want to sit down in my seat. I want to grab the arms of the nearest chair and dig my fingers into the fabric so deep that my nails snap backwards one by one. I want the tips of my fingers to be bloody stumps. I want to let my eyes tear up and I grit my teeth and shake and quiver and yell. I want for one moment to look like a man in the Electric Chair shaking and writhing from the anguis of what I am hearing.

“He didn’t make it?”

Emma smiles at me between bites again, and it is the most beautiful smiles I have ever seen her give me.

“No Josh.”

I am vapor. I am mist. I am shallow and low. I couldn’t hold anything close to me for longer than it took for me to fuck it all up. I have been spending all my time trying to find myself, and cautiously soul searching while others watched me decline into a state of near insanity.

For what?

My brain for so long has been working without a soul behind it.

When you have put your brain on autopilot, your body becomes the Yes Man to the Corporate Assholes of your mind. I have allowed that to happen. I have forgotten what it was to love. I have forgotten what it is to feel with reckless abandon.

Not Erich and Christa. They met, corresponded, fell in love and he went out to live with her and be happy. They found each other at a time when none of us knew what to do with ourselves. Among failure, and weddings, and babies being born and jobs being lost there was Rukh and Tiffa falling head over heals for each other.

The plane is leaving the tarmac this time.

Christa has another visitor and she must go. She asks me to call her back. She makes me promise to call her back. I am crying and hiding it from Emma. I am shocked but I don’t want Christa to know, because if she gets excited the nurses will not let her receive calls.

“Promise me Josh”

“I promise Christa I’ll call you in 15 minutes.”

Flames and anger, metal and turbines, rubber and sky meet in my mind.

“I love you Josh.”

This is the moment that shatters me. I have not thought of Love in any way for a long time. I have not been able to say it to anyone at all, in any real honest capacity be it friend or otherwise. My dearest friend Christa says this and I realize that I might not get a chance to say it to her again. None of us can take something like that for granted.

Erich didn’t take it for granted. He went out and grabbed love and held on and now he is gone. I think of Erich. I think of his smiling face from pictures and his voice online and his messages to me of encouragement. I think of how he just went with his gut.

It takes my heart less than a moment to start beating again for the first time in months.

“I love you Christa, I’ll call you. I promise.”

It was easy to say because for the first time in this new life of mine I am able to mean it. I feel it, and it feels as if I am not just hearing the airliner take off, but I am standing on the runway waiting for the landing gear to tear me to bloody shreds.

Men like Joe and I (he and I have since agreed) are the ones who should have been taken. We are the ones who should be gone. We are the ones who were so low we took life for granted. Erich should be here. Not me.

My heart is done pounding out of my chest, and I have composed myself. All I can think of is Erich. All I can think of is Christa in the hospital and the awful details she gave me.

These engines are fading away into the distance. They came with static and they came with lights that blinded me. They are the sound of breaking. They are so loud in my head that I wince at the sight of the phone as I push “End”. The engines are the allegory for change on a scale I am not yet ready to handle and they are burning so hot it feels like the world is on fire.

Emma is done eating. I pick her up and hold her and tell her that I love her till she falls asleep in my arms.

Juggernaut

2007-09-07T22:35:00.000-07:00

I can feel it coming.

It’s kind of like when you are driving on a sunny day, and all of a sudden it gets a bit muggy. You get the feeling it could sprinkle, and then it does. You look up at the sky and you realize that there are clouds in the sky you hadn’t realized were there in the first place. It’s going to rain.

It does.

I am there right now on the street corner smoking a cigarette and looking up at the sky. I walk slowly because I have nothing better to do, and I like walks. I lift my hat just a bit and squint through a shaft of light and see that it’s going to rain on me.

I’ve been living in a drought for too long. I’ve grown tired of all the conservation and careful planning for the famine. I want all the careful steps I have been taking to finally take their toll on my life. I want the recklessness to mean something in the long run.

The city is a funny thing. It lives and breathes in colors of grey and brown. On a clear day you can see the mountains, but that doesn’t happen all that often here in Los Angeles. Most of the time you can only describe things as brown, gritty, but so full of life its impossible to escape the joy of it.

Somehow though, I manage to escape it. Its all me really, the thought process of someone who loves to torture himself with introspection and malice. I guess I’m a masochist at heart, and in that I am the perfect candidate for life’s experiments in adversity. Or maybe I’m a joke to the bigger picture.

I was on the cell phone with my buddy while Emma and I were perusing the local grocery store for “Graduates Finger Foods” (Sweet potato puffs and cherry flavor per my baby). We are wondering why we do it to ourselves. We are connecting through our ability to literally blow through brick walls and come out unscathed.

We are the ones who survive the plane crash but would have loved to die. We are the ones who made it out of the fire but would much rather have been left. Not really for any other reason than we seem to lack the understanding in why the hell we manage to keep going. I don’t care one way or the other really, but what I want to know is who, or what, or why do I manage to make it through.

That’s it. Just a question I ask of the world. My friend and I are not lamenting, merely commenting on such an odd thing. Equally odd is why haven’t we given up yet? I mean, I came close on more than one occasion. It didn’t happen obviously and I wonder why.

We are laughing at the time I call him up to tell him he needs to take it easy. I didn’t remember that I did that. The reason is because I called him while I was loaded. Imagine that. You tear yourself away from a bottle of whiskey and call your friend in your drunken state…

“I don’t know what your doing man ::hiccup:: but you gotta take care of yourself”

Call it what you will. A couple of boys being boys, a couple of idiots who don't know when to quit. A couple of of grown men who have come to the realization that for whatever reason they have the emotional endurance of fucking juggernauts.

The blind leading the blind I suppose.

Whatever it is I've built momentum and I just can't stop.

Tin Man

2007-09-03T06:05:00.000-07:00

So this amazing person is telling me something that kind of scares me. This person does not know or appreciate the weight in which the words roll off of her tongue. I can’t imagine why, considering I feel that the words chosen are carefully put forth. It’s been while since a number of things in my life were normal. It’s been a while since I looked in the mirror and recognized the person looking back at me.

Some nights I’m outside my new favorite place that The Vamps take me to. Sometimes I am outside looking at cheap artwork and smoking cigarettes. Other times I am just sitting and watching others smoke and talk about things. Nonsensical things or interesting stories or self-degrading jokes that make us laugh.

Other nights I am outside of an apartment watching my friend complain that the person who lives here has not arrived, and she has to use the restroom. Being the good friend that I am I offer a cup, or maybe just to take a picture of her as she goes insane at the prospect of having to hit the nearby bush.

I’m in the parking lot of a nearby bank, which allows us the pleasure of avoiding an overnight ticket. We are about to hit a local bar for whatever the reason is. A birthday, a gathering, the party we were at a while earlier offered nothing in terms of a crowd that we were comfortable with. We took our beers, said our goodbyes, and headed off to the next adventure.

I’m outside the local Taco Stand in some Los Angeles neighborhood eating what resembles a meal for the first time in front of my friends who swear they have never seen me eat more than a few bites. Pictures are taken, video on a cell phone, decisions and promises and smiles.

I’m leaving my home in 105-degree weather to be taken to my truck. I left it behind knowing I would be in no shape to drive later. I say goodbye, and I jump in the old pick up and head to the park.

I run my ass off. I run until I sweat from my head to shoulders. I run till I perspire from my arms and look at the time and make sure I don’t stop no matter how hot it is. I run slowly, but I run nonetheless until it hurts from every part of me. I hold in my stomach till its sore. I hold out my arms till they are tired. I turn up my music till all I can hear of the world is gone behind dark music, and angry lyrics.

My friend tells me she doesn’t know who I am anymore. She says that I have somehow changed when I didn’t realize it and it hits like a train on the tracks would hit an unsuspecting vehicle running the gates. I appreciate the thought, and I appreciate the observations. She wouldn’t be a friend if she DIDN’T say this to me when she thought it.

I think about it, and I ask others what they think. The answer is varied.

“Be you, who you want to be.” Says another parent that I connect with.

“Fuck Josh, you don’t know who you are. Who was that guy before? Was that you? People like you and I are gonna do things when people say not to do them because we can. We do things because no one else will, and no one gave a fuck enough to keep us from this shit” says another friend as he cuts my hair.

“Where have you been are you mad at me?” she writes to me. I realize that I’ve neglected some people.

