Marked by surreal distortion and often a sense of impending danger: "Kafkaesque fantasies of the impassive interrogation, the false trial, the confiscated passport haunt his innocence." (The New Yorker)
A dream, like kids, is something best experienced first-hand. It loses a lot in translation. When someone tells me their dreams I always feel like I do when they try to show me their baby pix. In his current routine, Jerry Seinfeld boldly admits as much. He says he is fascinated by his own children but couldn't care less about other people's.
That said, I had the most perturbing dream last night. I'm sorting through my mail, putting bills and dunning notices in one pile and everything else in the trash. I come across an official looking letter from the Marcus County West Virginia police department. It's a summons to appear on charges of driving while intoxicated.
WTF? To my knowledge I'd never set foot in this place let alone drove drunk there. So I get out a map and look it up. Marcus County is a tiny enclave abutted two sides by Virginia. Driving north you could be in Virginia, spend five minutes in West Virginia and then be back in VA. Sure enough, I had been in the vicinity on the date in question.
But I hadn't been pulled over by the police. So I call one of those "if you've got a phone you've got a lawyer" lines. My attorney agrees to meet me at an outdoor cafe. As I sit there sipping iced tea and picking at rancid tuna salad, he examines the summons with a grave look on his face and blows second hand smoke in mine. "This isn't good, son," he says. When someone calls you son it never is. It's like what follows "we've got to talk." Trepidation coursed through my veins as if some dreaded disease.
Turns out this county has an ordinance that allows police to charge erratic drivers with DWI so long as they gave chase but gave up after their quarry crossed state lines. The onus then falls to the accused to prove he wasn't intoxicated, a strategy which my attorney dismisses as unworkable. He hands me a doctor's business card. Evidently the doc can run a series of tests in the hopes that we could establish that I'm not a problem drinker and plead for leniancy.
This kind of thing isn't without precedence in the non-dream world. Most states have pole-mounted cops that snap photos of speeders. They mail the tickets to scofflaws who as owners of the vehicles are presumed to be both the driver and exceeding the posted speed limit. Most of the accused swallow their pride and mail the assessed fine in. But of course, that isn't an option with DWI.
The phone rings. It's my attorney, sounding distressed. "You're looking at six months in jail and the local prosecutor isn't inclined to cut a deal with you," he informs me. "Why the fuck not? I passed the tests with flying colors," I snap. "It's your two prior convictions," she says. Say what? I've never been convicted of DWI. Both times I was charged, we worked out a deal whereby I'd take classes and plead to a lesser charge of reckless driving. Ah but there's an asterick on my record that reads: "Reduced from DWI." So this slack-jawed hick prosecutor knows about my prior problems and considers me a menace to highway safety. Thus he seeks the maximum penalty of six months in the slammer and a $5,000 fine.
Oh no, this doesn't stink like unwashed ass, not at all. I can just see it now, informing my boss that I need a leave of absence to serve out a prison sentence. Or telling my son I'll be away for a while but he can visit me on the weekends. To say nothing of being gang raped by a bunch of inbred rubes with tattoos. I'm feeling as though I'm caught up in some Kafkaeque web of deceit from which there's no escape.
So I rouse my wife to tell her about this nightmare, which at the time seemed all too real. Indifferent, she shows me her back and commences to snore anew. I get up and start the coffee machine, beset by imagery of those hicks' dicks poised to rip me a brand new asshole. Needless to say, this is hardly the ideal way to start your day.
Is it just me or does Qusay Hussein look a little like Freddie Mercury now that he’s dead? I mean no offense to Queen fans. I consider myself something of an admirer of the song stylings of Messrs. Mercury (formerly Bulsara), Brian May, Roger Meddows Taylor and John Deacon. They did and still do rock me. I guess I’m just a sucker for operatic, gay-friendly rock.