So I wonder if the person we were is the person we are. I wonder if the person we are is who we are supposed to be, or some prologue to a shadow we haven’t attached ourselves to.

I wonder these things as I run as hard as I can now. I have gotten my second wind, and this is the second time today that I have gone running. I am about to head in for the night. Its late, and its still hot in this California Heat Wave. My eyes burn, and my ankles are sore. My heart aches and my chest burns because I have been smoking too much.

None of it matters to me. The pain of running, or the complete and total absence of emotion that I have come to realize defines me as the person I am today.

The Tin Man so says my sister.

I’m almost done running. I cant take much more of it but I push as if I was being chased by an angry mob and not regret. I run like a fucking champ to the finish line even though I don’t have anywhere to run to. Not a home or a family or a goal. Nothing but what I have created around me in order to get by.

One night a while back I am messaging a friend because she never sleeps, and hell I am writing this at 5AM after not sleeping all night if that’s an indicator of how much sleep I get. I tell her I like to run, and she says something that I’ve heard before, but coming from her it really makes sense to me for the first time.

“Once you’re done running you are still right back where you started.”

Of Jesters and Harlequins (for my friends)

2007-07-26T08:59:00.001-07:00

We sit in the tavern drinking away our misery and allowing it to filter in ways unimaginable. We are the life and the death of the whole room. We are loud and obnoxious and say horrible things to each other and laugh at the pain.

We are all dressed in motley. Make up on our faces we look like clowns to the rest of you. In black and white and red with bells that chime and wicked laughter we look back and remember the past.

I remember.

I remember as I sip wine the time I was left vomiting and he was at the bar. I remember the time I was on the plane alone racing across the country away from the disappointment that was my childhood.

She remembers the drugs and the depression and the void she couldn’t fill.

He remembers the cigar mark his father gave him. Decades later it still hurts.

My brother heart and soul remembers the beating he took and received from a mother who knew he would never fight back. He still doesn’t fight back.

She is lost and wants attention and gets it where she can find it, but it will never ever be enough. She is amazing to us still.

He is addicted and has no way out, and disappears and doesn’t show but we love him because he is our friend.

I talk to life as if it was a person, and not an idea or state of mind.

I say to life and all the people in it.

“Fuck it if I’m week and if the scars on my wrists have not yet healed. Fuck you for thinking less of me and not loving me when I loved you more and more each time you fell. I picked you up and knocked you down and I will live with it forever.”

We live and die by the admission of our imperfection and we revel in it. We use it and support it and mold it to our wills. We look back at life and talk to it expecting it to talk back and give us answers.

These wounds heal, but not before being scraped and bruised a second and third time. Just when one thinks they are better and they’ve found something different, a smile and a nod shatter what little peace one thought one had.

Cologne, perfume, a new dress or a freshly pressed shirt makes you remember what you want and how badly you want it. Funny how that works best when you are dismissed like the trash you were always told you were.

The makeup on our faces has run from our tears but we are not giving up these friends of mine and me. We have all locked arms and shoulders at the table. We are stomping our feet and singing our songs in spite of what we all know and all feel. We are one entity of pain and damage in its rawest form.

Go find your friends. They are not there. Go grab the crowd to laugh at us; they are hardly worth the effort. They will take you away from your problems and show you what you missed.

We refuse to do that.

We are weak, and broken says you.

We are disappointing and fallible says you.

We are pathetic to you so you lost faith in us.

You are pathetic because you lost faith at all.

We raise our glasses to the sky and sing.

A Lie, A Lie...

2007-07-23T10:56:00.000-07:00

A week ago…

“You mother fucker. You bastard!”

Yells my nameless friend from my bathroom.

“Son of a bitch, why…?”

I can’t stop laughing.

I shove another gulp of beer down the hatch, and relax to the sounds of the Blue Oyster Cult and Johnny Cash. Its midweek and I didn’t want to be alone as usual, and I don’t drink by myself. The incense burn, the fan is on in my unusually warm house.

This friend of mine is the kind of friend who will always be there. In some form or another he’ll be around. He’s the guy people flock to. He’s for some reason got the same destructive habits I do. He’s hilarious but doesn’t really know it. He’s crazy but doesn’t admit it. A friend of mine and I worry about this guy, because there are times we think that he doesn’t realize what he’s got. I know what its like to lose something, and would hate for that to happen to anyone else.

The door opens and I say

“Did an Ant get you?”

He yells “Yeah man, what the fuck? I saw the little bastard too!”

I start laughing again.

“Why the fuck do they never get my legs? Or my arms? No! Not me man they go for either the cock or the balls!”

Beer goes up my nose.

“Right there, look…” He holds his hands in the air, in a display of what male genitalia might look like as if I wasn’t born male and could not understand the concept. His arm is arched like he is trying to shadow puppet a strange bird, fingers cupping nothing.

“Right fucking there where the base you know? Hits the shaft? By the hole!?!”

Its late, and because of his odd hours working for the City of Los Angeles he can stop by for a beer before I go to bed, and he goes home. Friends are funny that way, the way they make you laugh without trying, or the way they do things and say things that make you appreciate them, or the things around you. He’s one of several people who manage to make me laugh by being simply who they are.

Some days later…

“Aaaawe” yells a room full of people.

Some of them are laughing, maybe one is shaking there head, and another is feigning gagging sounds. We are looking at pictures of a trip they took to Mexico. These are the type of people who are close knit, and have formed a bond that you could not easily break, if you can at all.

Digital pictures on a television screen flash the rocks of a Mexican beach. A George W. Bush doll with an M-80 in his mouth, a friend who has fallen off a motorcycle, a group shot, beers in hand, hang-over’s, breakfasts,

“Change it dude, change this shit C’mon…” Says a friend of mine, while laughing.

But the screen doesn’t change. In the middle of all the nostalgia, and all the good times there is a picture of a perfectly formed log of shit.

No one wants to look, but no one is really turning away. My friend of many years is describing the majesty that is his bowel movement, and discussing how amazing it is that it starts in the hole of the toilet, and ends outside of the water at the very top without losing an ounce of girth at any one point.

Friday night

“Hump his leg”

Says my old school mate and very good friend who’s had maybe just a few too many beers. Her husband is passed out on the floor of my daughter’s room. I’m not one to host parties, but I decided to have some friends over to drink. I invited people who might not realize are the few people I can be myself around. I don’t need to talk, or to impress. I just host and offer and hope they have a good time.

Glenda has brought her own bottle of Vodka. Mikey has smoked himself a bit silly. Mari and crew are the class and life they always bring to the table. My co workers and I are the raunchy opposite to add balance.

“I dare you to hump Josh’s leg” says Mari who has absolutely no problem being outspoken, and I don’t know a single friend of mine who has met her tonight who doesn’t love her for it.

So, my good friend Robert is humping my leg, and I am not only embarrassed by the whole thing, but also thinking about how badly I’ll need a shower after this.

Ouija boards and truth or dare, as if we are in 8th grade again, and goofing off.

Saturday

Joy has been nice enough to take me out to a movie. I’m all low on funds and haven’t got a thing to do with myself. The night for most people would be seen as dull, but not me. Not in the slightest.

A movie with a friend who has been there for me when I needed a shoulder, or a phone call, or a lunch is just what I wanted right now. We head out to LAX. Driving down the 5 freeway takes us past Dodger Stadium, on our way to long beach and through Los Angeles I look out the window to see buildings and places I’ve passed a million times before.

Her friend needs a ride and a place to stay for the night. Born in London and living in Puerto Vallarta Mexico she has come to the states to purchase a camera. She is interesting and different. She and my friend here have traveled the world together and I am sitting at the coffee table and listening to stories from cruise ships, and a lizard shuffles in his tank behind me. It’s late, and I should head home.

Sunday

I’m watching my daughter lay on the ground hoping to be picked up, but we won’t. She is testing her boundaries and we are testing our wills against her many adorable faces. In a few short moments her grandmother will give in.

I am not used to this. I have been here many times but it’s all different. All wrong. I have spent so much time trying to work on myself, and change who I am, and get used to the life that changed on me that I am now a stranger amongst family.

It’s not the same, this person next to me who I had so much to say to before, and now I have nothing in common with. I’ve not got any words to say to her, though I would love it if I did. I slip and call her babe, when she isn’t my babe anymore. I want to tell what I’ve been doing and who I’ve been with but she doesn’t care, and I don’t want to know anyway.

I pick up my daughter and say goodbye to everyone.

I don’t belong here anymore.

I make the rounds, and I take Emma outside and tell her I will see her on Tuesday when I pick her up and take her to school. I grab her mothers arm and give it a squeeze and tell her it was good to see her. I lie.

Emma thinks she is going with me and wave’s bye to Momma. I give her a big kiss, and a hug, and another kiss.

One more,

Two more,

Emma cries.

I leave.

I’m 17 years old. I’m sitting on a bus with this beautiful friend of mine Vanessa. She doesn’t know I’ve got a crush on her. I ask her a question that is completely random. At 17 I am fond of random questions because I like to think, and be asked the same things. I ask her this…

“What if you woke up one day, and nothing in your life was true? Every one you know is a lie, and you are a lie, and nothing was what you thought it was?”

I didn’t think I would get the reaction that I did.

She cried.

I didn’t think something so weird and silly would get that reaction.

I didn’t think I was capable of such thought, or question.

I didn’t think that one day I would wake up and my life would be the lie.

How Did I Get Here?

2007-07-05T19:50:00.000-07:00

"Josh."

"Josh?"

"Josh!"

"Josh."

I can hear, but not see whats going on. There are bright lights and the smell of sulfer is in the air. That gun powdery smell that makes you sniff wafts across the lawn I am sitting on. If I open my eyes the world will spin. If I get up my head might explode. If I say anything remotely close to coherent it will be a feat of will and determination.

"Josh are you okay? Talk to me."

I shake my head.

"Josh can you get up?"

I shut my eyes tighter and finger "no".

I vomit. How did I get here?

Its 9am or so, and I am getting my stuff out of my buddy Nicks place. I'm heading over to see my daughter and talk to her mother about "stuff".

Its about 11am and my baby momma and I are bickering/fighting. I cant stop thinking about how much I love this woman.

Its roughly 12pm and my daughter and I are at the local Ihop. I dig into a low carb grease-fest while my daughter Emma does the same with 4 of her specially made pancakes that she loves so much. I watch as her chubby hands move their way over to the pile of torn pancakes I made for her. She finds the right one and puts it in he mouth, only to discover that I slipped in a scrambled egg. She then spits the egg onto the table and I cant help but laugh. Emma 1, Dad 0.

I enjoy these times with my 14 month old. I like just her and I in a diner. She will talk about gibberish, and I will ask her if she is being good with Momma, and if she is behaving with Grandma. She of course responds to it all with random nonsense that only a child can spit out. Though, her facial espressions as she does this carry so much weight. Its amazing.

1pm, I am at my place with my daughter. She is stomping about my house in her little walking shoes that resonate throughout my linoleum palace. She has toys but plays with my stereo, or my shoes, or opens drawers and checks cardboard boxes. I have a chair for her to sit in that will entertain her for ages.

Her mother is with me, and the solace that comes with that is amazing and terrifying at the same time. When they leave they each take a peice of my heart with them for good measure. I decide that I will go to my friends house and do the only thing a red blooded Mexican American man of my age should be doing on this 4th of July.

Time to buy a bottle of whiskey.

So here I am wondering if I should stick with the old classic (Jack Daniels) or should I venture out into other realms of flavor that only a slight case of Alcoholism can appreciate? Makers Mark it is. Bourbon. I take my bottle and run into some pals. It feels good to see them again. Its them I'll be hanging out with tonight. I caught them on a beer run.

At 530pm or so I smoke a cigarette by myself with a bottle of Alchohol at my feet, and an energy drink in hand. I havent seen or hung out with these old friends in years. Its funny what time does to you, and what it doesnt.

I say hello to Casey again, give everyone I remember hugs. I say hello to my daughters play pal Mikaila Rose. I sit and chat and laugh at the smart ass remarks they make at eachother. These cutting japes are always well timed, and come with friendships that have lasted years. Its nice to be around this. Its been a long time. Too long.

Adam and I talk real estate and loans where we used to talk about Ska and record labels. Mikey knows of my current exploits through blogs and doesnt have words to convey whats going on. Its good to see him. Gabriel walks in and offers his hand. Its been too long since he and I last partied. Steven is angry because no on is eating his burgers. Mia and I know eachother from high school, but were never friends. Vivian just happened to be in cheer with my ex. I wonder if Johnny will come by. Glenda and I talk about my daughter Emma and her daughter Mikaila.

I open my bottle.

No one else really wanted to do any heavy drinking which is fine by me. By about 7 the bottle is nearly gone. Pictures have been taken, food has bee eaten. Its almost time for fireworks. I kill the last of the bottle and forgot that I told myself just 10 minutes prior to this moment that as long as I dont stand up and move a bunch I will be fine.

So I stand up...

"Josh where are you?"

"I dont know"

"Josh".

Its that salt n peppery phone voice I fell in love with back in high school. Its over the phone. I must have drunk dialed several people, left several others random text messages. Some of them recieved the same one twice. Thrice even.

At some point I called Glenda over to me and handed her my phone. She hears the worried voice of my ex on the other line. I have never been wasted in front of my ex. Ever.

In what seems like seconds Vanessa is standing over me. Talking to me.

How did I get here?

Oh yeah. The bottle.

4am. I wake up on the floor next to my daughters crib. She is not there. I look up and see Vanessa.

How did I get here?

We talk for a while. We can always talk for a while when our problems are not getting in the way.

I smell of alcohol and stale party.

7am and I am in the car with the two loves of my life Emma and Vanessa and we are at the coffee bean. I dont have a hangover because I am still buzzing. My ex picked me up from a party because dispite the fact that I dont want to be her friend anymore, and that the pain runs too deep between us (we've said so much, and done so much damage to eachother), she still loves me. Its funny how that works. I am glad that somehow it does, and maybe it will again. Who knows.

Emma is dropped off at day care. Vanessa drives me to my truck. I kiss her cheek and say thank you. She grabs my face and tells me to be more careful. I smile and shake my head no.

Sometimes I have to stop and wonder what happened to life, when did it start and when did it begin to end? Where was the party that we were supposed to have letting me know I am an adult? Where were the trumpets letting me know the race was on? Where were the advisors and the counsilers at when I needed them to tell me to shut the fuck up, or to speak for myself?

Sometimes I have to stop and say "How did I get here?".

I dont think I will ever figure that out.

What If?

2007-06-18T16:07:00.000-07:00

I just left my best friend Nicks place. I’ve got a little wooden table and chairs set in the back of my truck ready to be placed in the area behind my house. With any luck in the future it will be used for card games, BBQs, and drunken arguments about religion, politics, and who has the biggest Wang.

Its dark now and I want to get my daughter home to bed, snug in her blankets.

I have a habit of thinking too much. I have this thing that doesn’t allow me to enjoy company when things aren’t going well because there is this light in the back of my head that is always turned on. Was it a shitty day? Why? Who? When? Why? Why? WHY?

I am driving an old Toyota truck down the freeway thinking about where I am going to throw this table. I am thinking about the conversation that Nick and I had while Emma slept soundly on his bed. I am thinking about the weekend, and hoping that Emma doesn’t freak out when she wakes up and realizes that she is in my new place and not with Momma in her crib/bed combo.

I wonder about life, and how I got here. I wonder what I’m going to wear tomorrow. I wonder when I will be able to eat a meal again, as I have been living off of maybe a meal every couple of days and Cigarettes are the only thing keeping me from hunger pains. I have lost my appetite. I don’t care to eat or sleep well. I don’t really care how shitty I feel, or think about why I have been bruising so easily. I don’t bother with why it’s getting harder for me to walk up the stares or that I’ve lost nearly 25 lbs.

When I am with Emma it all goes away, and I am a super hero. Ready and able to do anything she needs me to do.

I think about these things while driving down the 10 freeway. I am leaving the city of Rosemead, and am passing through San Gabriel. After that it’s on to Alhambra, and then I am in The City of Los Angeles. I have driven this freeway all my life, and all my memories are the same.

I think of the car rides to and from my father’s who had me on the weekends. I think about when it all ended with him, and how much I loved those car-rides. I think about all the times he let me rent Highlander II and Big Trouble in Little China (Jack Burton is God in my eyes). I sat listening to his rock music while he had the windows down, it was cold but I didn’t complain because he didn’t complain. Now I don’t mind the cold.

All this goes through my brain in a matter of seconds. I am paying attention to the road and notice that there is a large Semi in my lane in front of me. It’s the slow lane, second from the first lane that allows you to jump on and off the freeway. Seeing as how I am just a bit faster than him, but not that much faster I decide to pass him on the left. You don’t think about why you think something. Your brain just reacts. “I think I will go left”.