I’m also a sucker for pictures of dead dictators (www.picturesofdeaddictators.com). Now, say what you will about the showing of pictures and videotape of Uday and Qusay Hussein’s rotting corpses, but I would not have been able to make this astute observation about the Qusay/Mercury connection without viewing Qusay’s bloated and, presumably, stinking old bones online. We like to debate in the United States and question our own motives often and that is not necessarily a bad thing. The unexamined life and all that. And when pictures of dead Americans were shown on Iraqi television, we didn’t like it. We were rightly shocked. Our culture, today at least, demands a certain amount of dignity and respect for the dead and showing everyone just how meat-like we really are in repose bugs us to no end. We take it personally, as an affront to life, because we can’t stand the notion of someone treating us like a Peking duck after we’ve shuffled off our mortal coil. But that is pretty much a cultural peccadillo unique to our times because we are so hands off when it comes to even food preparation. How many of you know people who won’t even buy a whole chicken or one with bones in it because it is too reminiscent that a living thing once occupied that all too fragile flesh?
Anything is morbid if you think about it too much. My suggestion? Don’t think about it too much. Get over it. What is this about anyway? We didn’t like Uday and Qusay when they were alive, why should we care WHAT happens to them when they are dead? Besides, for the Arab world in which we are currently trying to operate, this isn’t about respect. This isn’t about grossing anyone out. This isn’t even about ratings or advertising if you can believe that. It’s about the truth. They want to make sure and in Iraq, that means getting up close and personal. So let them.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t take anything at face value in a world that has proven to have as many skilled liars in it as this one. It absolutely astonishes me year after year how many people can look you in the eye and lie with every breath. The only thing more astonishing to me personally is how many people think that just because they can lie without blinking that I have to believe them. Not to go all “In the Name of the Father” on anybody, but I know how to lie without blinking, too. Anybody with parents does.
I have an additional skill as well that most people do not seem to comprehend and that is asking questions I already know the answer to just so I can figure out how good or bad a liar someone really is.
As Americans, we tend to just “take the government’s word” when it comes to who they did and did not kill, assassinate, terminate, erase, eradicate, “remove from power,” or “transfer to the home office in Des Moines.” Why that is I don’t know because another great American tradition is NOT TRUSTING POLITICIANS. I mean really folks, it’s one thing to joke about the little lies for a couple hundred years, but in the last 30 to 50 years, we’ve seen some whoppers. From FDR knowing the Japanese were on their way to Pearl Harbor to MJ-12 and the UFO cover-up, from JFK and Marilyn to Watergate, from Hummergate to WMDGate. Pols lie about the little things; they lie about the big things. So why do we trust them?
Maybe Iraqi culture needed tuned up worse than an ’86 Chevy Caprice Classic with blown gaskets, but when it comes to demanding proof positive, they’re ahead of the curve – no matter how graphic and disturbing it is to sensitive American eyes.
As odd as it may seem, let’s be culturally sensitive enough to realize these people have been violated for years. They’ve seen things most of us have only seen in “Faces of Death: Vol. 1-27.” A couple dead guys on prime time can’t hurt now. They need proof so give it to them.
When in Rome, eat spaghetti. When in Kabul, play goatball. When in Baghdad, drag Husseins through the streets. Let’s face it, as Americans, we aren’t that far removed from this kind of behavior. We aren’t more than 110 years away from public hangings, posses and, oh yeah, genocide, so let’s not be too shocked.
And any American knows deep down that a guy on the lam caught with $400,000 U.S., a bottle of Viagra and condoms deserves whatever he gets – cocky jerk.
To view the pictures of Uday and Qusay Hussein online, got to edition.cnn.com/2003/WORLD/meast/07/24/sprj.irq.sons.reax. For more information about the classic rock group Queen, go to www.queenonline.com.
Assassinate: verb To murder a prominent person by surprise attack, as for political reasons.