But I don’t got left, for whatever reason I go to the right, on the slow lane. Maybe it’s because there would have bee another vehicle in my lane trying to pass him too. Maybe it was the SUV one lane over to the left of that vehicle. I don’t know. I passed on the right when I meant to go left.

So I do. Just as I pass the Semi truck I hear screeching tires behind me. I do not slow down or move I just glance into my rear view mirror and relax. I mentally prepare myself for what I am going to see. I make ready the clutch in case I need to shift, move, brake, or dart anywhere. The vehicle on the left side of the Semi truck is spinning out of control in what I can only describe as a Ballet. In order to avoid hitting him, the vehicle further left is swerving, and has begun spinning as well. Two SUV’s who have not hit anything (at least, I haven’t heard a collision) but I see smoke from burning tires, and the Semi has not been touched. They are moving at full speed all while spinning 360 degrees.

Traffic stopped and I am alone still driving. I look at the back seat to see my daughter stretch. Music is playing but I cant hear it.

Had I not gone to the right when I did, I would have heard a collision.

Breakfast of Champions

2007-06-12T11:32:00.000-07:00

The soles of my feet are black with filth. It doesn’t take much for dust and dirt to adhere to my size 13s. I shuffle over to my television and say “Good Morning” to the local news casters. They accompany the dawn. They make me laugh at witty banter and make me sad that an entire family had been gunned down last night while I dreamt of Vanessa and Emma.

I need to mop this place.

Linoleum covers the entire house making it cold and uninviting. Previous tenants cared nothing for the nice old Mexican Woman in the front house who charged little rent and asked even less questions. Half painted rooms and broken pipes are left. Water heaters need replacing, along with broken tile and rotten wood. I’m home.

Dig for clean clothes, dig for toiletries, and dig for answers I’ll never find.

Make a list of things that need to be done. Sometime between work and more work and being Poppa to a little angel I need to do any one/all of the following…

Unpack (never!)
Clean (fuck that)
Buy paint (no wait, I actually want to do that)
Quit smoking (Tomorrow)
Grow up (…)
Move on (TBD)

There is no gas running in this house. Instead of a long, warm, silent shower there is a short, angry, yelling fiasco of soap, shampoo, and obscenities. Laughing at oneself isn’t as easy as it seems when hypothermia sets in.

There is a chill in the air this morning. The sounds of the 5 freeway carry across the wall behind me. The masses flock to the Valley to begin their days as real estate agents and porn stars. I think of this and look up at the gigantic Christmas lights left cracked and dangling in the light. It’s June.

Cigarettes: the breakfast of champions. Grandmother leaves early to water plants. Dog leaves early to scratch and bark. I leave early for work.

They told me to work hard and study. They made it seem like life consisted of tests and interviews. Others told me it consisted of freedom and privacy. Some looked forward to parties and fucking. People who knew what they were talking about told us that life consisted of these things, and maybe there would even be marriages and divorces. Break ups and make ups. Life and death. I always new better though. There is one thing they don’t prepare you for.

All the time in between.

Periplaneta Americana

2007-06-04T09:48:00.000-07:00

Tattoos hurt. Anyone who says that they don’t are fucking morons. There is something to be said about a needle that pierces your skin over and over. Sometimes there aren’t a bunch of nerves in that area of your body, and the pain isn’t quite that bad. Other times the flesh is soft and tender like a sheet of plastic covering defrosted poultry. When the needles hit, it’s a bit of a shock if you don’t expect it.

You deal with it. You grit your teeth knowing that when you are done you will have a beautiful new addition to your body that you put countless hours of thought into (considering you’re not loaded).

In that sense, I feel that current situations reflect my tattoos. I love them, even the one I got when I was 15 (a single dull needle ((by needle I mean a long piece of wire my step brother had filed down for me)) did about 2 hours of work on a very large part of my lower back. It is scarred and discolored and fucking huge.)

Wake up.

Replace the pain with thoughts of good things. Tell yourself to STOP. Don’t think of the pain or that which pains you. Force yourself to get through it because you have come too damn far to give up.

I accept pain. I accept the way things are and I accept that they hurt and I accept that this is the way I am supposed to feel. I wallow in it like a pig in shit. I allow this wave of mud and slime and bile to envelope me. I live in it knowing that this is the way I am supposed to feel.

Then

I get up; shower it all off in a bath of Clorox. Look at myself in the mirror and tell myself that this is not what I want. Others want me to fail. Others are doing all they can to see me fall because they are selfish, and they are pain and they are the ones who don’t realize that they deserve to hurt like this.

I can’t imagine what its like to fail. I’d done enough of it really, so all I can do is get over the failure and move. Go. Move the fuck on until its all behind me. It still hurts, it still nags. But what the fuck am I supposed to do?

I bounce back.

I always do in some manner. I am life’s cockroach. Bomb me to fucking hell, leak me some radiation, and flood me with water. When you are gone and your are buried I will remain in some odd, grotesque form. You can’t see me because I’m no bigger than your thumb. I’m an insignificant speck in your eyes. Look closer. Much closer.

Grab me by the antennae for just a moment, and try to fight your urge to squeal in disgust. Put me under the microscope. Hell, pin me down with a needle if you have to I don’t mind. I will bear the pain.

Zoom that microscope on me and focus real hard. I won’t squirm and I won’t run because I want you to see this. I’ve got a little brown body that shines in the light. I’ve got 3 legs on each side and they aren’t flailing, they are waving. Zoom closer. Can you see it now?

It’s my middle fucking finger and its pointed right at you.

I Wonder Whats Next (random thoughts)

2007-05-30T09:02:00.000-07:00

I’m at my cousins telling him that my life is falling apart. He always said that he never had to worry about me. That he knew I had a good head on my shoulders and somehow I always fucking pull through. He tells me he’s sorry that I am going what I am going through. I think of all the ways I could have stopped a number of things. There is nothing I can do but bear the pain of it all.

Pasadena is a nice part of Los Angeles depending on what side of the freeway you’re on. Depending on the East or West end that you’re living on life can be quite nice to you. There is the Rose Bowl, then nice homes, then crack houses and drug deals made in the open, and then a number of very nice homes once again.

I’m in the office of a very good private defense lawyer. He is the type of man I want to be. He overcame abuse at all levels of insanity. He pulled himself up by working multiple jobs, and doing multiple roles as a big brother and mentor. He set examples that I don’t think he realizes he set for young kids like me who looked up to him and his scars, scooters, and waist length hair.

Achievements line the walls, but before you think to yourself that all lawyers have that shit to make themselves feel better you should know that each and every one of those were earned through work.

Through blood.

Anguish.

I’m looking down the barrel of a Baby Glock 9mm pistol. It feels strange in my hands. It looks strange to me. I wonder what it’s for. What are its intentions? Where has it been before it fell into my life? Real guns used to scare me but not anymore.

There are a number of things I think I missed growing up. Normalcy being one of them…

Moving far too often to really connect with anyone at all really takes its toll on a child. I told myself that I would never do the same to anyone who relied on me given the chance. It wasn’t my choice though in the end.

Your life can crash around you and fight as you may, it just won’t be enough.

I’m now in a car in the middle of the night driving through K-Town. I see Asian communities pass me by in a blur of neon and grit. I’m told about holes in the wall that serve the best Korean BBQ in town. High end but well worth it. The owner is of such notoriety that she can call any boutique off of Rodeo Drive after hours and shop to her hearts content.

I pass million dollar homes and hear talks of important dates and times and procedures that I don’t understand fully because I am not educated enough. A 100 dollar bill exchanges hands. I scratch your back you scratch mine.

I pass through Hancock Park. Homeless people line the streets. Stories of loose connections to the Hillside Strangler fill my ears. Private investigations that scare men shitless make me laugh. There is a division of the LAPD devoted to Baby Killers. Heads cut off and body parts strewn about. Wire and plastic bags hold limbs and men and women deal with such things on a daily basis for a number of years.

I am empty and this night is all I’ve got. Dodger Stadium passes me by. Downtown is in the distance and it makes me feel at home. I don’t even know where home is anymore.

Men are not who you think they are. Men who have it all figured out in your mind actually want more. They do more. They are after more than one would think. They want bigger and better and they want restaurants and wives. They want better and admit that they are not proud of who they are.