I've always opposed the war in Iraq though not on highfalutin moral grounds. I just view it as a distraction from the true matter at hand, the murder of Osama and all his Big Terror minions---especially former opthamologist Dr. Zawahiri. Somebody ought to rip his eyeballs out and skull-fuck him to death.
Now I've got another reason: the US assassination of Uday and Qusay Hussein. (Is it just me or do their names sound like pig Latin? And what were they doing with pocketbooks?)
You'll note that I referred to their demise as an assassination while calling the killing of Osama a garden-variety murder. To qualify as an assassin you must kill a prominent political figure. Osama isn't even a citizen of any country and thus can't be assassinated. The Hussein brothers were their father's top aides. Hence US forces assassinated them and then paraded their corpses on Iraqi TV.
Which isn't to say they didn't have it coming. They were rapists, killers in their own right and all-around bad guys. Uday in particular was a vicious sadist who made Marquis de Sade look like Mister Rogers.
But what really irked me was the way our government took us for such fools. To hear them tell it, they went to this villa to arrest them. When they refused to give up an "intense firefight" ensued involving much "small arms fire" erupted. Afterwards soldiers stormed inside and here's what they found: Uday, Qusay, his 14 year old son and a fifty year old bodyguard (in addition to the cash, condom, cognac and pocketbooks.)
Generally speaking, one's proficency at and penchant for violence is inversely proportional to one's wealth and privilege. Ghetto kids develop mad fighting skills and the requisite bloodthirsty 'tude early on or perish. In posh 'hoods like the ones the Hussein brothers grew up in, violence is rare. Thus most rich kids couldn't fight their way out of a uterus.
So you'd have us believe that two thirtysomething men of privilege, a 14 year old punk and a geezer proved any match for a platoon of highly trained soldiers backed by Apache attack helicopters, artillery and tanks? You might as well assert that Hiroshima residents could have shot down the Enola Gay. Don't insult my intelligence. Call a spade a spade as Chris Rock did when people started characterizing the deaths of Notorious B.I.G. and Tupac Shakur as assassinations. "Those niggaz was shot," he quipped.
Okay Ezy, I wasn't there. Maybe capturing them would have been too much of a hassle. But one thing's for sure: If anyone knew Saddam's whereabouts, it's them.
Lastly there's the matter of their corpses, which are being stored in an air-conditioned tent. Military officials await family members coming forward to claim them. Like who, might I ask? Saddam himself? Cousins of the boy they gunned down? Their widowed sisters who got that way after the Hussein brothers lured their hubbies back to Iraq only to brutally murder them? Those corpses will rot in that tent as well they should. Ha!
So we hear this "P. Diddy" hopes to purchase the Knicks. BFD. Like you, I couldn't care less about this self-aggrandizing 90s relic's exploits. But I do find it intriguing how the media oh so casually alludes to Sean Combs by his latest contrived nickname. You'll recall how he used to go by "Puff Daddy" back when he was reaming Jennifer Lopez a.k.a. "J. Lo."
Lopez/Lo: Ooh, give it to me Puff! Shove it up my big ass.
Daddy/Diddy: J, you so wet!
Lopez/Lo: Well, it's not me who's gonna sleep on the wet spot.
Daddy/Diddy: Shut up. Who's ya daddy?
Time was you could only assume a nickname if someone else gave it to you. Whereas today's stars simply hold a news conference to announce their new monikers. They shed names more often than hermit crabs do shells. Their slavishly loyal fans go along with it. And while that's sickening indeed, it's not nearly as bad as Lopez's sister informing Howard Stern that no one in her inner circle calls her J. Lo. *pukes up vital internal organs"
When you hear such ridiculous names as Jenny Talia or Anita Dick, it's hard not to wonder just what their parents were thinking. Mr. & Mrs. Dick had plenty of names to choose from; why go with Anita? Is her brother named Isaac? Did the pair enter into a suicide pact as a result?
Like Ms. Talia and that despondent Dick duo, I've always despaired over my name. In my youth I tried to get my peers to call me Vic, which is short for my middle name Victor. This clumsy attempt to rename myself only brought me ridicule and scorn. I also tried to persuade them to call me "The Kid" with similarly disastrous results. I am cringing just thinking about it.
Those who don't believe in the importance of names need only consider teenage cum receptacle-cum-Respectable Actress/Author Traci Lords. Don't think for a seccond that's she'd have achieved such lofty porn icon status had she spelled Tracy with a y. Mispelling it lent her a certain naughty aura perverts found irresistible.
Even my putative porn name sounds all awkward and uninspired. As you probably know, this is determind by combining your 1st dog or cat's name with the first street you lived on. In my case it's Shadow Leesburg. Somehow I doubt you'll ever see that name emblazoned across some sleazy XXX marquee. But hey, at least I'm not Isaac Dick.
Seaside hotels advertise "oceanfront" or "ocean view" rooms. Seldom do they mention "overlooks municipal basketball court that opens at 8 AM and doesn't close until 10 PM." Yet that's precisely where I wound up in Wildwood. I've still got balls bouncing and sneakers sqeaking in my head.
So it's hardly a shocker that I spent my vacation sipping Bloody Marys wth my nose buried in a breezy summer read. High Fidelity was touted as a national bestseller but they neglected to mention that the nation was Britain. The book was full of English words like "cheeky" and "loo". Nonetheless, I discerned that it was a tale about three losers who run a record store that sells obscure music on vinyl.
These guys are obsessed with music nobody's ever heard of. They'd probably agree with George Thurogood's stock retort when asked why he didn't pen original songs: "Why should I when Chuck Berry already wrote them all?"
The narrator's lifetime dream is realized when a sexy reporter asks him to name his top five tunes of all times. He rattles off five but then keeps changing his mind. I decided to try the same exercise, only without the sexy reporter on my lap.
It proved harder than you might think. There's the temptation to omit something catchy and popular in favor of some old Howlin' Wolf number that will make your list seem more sophisticated. I also found myself trying to include a song by a classic band like Little Feat (Dixie Chicken?) or the Allman Bros Band (Melissa?) But none really measured up.
At any rate, here's what I eventually settled on:
Touch of Grey by the Grateful Dead: The couplet, "Know the rent is in arrears, that dog has not been fed in years, it's even worse than it appears but it's alright" pretty much sums up my own situation.
Fortunate Son by Credence Clearwater Revival: In the live version, John Fogerty cautions the audience not to read too much into it, because CCR was "apolitical." It reminds me of how Bob Dylan used to tell reporters that mostly he just tried to think up words that rhyme. Years later, Wrangler Jeans co-opted a snippet from this decidedly anti-patriotic song for its commercials. Bah!
Back on the Chain Gang by the Pretenders: Everyone can relate to finding an old photo of someone that brings bittersweet memories of a bygone relationship flooding back. In Chrissie Hynde's case, hers with Kinks frontman Ray Davies.
The Old Apartment by BareNakedLadies: Likewise, who hasn't considered revisiting the place where a tumultous relationship ultimately fell apart? Plus I love the idea of tearing the phone out of the wall. Damn telemarketers.
Omaha by Counting Crows: That sense of resigned hopelessness tempered by the cautious optimism of "It's Sunday morning, I'm coming home today" just slays me every time. Aside from perhaps Billy Corgin, no pampered millionaire does anguish better than Adam Duritz.
The Indigo Girls' Closer to Fine didn't make the final cut, primarily cuz I couldn't think of anything witty to say about such an earnest tune. And with that, I'd be interested to know your Deserted Island Ditties.