If they are not than what hope do I have?

I woke up this morning in someone else’s home. I could have been in my own bed but it would be empty. My daughters’ bed is empty. What reason do I have to sit in such an empty place? I pat Filo on his head and he purrs and meows that old gnarled meow that comes with age to a feline.

I get to work early and smoke myself sick.

I wonder what’s next.

Leo's Revenge

2007-04-11T13:31:00.000-07:00

I swear on all that is good and holy in this world that I am the reason the first Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie was created. I know it may sound crazy but its not. I willed that shit to happen.

Me.

I did it with my mind.

I had the toys.

I had the shows on VHS that Burger King released.

I wanted to make sweet, sweet love to April O’Neal in the worst of ways when I was far too young to know about such things.

I thought Raphael was the shit because of how sarcastic he was.

I thought Leo was cool because of his badass dual Katanas.

Donatello got much respect for me for being so smart. I mean, at that age, I could have sworn it didn’t get much worse than long division. Then Don comes in and blows my mind with his knowledge of books, computers, and Dimension X. He had all the answers.

Then of course there is Michelangelo and who didn’t love him?

I didn’t.

I know right?

Blasphemy!

Hear me out for just a moment. I’ll tell you right now that guy was cool and I don’t dispute this for a second, but Mike was a fucking tool of the highest order. Always eating his fucking pizza whilst Ralph was spitting out kick ass one liners like nobody’s business. Donatello was memorizing PI to 50 digits while Mike said things like “Dude” and “Totally”.

Fucking loafer.

It was then that I realized that this lazy mother fucker did what no person or Turtle ever did for me. He made me cynical. So while all my buddies rocked a pair of Nunchaku I sat by realizing that for whatever reason I chose a different path. In a sense Mike had the most influence on my life and I will forever be grateful.

With such a pull on me like I never knew and while I was playing the different versions of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles video games I realized that I wanted nothing more in the world than to see them on the silver screen. I wanted to see them live action and kicking ass like no other. It wasn’t too long after thinking this that the movie came to be. If I had died right then I would have died the happiest 9 year old in existence.

Then the death of innocence hit like a kick to the balls.

It started with the sequel, and the fact that Vanilla Ice damn near destroyed the movie. Then, immediately after that came the geniuses who decided that time traveling samurai Ninja Turtles would be appropriate. I watched and enjoyed but all the while a little bit of my childhood died. It was a slow agonizing death. Festering and rotting with the skin still attached. Turning black and blue and green but the worst was yet to come.

My mother moved us to Texas. I was still holding on to the few toys I had. One of them being my Leonardo action figure; we are living with family I never knew who in all honesty aren’t really my family at all. I come home from school and I find Leo.

On the floor.

He looks like a wounded burn victim. His body still has the fine plastic sheen that I knew and loved but something had gone horribly wrong. He smelled of permanent marker. I asked my cousin what unfortunate circumstances had could have possibly lead to such a thing. I found out that my cousins G.I. Joe had a falling out with poor old Leo. Leo was tied to a stake and burned alive which is the reason he looks like a blackened marshmallow.

Dead to me.

This cousin was my cousin no longer. I told my mom but all I got was a “Its just a toy” and with that my world crashed. I never got another Leo toy. I wanted my old one.

I got older. Vanilla Ice became the hack we all knew he was. Fresh Prince of Bel-Air came in to sweep me off my feet and take me into prepubescent hilarity and I said goodbye to the Turtles.

It all happened so quickly. At least, I can honestly say it was over before I fully realized. No more Turtles. The show disappeared from memory. Mc Donald’s abandoned the collector’s gems that were Fraggle Rock and the transforming dinosaurs.

Then I go into Mc Donald’s today and my childhood came back to me.

Thats right Bitches.

He's back.

He doesnt have the moves he once did, he's had some work done (what with the latest Turtle movie being CG) but you know what?

He's mine.

I went into Micky D's and says "Happy Meal Please" and I told myself I was getting Leo. I willed Leo into my Happy Meal Bag. Its 1989 all over again and I am eagerly anticipating the release of the flick. I'm back in my living room practicing my jump kicks. I'm back at the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Coming Out Of Their Shell Tour with my cousin Tony and my sister Leslie and I'm rocking out.

I pay the 3 dollars and whatever change with my debit card (thats how I roll) I get him upstairs and place him neatly on my computer.

He's looking at me right now.

He's saying "Zombie, its been a long time"

I say "Yeah man. It has..."

Leo winks and says "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

I know exactly what he means. I look left, I look right. I whisper so that only Leo can hear me

"G.I. Joe is gonna fucking pay".

They Still Make You?

2007-03-09T15:16:00.000-08:00

1-Holy Lord do they really make people as ignorant as you? Did you just use the words “My black friend” in a sentence? Did you just say something negative about Asian people (not that you would ever say Asian. You said “China People” if I remember correctly). Not only did you say something negative, but you said it to a dude whose wife is Asian!

2-Did you really just mention something about your cock in front of one of the oldest women in the office? Hell, did you really just mention something about your cock in front of one of the oldest women in existence? Does it not strike you as odd that not a single one of your antics is actually taken seriously because of how much joy you get out of making people uncomfortable?

3-Okay okay okay, I know you just interrupted me because you want to get this over quickly. So do you know what I am going to do? I’m going to smile and make sure you hear my smiling voice over the phone while you complain to me for fucking up your file. After your done ranting to me for far too long I am going to fill you in that had you not interrupted me, I would have told you that you’ve called the wrong damn department, and I never worked on this file.

4-For the love of all is good and holy in the world, please stop looking and staring at my food every time you pass by it. Its not that this bothers me because it doesn’t, but last time I checked you are in your 40’s and you crunch your nose and make a funny face every single time you decide that this food is icky. Wow.

5-I know that it is important to have a positive view of ones self. I know that obesity is not something to treat in a rude manner, I have to say this as nicely as possible. You are a good 600 pounds, and you don’t need to be wearing the worlds smallest jean jacket.

Fuck this I’m out…

Better You Than Me

2007-01-30T14:12:00.000-08:00

I’m waiting for the elevator to begin my work day. On my way to the elevator lobby I notice the strong smell of citrus cleaner which means that the janitor on duty is either hard at work has just finished cleaning up a fine mess some moron has left.

I am right, and I notice that this man is on his knees, toiling away at some scuff marks on the tile. So, naturally I go around him and leave to his job. Far be it for me to bother someone in the middle of working hard. I continue my wait for the elevator.

Enter another person ready to begin her day at the office. An older women looking like any other generally cranky lady. It astounds me that at this hour some people manage to be condescending without even trying.

She looks down at the gentleman (I say gentleman because even though he is on hands and knees, he sees her and smiles good morning).

I know what’s coming.

Hag: Tough job…

Janitor: ::smiles:: Someone’s gotta do it though

Hag: Well, I’m sorry its you but I’m glad it isn’t me ::smiles::

At this point my eyes shoot open at my janitor friend and he has this blank look on his face. It says a lot this look. It says mostly that “I’m thinking of filling your ears with some of this citrus smelling goodness till your eyes fall out of our face”

I don’t blame him.

I snicker, but when she turns to me I am looking right at her with the most incredulous look I can muster and she at the very least has the decency to blush.

The elevator door opens, and I tell her ladies first. She enters, and holds the door for me but I tell her I think I’ll wait for the next one.

The last thing she hears is me saying how much I think some people are just assholes.

Take My Birthday And Shove It

2007-01-08T12:34:00.000-08:00

So what if I don’t like to celebrate my birthday?

Who cares?

I'm not telling you not to celebrate yours. I'm not shitting on your "day" am I? So don’t shit on
mine.

I know this one queer, who thinks that just because its his birthday, he can do and ask whatever
the fuck he wants.

"I love my birthday. I can do whatever the fuck I want." -Some Queer.

See?

That’s lame to me.

Who the fuck are you that this one day is special, and I have to suddenly lick your balls? How’s about you kiss my ass and we call it even?

So, every year my birthday comes around, and every year I tell people in my life that I don’t want to do anything. I know what your thinking Asswipe.

I do.

"Oh, you're one of THOSE. You're the type that says he doesn’t want to do anything, and then is all mad that no one even said Happy Birthday to you huh?" -Some Asswipe

No you dick.

If you wish me happy birthday I will return this with a solid and honest "Thank you". I appreciate that you took the time to say something like this. You didn’t have to at all. You also didn’t have to get me a card, or give me anything but you did and it means a lot to me.

BUT! I don’t expect it, nor do I really want it. Is there something wrong with that? I don’t walk around every year with a rain cloud over my head, I don’t get all bitchy and I don’t make your life miserable so I have someone to be miserable with.

I just like to be left alone.

That’s it.

I am happy when I am alone.

I enjoy the silence. I enjoy being able to sit and think. Just think. Look at my life; look at how far I have come. I am still alive, and have an amazing little girl, I own an Xbox 360. Hell, all is right with the world.

No, its not.

Because for some reason people insist that how I spend my birthday is fucking lame. Well, fuck you too.

I ask for the same thing every year.

"What do you want for your birthday" -Friend/Family

"Nothing really, but a video game would be cool or just a gift card to get one." -Me.

THAT’S ALL FOLKS!

How easy is that? I either want something I will use and enjoy for some number of months or get this…

FUCKING YEARS (an example is I bought a copy of a little game called Halo 2 well over a year ago, and because of the wonders of the internet I play it at least once a week. I’d say I’ve been enjoying that little gem and getting my money back for it wouldn’t you?)

Or a gift card, by asking for this gift card, it’s like saying...
"Hell, a few bucks toward something that interests me would be great, and you don’t even have to waste your time on me. This way, I get what I want, and you get to go back to your life and have a good time!” -Me Again.

I can only think of a couple of reasons why one would have the nerve to say that this is lame.

1-You are one of these people who have always been babied on your birthday, and the people in your life have also made it a point to bitch and point out that "It’s my birthday so I get what I want".

2-My saying that I don’t really care for birthdays must really bother you and make you think that I don’t care about yours either which, to be honest, is just not the case.

3-You are retarded.

Maybe it’s because I grew up poor. I grew up with so little cash that by the time I was 10 I knew not to make a big deal about my birthday.

My mother suffered a freaking tumor in her back by this time; my sister was running around fucking up the world at the tender age of 13. My parents were split. I was bouncing between Mom and Dad. We were moving twice a year and I had no friends. I learned that the little things that I got were a blessing. I learned to be grateful even if I had nothing because some people have even less than that. I had my family (or what was left of it) and that’s something to be happy about. The rest is trivial. No one ever told me all of this; I found this all out along the way.

How is there something wrong with that?

Monterey Jack's Cojones

2006-12-18T13:16:00.000-08:00

I bought a Happy Meal for the first time in my life the other day.

The last time I actually got one was so far back I dont remember.

What I do remember was that they were always cool. It didnt matter who you were or if you are a boy or a girl. All that did matter is that Fraggle Rock has cars that come with the Happy Meal and if you didnt have one you were shit. Not "The Shit" (I dont think that damned term came out till the 90's for some God awefull reason) but a big ugly steaming pile of Poo.

You'd know what this is if you were cool.

If you dont know what that is, and you are between the ages of 23 and 35 please do the world a favor and kill yourself. Trust me, its better this way.

I've lost these bastards in sand boxes and mud pits. Hell, they've run down my G.I. Joes in a fit of rage back when they mistook Joe for a Cobra Commander in what now is remembered as "The Great G.I. Joe Debaucle of 1990". Cobra had been hitting the Back Yard country side hard when they crossed a line they shouldnt have. If it wasnt for a brave group of Ninja Turtles to intervene, the Joe's camp would have been wiped out.

Sorry, I still have flashbacks to this day.

You just dont find cool toys like that in your Happy Meals anymore. At least, not that I have seen. I dont know what it is, but when all us kids were watching the same T.V. shows, and then we were able to go out and get the toy if we were good; it made us all (for lack of a better term) one.

I remember this one time, I had a platoon of green plastic army men holed up in the local tree stump. It was hell. Fucking mud was EVERYWHERE. There were green helmets sticking out of the mud, and pretty soon the levy that was built not 10 minutes prior was gonna blow. Some dickhead who did'nt read the blueprints correctly built the levy right on top of a waterhose.

If it werent for one hero we would have lost alot of good men. They just dont make them like this anymore do they? To Hell with Harrison Ford, I dont care if he has a pilot's license or how many hikers he's helped out. His balls arent nearly as big, or as rock solid as Monterey Jack's Cojones.

We'll always remember the fallen. There was a group of Blue Cowboys caught in the flood. None were ever seen again.

No longer are those days. Now we have toys to choose from. Now we have fucking Hot Wheels and Barbies in the Happy Meals. Dont get me wrong, I have nothing against either (other than Hot Wheels training young boys that a 4 cylinder Honda Civic is cooler than American Muscle or Barbie toys teaching girls how to be money grubbing whores).

See, you can get these toys ANYWHERE. Its like advertising toys that are already available. Why put a cheap version of a car that comes in a better pack at the local toy shop? Why put a themed Barbie when there are tons at the Toys R Us? This is rediculous.

I want something new and exciting.

I was thinking I needed a change when I walked by the Golden Arches and noticed this...

I dont know what the fuck it is.

Really I dont.

Sure you may be thinking its got absolutely nothing on the Happy Meal toys of your youth and your right but you know what? Its different. I didnt know what the hell I could to with it. Is it dangerous? Can I stick it somewhere and have my mother yell at me for it? Is it good or bad? Does it have some message that needs to go to the Voltron crew before they are too late to thwart my talking ALF character from handing Teddy Ruxpin his own ass? I just dont know, and I think thats why I have so much fucking respect for it.

I saw this and went right out and spent 2.99 of my own hard earned cash. I told the nice lady behind the counter proudly

"One Cheeseburger Happy Meal please." I took it right upstairs, opend my box and had an added bonus.

In case your missing the fucking genius in front of you, this little bastards nose lights up. The eyes kind of wiggle when you shake them (I checked). Its exactly the last thing a group of Food Fighters wants to see just before storming Castle Greyskull. The last group who even dared go near Greyskull since this green sonuvabitch took residence is just a memory.

There was one survivor.

Only one survivor out of an entire envoy of brave souls sent to ask The Green One to let Skelletor back. If it wasnt for his trustee steed, the poor guy would have never made it back.

Random Reasons I Hate You Or Someone You Know (Part 2-The Return Of Mr. Asshat)

2006-12-12T11:10:00.000-08:00

You are miserable. I understand that on every level.

I really do.

So, if I work with you and your the type that complains about everything I can understand. You come to work and you can talk all you want and not have to deal with anyone in your personal life ever hearing about it. I may not like having to sit next to you but at least I understand the dynammic we have. That is, you are a bitch and I am not.

Cool.

The thing is, dont take your misery with you everywehere. I do my best not to.

There are several things I put into the category of "Shit I Dont Need To Hear"

Shit I Dont Need To Hear

-Racism
-Sexism
-Homophobia (I think there should be a new word. Phobia dictates someone is afraid of something, and what we know as Homophobia is really more of a hate isnt it? Maybe its just me. From now I'll call it "Get Your Dick Away From My Assism)

I wont go into the particulars but if you excercise any one of these actively there is a VERY good chance I dont like you. Its nothing personal. Its just that I have accepted that you and I are different and I am better off not getting to know you.

I will be cool with you though. I'll say hello. I'll ask how you are. I will make the effort to be as freindly as I can be. Really. I think more people should try this. Please dont think I mean to be fake because thats not what I am about. I just give people the benefit of the doubt and hell, maybe my feelings will change. You never know.

Where was I?

Ah...

I'm at my Company Holiday Party and I get along with most of my co workers. The ones in my department I actually like. We are all mostly the same age even though we are all very different we really like each other.

Cept this one dude.

He's Mr. Racist.

He's Mr. "Eew what are you eating!?"

He's in his 50's and he cries and whines constantly.

You've all read the blog. He's a dick. He hates you because your either Black, Gay, Female, etc. UNLESS your betting on football. If your betting cold hard cash on American Football he likes you. He'll even have you over his place for beer and a game then when you leave he'll complain that you did something too much like what or who you are, whatever that is.

I dont humor him and leave him be. He complains and bitches and thats fine. For some reason he shows up to the Holiday Party though. Why? Didnt anyone tell him that WE are gonna be there.

When I say WE I mean. Us. The other people in the office. We are a motley bunch. One of us is a new father (Me), one of us is a mother (not me), a gay woman (also not me), a gay man (not me again, though some of you just wont listen). Some of us are Black (not me, but I am trying) Asian (Do I have to be Asian to be a Ninja? I am a Ninja you know) and so on.