Everyone knew it would rain today. We knew it when daylight tapped our eyelids and even though the sky was bright it seemed the sun shone only out of obligation. You could almost feel the swell within the clouds. The moisture hung heavy around us... a rainfall without the falling. It was like this for the morning but by afternoon the clouds which held the rain like we hold on to heartache finally let out a heavy sigh and within minutes the water had soaked my sneakers and socks and wet my toes as I ran the 59th street bridge. The raindrops are plump and luscious and when I lick my lips I want them to taste sweet, the way that summer corn is sweet, but in fact, they taste a bit of salt. A few more minutes and I'm off the bridge and puddles start to gather at intersections. Along the curb some others stretch out and touch each other, becoming one. The lady in front of me holds a folded newspaper directly above her head and her shoulders are scrunched and her face is soured because (I am guessing now) the crown of her head is the only place where she isn't drenched. There's something so deeply satisfying about running through a rainstorm without the slightest concern of keeping dry.
by ezy at 12:00 PM on July 21, 2003
Ok. I’m not, usually, one to bitch and moan about work but I have a current situation that is chafing my ass a bit. I have been with my company for three plus years and have a stellar record. Every time a job comes along that needs someone to go the extra mile, whether it be staying late or working weekends, I get chosen. The reason I get chosen is because they know I will do whatever it takes to make the deadline. I’m a freak for deadlines and if I don’t make them I feel personally responsible even though it was, probably, impossible to make anyway. That being said, my company, also, has an employee of the month award. How many times have I won this distinction? Not once. Last month I saved our company’s ass on a couple of projects by making nearly impossible deadlines and putting them before my personal endeavors. This involved me working late in to the night and weekends when no one else was to be found. Who won the employee of the month? This shit bag in accounting. He got the books right without having to go back and do them over. What!? Isn’t that your freakin’ job? So this kid gets a distinction, for doing his job correctly, and I get dick for going beyond what every other normal person, in the company, is willing to do?
Maybe the military spoiled me, but I never got a medal for just doing my job when I was in. You were expected to be competent at your job and only got singled out for doing something better that your peers. It’s probably my fault for taking all of the crap jobs and turning them out on time. I guess they’ve come to expect that level of performance from me and anything less, even though it’s more than my peers, would seem like I’m slacking. My own work ethic has screwed me. I’m, also, not going to say anything to anyone. I hate those fuckers that are always talking themselves up whenever upper management is listening. They spin tales of working weekends to complete projects when I know for a fact they weren’t anywhere near work because I was here. I don’t bust them out either because, to me, that is almost worse than their lying. I do get good raises every year, though, and that is more important to me than my name on a plaque. It would be nice to have it there, at least, once though so when I walk in the lobby of my company and see all of the slackers on it I don’t get sick to my stomach.
by ezy at 09:46 AM on July 18, 2003
I finished the job in Wisconsin and moved back to North Carolina. During this time Stephanie and I had broken up so I moved my things out and decided a change of scenery would be nice. We had a job coming up in D.C. working at the Secret Service building so I jumped at it. I moved to Baltimore to live with my future brother in law and started working in D.C. After a couple of months I grew disenchanted with my employer. When I found out what others in the area were making doing the same job (I was being drastically underpaid) I decided to change companies. I sent my resume to two local companies and received calls back in about a half hour. The company I’m with now asked me to come in for an interview. I went in armed with the pay scale knowledge and made a pretty high request for salary. They didn’t blink an eye so I left my old company. I moved from Baltimore to Northern Virginia to be closer to my job. The commute from Baltimore to my job took me, minimum, two hours one way. Screw that.
My buddy from the Army was looking for work so I got him hired on with my company. We found a nice two bedroom with a loft and set out to have some fun with D.C. About a year in to living here I received a call from my Dad. “Becca’s been calling for you so I gave her your number.” Shit! My Dad is such a schmooze with the ladies that all she had to do was sweet talk him for, oh, about 2 seconds to get the digits. “Thanks Pop” I said and got off of the phone. True to form Becca called that night. I was on high alert but was expecting a call from a girl I was dating. Due to my boy’s frugal ways we didn’t have caller ID. Normally this wouldn’t have been a problem because we have an answering machine. The girl I was seeing wouldn't leave messages though and I wouldn’t have known if it was her or some other weirdo that won’t leave messages so I took a chance. Damn! Becca. She started talking like she had some sense. Is this the same crazy chica that had been stalking me? She told me that she had finished her nursing degree and was currently working in San Francisco. On the other coast. Sweet! We had a good conversation devoid of crazy talk and hung up amicably.
Wow. I didn’t believe this was possible. Maybe she finally accepted the fact that it was never going to happen between us? Maybe. We talked off and on for about eight months. I would help her with her guy problems and we became pretty good friends. One night I get a call from her. “Guess where I am?” she said. “Not a clue” I replied. She was in our home town. She asked me if I was coming in for the weekend and I said no. She then proceeded to tell me that she had accepted a job in Connecticut, would be driving through the area, and asked if she could crash at my place as an in between point. My boy Dave was going to be home and she had been acting cool so I said “Why not?” The night she showed up my boy had to go to his girl’s house for an unscheduled parental event. I told him he was screwing me but there was nothing he could do about it. I decided to invite some friends over as a buffer and hoped she would act ok. Surprise, surprise. She, basically, chased me around my apartment telling me how she had never stopped loving me. When my friends showed up I proceeded to pour drinks down her throat in the hopes she would pass out. She finally did around 4am. The girl can hang. I’ll give her that. I stayed up playing X-Box until she got up the next morning. She had to be in Connecticut at an appointed time so she HAD to leave. I wished her well, sent her on her way and got some sleep.
I dodged her calls for a solid month so she got smart. She got my work number out of my Dad. She called me at work one day and I, unsuspecting, answered the phone. She informed me that she was moving again. To Bethesda, Maryland! This is only forty minutes or so from me. I lost it. I told her if she ever called me again I would get a restraining order and have it enforced. “Why can’t you just love me?” she whined at me. “I just don’t Becca” I said. “Nothing you do will change that fact”. She proceeded to inform me of how good we would be together and told me that I was crazy to pass this up. I’m the crazy one now?! I’m not the one who has been stalking someone for sixteen plus years. Well, it has been a couple of months, I’ve changed my numbers and have sworn my Father to secrecy. I told him if he ever gave out my number to her I would never talk to him again. I was half joking, half not. He got the picture. She has called my Dad a few times still requesting my number but he has stood firm. Go Pops! Maybe the dark side has been defeated after all.
by ezy at 02:04 PM on July 17, 2003
I deployed to Bosnia in 1995 and the same thing happened as in Haiti. Becca ended up calling our field phone in headquarters demanding to speak with me. I couldn’t understand how she could find me in these places. It boggles my mind thinking about the amount of time it must have taken to get through all of the channels required to find me. The Red Cross finding you anywhere is one thing. Becca? That’s another animal entirely. I have often wondered if she planted a GPS tracker on me at any time. Maybe that fateful night I fucked up and began this nightmare? Anyway I digress. I got to the phone, in the camp commander’s tent, expecting bad news from home when I hear Becca’s voice on the other end. Evidently the camp commander was expecting an emergency too because when I said “Oh, Becca. What’s up” he frowned rather menacingly. I told her that while it was great that she took the time to call; I really didn’t think it would be a good idea to do it again. She kept trying to start a conversation, while the camp commander was glaring at me, until I told her I had to go. There’s a war on you know. She, basically, screeched “I Love You!” in my ear and I hung up. Creepy shit. The camp commander hated me from that point forward.