The holiday party is fun. I am having fun. I mean, there is TONS of free booze and food. We are laughing it up. Then I see him. Now, take into consideration ALL OF THE ABOVE you just read.

I go up.

Zombs-Hey man how's it?

(I extend my hand but he ignores it)

Asshat-Eh. This party blows man.

Zombs- Yeah, typical holiday party though. You drinking?

Asshat- I shouldnt. I think I'll leave before it starts I fucking hate this

-Silence-

Zombs-Well man, we'll be over here for a bit. Join us dude dont be a stranger.

Asshat-Yeah man.

Then he walks downstairs.

You know what? Stay home. Dont bring down my party. Damn it there is Freakin Fosters on tap like sweet Mana from Heaven. Its like the Good Lord Himself came down and turned all the water to wine for me this one night. I mean, there is steak and chicken and Rice Pilaf.

I requested Spanish Rock form the DJ just because I could and you know what? HE FUCKING PLAYED IT. Jeez I dont even know Spanish!

I know its just a stupid holiday party but I am not one to have a crappy time just because I may not like where I am. I am gonna have some fun.

It was sweet. I drank loads, my girlfriend got shit-faced, we all made horrible self depricating jokes about ourselves and woke up the next day with hangovers.

Keep your opinions "Mr. I-Live-With-My-Cat-And-My-Meth-Addicted-Girlfriend."

A great man once said...

"Fuck you Mr. Asshat, I hate you"

Wait no, that was just me.

Random Reasons I Hate You Or Someone You Know (Part 1)

2006-12-11T12:34:00.000-08:00

I opened a door for some guy about my age walking into this apartment complex. I was walking out the door and noticed that he was coming in with both arms full of clean new laundry. So I open the door, walk out, and hold it for him.

Did he say "Thank You?"

Nope.

That Fuckhead walked right in like he owned the place. He didn’t even have the sense to nod or anything. Fuck. It’s not like anyone is going to think you’re gay for having a guy hold the door for you. Besides, I WAITED for his ass. He was 15 feet away and I had the common decency to wait for him.

He's lucky he didn’t get his ass beat down from me like the Fucking Ninja That I Am. There are however, several factors that did save this guy's life. Allow me to list them.

1. Ninja Code dictates that I kill only in self defense. I think.
2. I was holding a piece of Pizza in my hand at the time (Pepperoni and Sausage). He's not worth the cheese that gets stuck to the Pizza box. I love that stuff.
3. I can’t fight.
4. He looked really mean.
5. I love The Internets (What I mean is. Instead of saying something timely and clever, I waited till I got to work to enter my thoughts, spell check them, and proofread them several times which only proves that not only am I officially not the Ninja I thought I was but I am also a pussy. That makes me even more mad, because what this person did was not only insult me with his lack of manners, but brought me to this horrible realization and now it makes me dislike him even more.)

Thank you Mr. "Im to good to say thank you".

I fucking hate you.

I dont get it.

2006-11-30T16:19:00.000-08:00

Oh I don’t know. I made it a point to sit down and write about something that would make me feel better but to be honest I have nothing to write.

In other words nothing has pissed me off enough for me to actually validate my writing something about it. Is this bad?

On the one hand one could assume that I am actually happy for a change. Right…

On the other hand it could be said that I am just blocked, and the mild success (Success is being used very loosely here) of my first several blogs was a fluke.

I would most likely go with the latter.

Why learn English?

2006-11-14T16:42:00.000-08:00

This escrow company calls me all day long every day asking for documents and profiles. This is a free service for companies who do business with us on a regular basis. The escrow company I am talking about does not do business with us. We have tried to give them ultimatums but it doesn’t work.

Why?

They barely speak English, and therefore can barely understand us when we tell them to stop abusing our services. It amazes me that Realtors and Loan officers are handling your money and your life and they can’t even ask the appropriate questions to get the appropriate documents.

One profile I produce can be up to 50 pages or more. It’s usually not that large, but I have opted to include the pages that you really don’t need in the profiles. My buddy and I just did this with about 6 profiles. That’s almost a ream and a half of paper. All faxed to the same fax machine at the same time.

Its childish, it’s petty, and it’s a waste of time to be this spiteful…

But its fun…

I Hate Orca Whales

2006-11-13T11:47:00.000-08:00

We stop by one local Diner that we haven’t been to in a while. This is only because we were about to hit up the IHOP, until we realized it’s no longer there.

So off to Shakers, and let me tell you a few things you need to know about the Awesomeness that is Shakers, and its owners.

1.They know there shit. I mean, they really do. They own 2 Shakers restaurants, 1 Wild Thyme Café, and most importantly they own The Diner.
2.The Diner kicks ass. It’s like something out of a Tarantino film; all they way down to the cheesy wanna be 50’s feel of the whole place.
3.Good service, quick food, and most importantly Vanessa’s sister works there so I pretty much have to say all this shit (actually, we don’t see her much so we head over on weekends so we get to say hello and she can say hi to our daughter, and Vanessa might read this so I pretty much had to put in this little side note as well).

It’s nice to go to a place you feel comfortable in. A nice, clean place with good service, well fuck all that because none of it happened.

First, Shakers is in the City of South Pasadena. For those of you who don’t live in the Los Angeles area the more common spelling
of this city is actually $$$$ <- That is all you need to write. “Excuse me sir?” “Yes?” “I’m a bit lost; do you know how to get here?”

“Ah, you take the 10, Exit Fremont and head north…”

You get it. Anyway...

Also found in South Pas is quite a few old people. Old people with money, to put it into perspective, South Pasadena is where my mother used to take me and the rest of the local poor children Trick or Treating.

Vanessa and I enter the Shakers. Some Emo-Bitch takes our name and we are taken to our seats.

Here is the thing about me and customer service. I really don’t care all that much. There is this great Thai place that treats Vanessa and I like crap. The only times we have ever gotten good service at this place is when we had our Asian friends with us. It’s amazing really. Then again, I don’t mind being the token Mexican in the group if my Asian friends don’t mind the constant questions regarding Real Estate and Nail Salons. The food at this place kicks ass, so we don’t mind it one bit. Sad huh?

What I mean is just give me my food and leave me alone. If I have everything I need I wont bug you at all.

We walk to our table and as usual the place is crowded with Old Farts. It’s funny how much old people hate me. Seeing as we have a baby they automatically assume that we have brought the spawn of Satan. Well, I never acted up in public as a kid. My daughter won’t be allowed to, and besides she’s a pretty good baby. Not because we were blessed with an angel or anything, but because we know that babies need to be handled a certain way. I’m no expert, but here is what my folks did with me.

Tired kid? Then that means cranky kid without a nap so cranky kid does NOT GET TAKEN TO A FUCKING MOVIE THEATER.
Hungry kid? Then that means cranky kid without any food so cranky kid does NOT GET TAKEN TO A FUCKING MOVIE THEATER.
Dirty kid? Then that means cranky kid without a fresh diaper so cranky kid does NOT GET TAKEN TO A FUCKING MOVIE THEATER.
Bored kid? Then that means cranky kid without some play time so cranky kid does NOT GET TAKEN TO A FUCKING MOVIE THEATER.

It’s really not all that hard. So for every Movie Theater reference please feel free to switch with Restaurant, Toy Store, Mall, Library, Crack House, Airplane etc. This is not set in stone so feel free to print this list, add your own, and hand out to your sister and her fuck-up “Baby-Daddy”.

Being the natural bad ass that I am I stare down all these old people 5 times my age. I’m pretty sure I can take at least one of them. The dirtiest look I receive is from some old Veteran who can’t be sure, but thinks I’m hiding Charlie.

Our waitress is about 500 pounds so we ask her if she’s had the different quiche that’s on the menu. Look, if you’re going to be that fucking huge the least you can do is know your shit when it comes to food. I mean, I’ve put on a few pounds the last couple years and I aint afraid to tell you that you gotta try the chili cheese fries at The Hat.

She knows nothing, and even tells us that she’s never had the Veggie quiche because she doesn’t eat Veggies. Really? You don’t say!

She takes our order, and leaves me to fend for myself. First things first, I consider sitting the baby down in a booster seat, but as I pick it up; I realize that my hand has somehow been glued to the seat. No really, I’m talking industrial strength adhesive. Well, either that or Shakers hasn’t cleaned this booster since 1982.