I left the Army in 1997 and went to work for Bell South. I didn’t enjoy the work at all and my supervisor was a complete tool. I saw three men with anywhere from twenty five to twenty seven years of service get canned, in one day, due to minor safety violations. The union was so weak there that it couldn’t do squat for them. I made my decision that, while the money was good, this just wasn’t the place for me. I quit and went to the North Carolina unemployment office. I did all of the paperwork and within a week I had an interview with a local audiovisual company. I got the job and went to work. This job sent me all over the US to work. My first out of state job was in Ogden, Utah. I’d never been there before so I was excited to go. I hopped a flight and shagged ass out there. I had a laptop and an AOL account so I could check out porn, I mean, get on the internet and interface with my home office. One night while “working” an IM popped up I didn’t recognize. You guessed it. Becca. She informed me that she was getting married and wanted me to be there. I told her that, while I would like to, I couldn’t due to working in Utah. She said she understood and I wished her well. Whew!! Son of a bitch. I was in the clear. Eleven years later I had, finally, shaken that crazy twit. I told my boys about the whole ordeal and we went out for a night of drunken debauchery to celebrate. Celebrate we did. Those Mormons never knew what hit them. I finished up in Utah and my next job happened to be in Madison, Wisconsin. This was about ten months later. I had gotten home from work one night and just sat down to a beer when the phone rings. Becca! She’s getting divorced and her soon to be ex was scaring her. I genuinely felt bad for her. She was crying and babbling about how if she had been with me none of this would’ve happened. What!? Now it’s my fault. “Why don’t you love me?” she kept asking me over and over. I tried to explain to her that we just weren’t meant to be together and I was in love with my now ex Stephanie. “Stephanie can never love you like I can” she said, or something to that effect. I told her that that may be true but it doesn’t erase the fact that I love Stephanie and not her. I told her that if her husband was threatening her she needed to call the police and told her I needed to go. She called every night for one month straight. I even had Stephanie call her and threaten bodily harm if she didn’t desist. A lot of good that did. Becca could kick Stephanie’s ass and she knew it. The last two weeks of her calls I had my boys field them and lie for me. I had already told her to quit calling so this was my last option. Finally, the calls stopped. To be continued……………..
My young nephew is hitting puberty at 11. The men in my family tend to abandon childhood rather quickly and become huge pricks. So I've had plenty of reason recently to think back on the wonders of puberty.
I wouldn't relive puberty for anything. I turned into a right psycho and had little to no help at all from my partental units who just found the whole thing far too embarrassing and visceral to deal with honestly and – god forbid – openly.
But I was watching that episode of “The Twilight Zone” where all the old duffers want to be kids again ("Kick the Can" for you geeks) for the umpteenth time and I thought, hell, I could go for some of that and I'm not even 80. Heck, sleeping in the back seat of the car while my parents drove alone would be worth a trip in the wayback machine.
Once you get back prior to the veil of hormones, B.O. and funky brain chemicals, you start to recall that life was pretty sweet. It was only when “nature took its course” that things started to suck like Hoover Supersuck 5000 with the crevice tool. For me, being a kid was a pretty good time if you don’t count all the merciless beatings I received for the improper storage of the pretty new dress my mommie dearest bought for me. “NO WIRE HANGERS!”
The best part of childhood really is all about the mind free of uncomplicated thoughts. No lonlieness. No watching the weight. No bills. No retirement to worry about. Plenty of toys. Warm blankets. A boundless imagination not yet killed by thousands of hours of TV.
Besides the Cold War, the world stage was pretty tame when I was a kid. Nam was largely over by the time I knew what it was. I remember asking my mother when I was about five if I would have to go. “No,” she said. “The war will probably be long over by the time you are old enough to join the army. And if its not, I’ll break your feet. I didn’t spend three weeks in labor in just to send you off to get your manhood shredded by a bouncing Betty and I certainly didn’t bring you into this world so politicians could use you as cannon fodder in an Asian land war. No one, I mean NO ONE fights a land war in Asia.” Then I’d down three bowls of “Super Sugar Crisp.” Yes, that was a real cereal.