That’s fine; Emma is happy sitting next to us on a blanket playing with some odds and ends. I order a Burger because Shamu says they are pretty good and the fries are supposed to be in top form today. Vanessa orders the Vegetarian Quiche because she is insane. Emma drools.

So, the Quiche blows. No flavor. Hell, everything used to have flavor in this place. It’s as if all the old people got together and decided that in addition to taking over the local rec. center, they are also consolidating all salt in the local area and burning it because it’s from the devil. Dickheads.

My burger WOULD have been great with a little Ketchup. Just a dab every now and then would have been great. My waitress however neglected to provide condiments, and other very basic eating necessities which I can only assume is due the fact that she ate everything.

The fries are a sight to see really. Thick cut goodness and a wonder to smell, I mean they smell great. Though, have you ever bit into a Twinkie? Well, take the good part of said “Twinkie” and replace it with greasy potatoness wrapped in death and you have the crap I was eating.

Sometime later Orca-Fat shows up to take our place, we just ask for the check. Because were disgusted. Rich kids are running through the aisles. Some old man keeps looking at me like I’m shaking my baby. Biggie is kinda grossing me out.

Fuck Shakers.

Midget Porn Rocks

2006-11-08T16:45:00.000-08:00

Okay,

My department decorated uh, my department for Halloween. I know what your thinking,

"Congrats dickhead, you put up pictures of kittens in pumpkins and now you want an award for it"

Well, youre pretty much right. Except for the fact that we also put up craploads of Spiderwebs, fake scenery, effing skeletons (we miss you Bob. Bob, by the way was twice as productive as I am). We had an eight foot long bat staring at us and a spider almost as creepy as my mother hanging from the ceiling.

So, as an incentive for such an awesome dispaly of our complete lack of productivity we get a lunch. Free food. They say religion is the opiate for the masses. I say, you people need to work in Title becuase religion or not, these Mother Fuckers like to eat.

Alright.

Fine.

"What part of this could possibly lead you to blog this crap?"

I'll tell you.

This is me. About 4 feet to my right in the next cubicle (thats right, I said cubicle. This is what my life has come to) is quite possibly the most angry human being I've ever met.

I mean this guy is miserable. Its like Hurricane Katrina blew through this fuck heads mind and left lots and lots of angry people in its wake.

This guy hates everything.

In contrast my department is made of of "20-30 Somethings" who enjoy any one or more of the following...

1. Rock (Some of us like Madonna but they dont count to me anymore based on this alone)
2. Hip Hop (Grounds for being banished from my life but this guys pretty cool)
3. Clubbing (I dont do it but I live vicariously through Mr. Marshall)
4. Drinking (Go Alchoholism!)
5. Myspace (So sue me asshole that shits like crack)
6. MP3 players (I put this in to underscore the age we live in)
7. Slacking Off (Mostly by me)
8. Gay Sex (Its a modern world. Get fucking used to it)
9. Thai Food (Almost as good as number 1, probobly twice as good as number 8 (So I've been told) and compliments number 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 very well.
10. Other Races (I usually hate people base on the level of stupidity and not how they look (except for Midgets. They creep me out. Midget porn on the other hand, that shit kicks ass.))

Things we hate,

1. Well, this guy.

Things this guy hates.

1. Rock (Most of it really. If Sammy Hagar isnt in it he doesnt like it. Have you seen Sammy Lately? Fuck)
2. Hip Hop (Not based on what its sounds like, but because Black People (So I've heard) and rich white kids dig it)
3. Clubbing (This guy hasnt been to the theatre since Natural Born Killers first came out, what makes you think he's gonna go to a club?)
4. Drinking (Actually he likes this but only becuase his body rejects water)
5. Myspace (On grounds that there are too many Black People)
6. MP3 players (He doesnt know what these are really, but he's pretty sure it has to do with Asian people. He doesnt like them either.)
7. Slacking Off (If you arent doing it his way, then you arent doing it right, and you are therefore wrong)
8. Gay Sex (Wow this guy hates The Gays. I dont see what his problem is really, if you've seen the chick he's been banging the past few years you'd think he was Gay. In other words I'm pretty sure she has a cock.)
9. Thai Food (Actually this is the reason the whole blog started. I'll get back to that in one sec)
10. Other Races (Also related to the Thai Food topic. This guy doesnt do any of the above mainly because it involves large groups of poeple interested in things he does not and never will be able to understand.)

Where was I? Oh yes.

Things this guy likes.

1. Hating 1-10 (and all things I included in parenthesis)

SO...

We have the unenviable task of deciding between 10 people what we all want to eat. It shouldnt be that hard really. We are all lazy asses though so we spend the day "thinking" about it. My boss suggests Olive Garden. I'm sorry but Olive Garden blows. Its like the fucking Chucky Cheese of fine dining. If fine dining were porno, Olive Garden whould be a snuff film (good only in very small doses and even then only when there is nothing else around).

This guy thinks its a great idea and runs with it because he absolutely hates everything we suggest. The thing is...

HE NEVER HELPED US DECORATE

So he doest really have a say in the matter. I know he wants to but sorry brother, youre assed out.

He finds that we have dissagreed with him and runs all over the office talking shit. He even has the nerve to complain like so...

"They all wanna fucking eat Thai food fucking Japanese, Chinese, fucking Dirty-nese..."

You read that right. Dirty-nese. Of course the person he said this in front of is Japanese. Which only underlines my point as to why this guy is such a prick. If there is any good to him at all its that it makes for great comedy. Why?

Well for one, the Dirty-Nese chick he said this in front of is pretty fucking cool and basically laughed at his ass.

Also, we like to antagonize him. Its never blatant really, but any chance we get to talk about eating Asian food with large groups of Gay Black Hip Hop loving people we go for it.

They should make homes for people like him. I should start one. I think I'll call it "Zombs Home For People Who Like To Eat The Souls Of Small Black Babies"

Oh wait no, I think they call it prison.

I'm Stabbing You In The Face With My Mind

2006-11-07T15:47:00.000-08:00

Why do people insist on being total pricks? Really I don’t understand it at all. How does one wake up one day and decide that pompous is exactly what they want to be on that particular day?

Needless to say I work with lots of assholes. Am I a porn star? No. So if my chosen profession is not one of the following I don’t need to deal with Pricks and Assholes.

A) Fluffer: A fluffer is a hired member of the crew of a pornographic movie whose role on the set is to sexually arouse the male participants prior to the filming of scenes requiring erections. (Thank you Wiki)

B) Crackhead: That’s right; I don’t suck cock for money to buy my drugs. Has the thought passed my mind? I’m not telling. I’m just saying its not something I do (anymore) so I don’t need to deal with the amazing amounts of dicks I get on a day to day basis.

C) Phone Sex Operator: Although I am one sexy bitch over the phone I don’t charge people to get down and dirty via land-line.

D) Politician: I don’t have people tickling my taint just so I can do shit for them. I can not turn the tides of change. I cant rouse any sort of reform. I’m just an angry lil Mexican who’s lost his way in the world and lets face it, our standards aren’t that great anyhow. So please stop blowing smoke up my ass. Examples? I got em right here bitch…

D-1 Don’t call me buddy if you’ve never met me. For that matter don’t call me buddy ever unless your twice my age and have been sexually molesting me since I was 8 or so (in which case where the fuck is my candy?).
D-2 Don’t tell me your coming into the office to bring me food I don’t need. Have you seen me lately? It’s not fucking pretty.
D-3 For the love of all that is Holy do not under any circumstances try to relate to me if you and I have never done any of the following.
-D-1 v 3.2 Fucked.
-D-1 v 3.3 That’s it.
-D-4 I had something great to say just now, but I took a phone call and some weenie just called me and said “Hey buddy, I’m stopping by with some pastries for you guys. Go Raiders!” (I don’t even like sports.)

E) Toilet Paper: “Oh no he di int!” Oh yes I did. It’s not my job to wipe your ass so don’t assume that I am going to.

That’s it I’m out.

Someones Got a Case of the Mondays...

2006-11-07T12:35:00.000-08:00

Someone says this to me today. Can you believe it?

Me neither. Needless to say this persons body will never be found. Sorry. It had to be done.

On a lighter note I've started my blog from scratch. Im so sorry you missed the last page I had, which consisted of two of the worst blogs ever written. It really was a sight to behold.

Im tired. Im cranky. Im wierd lately. Meh! Thats all I can say right now. Meh!