When I was a kid, I could actually enjoy running around like a complete jackass after a ball or a frisbee. The only video game we had was “Pong” and it was worth about five minutes a year just to remind yourself how boring it was. I could do amazing things with my endless days. Play with a dog, love unconditionally, find amusement in a butterfly or a simple-minded episode of “Speed Buggie.” Yeah, our cartoons were better than “Pokemon.”
Life was good before S to the E to the mother-fuckin' X came along and put the stank on everything, made everything a dirty joke. Innocence is only possible before puberty or after a really bizarre weed whacker accident. When I was 10, even snapping the occasional training bra had absolutely no sexual connotation for me whatsoever because we didn’t have cable back then. We got our information the old-fashioned way, through the Sears catalog after our parents told us we were too young to be asking such questions. To me, snapping bras was no worse than pulling pigtails. It was just good fun until some filthy-minded adults had to go and put the taint of sex upon our actions. Oh yes, I remember all-too-well the looks of scorn and shame as my “partners in crime” and I were interrogated about subjects we knew nothing about – the perverts accusing the innocent of perversion. For shame.
“I don’t know why we did it,” I said like Mickey Mouse as my chestnuts had yet to fall from the tree. “We were just playing.”
And we were.
Yes, puberty is when the fruit of youth ripens and really starts to stink. You don’t know what hate or anger really is until its fueled by sexual jealousy or territorial rage. Puberty exists to make sure your parents want to get rid of you by 18. It’s nature’s way. And the hair, that was almost as good an idea as the big shower room in gym class. What’s wrong with a little privacy? There were two kinds of guys in the showers of my junior high, the guys who were too embarrassed of their bodies and the guys who were way too proud. I suppose there were three kinds of guys in there if you count the day the gym teacher got in there with us. To this day I still suspect he just wanted to show us who was boss.
And what guy can forget the first time he got the biggest surprise puberty has to offer? Hallmark should make cards because the parent hasn’t been invented who can handle that day. On the front would be a mortified young man, his eyes wrapped in tears of anxiety. On the cover it would say, “OMIGOD, what happened?!” On the inside it would say, “Don’t worry, it’s not broken, it's SUPPOSED to do that!”
In a way, it makes for much better story telling if we leave our young’n’s unprepared for that moment.
I need to send some of these nuggets in to the “social expressions” companies. I mean, somebody has to get rich writing crap and it might as well be me.
You know how sometimes you'll have sex with your partner and get off but he/she/it does not? So strictly for their gratification you have another go at it but that leaves you longing for more so there's a third go-round and by then the sun is peeking over the horizon and it's time to go to work? And you call in sick in a most unconvincing fashion?
Well, that's what this post is about. I know I said I'd holler at y'all when I return from the beach but alas, I'm still here. Since the hotel couldn't give us a Monday-Friday stretch, we'll be staying there Friday-Tuesday, which isn't quite the same. You don't enjoy that nine straight days off to allow for full recuperation. So I took two stay-at-home-and-work-on-pressing-projects-you-never-seem-to-get-to-days. Yesterday it was (literal) fence-mending, today it's retooling my tattered and dwindling summer wardrobe.
All the while I've granted myself breaks to check up on what's going on here. Unfortunately, at least with my sorry-ass posts, it's been very little. Paltry indeed. So here I am, typing away when I should be mall-bound so I'm not tolly a bum at the beach.
We are staying at the poshest hotel in Wildwood, NJ, the Port Royal. It is elegantly appointed with gilded elevators, a game room, spa and everything. But it wasn't always so. For years we hunkered down at a seedy, flea-bitten dump known as the Cara Mara. Then I got the bright idea to search the Internet for another place. We wound up at something far worse called the 42nd Street Motel, which looked great on its website.
I swear, we actually feared for our safety there. Menacing gangs of Guido thugs roamed about the dingy sidewalk, speaking South Jerseyese. And it was adjacent to a huge amusement park so you'd hear that boisterous roller coaster screaming all day and night. As my wife beseeched me constantly for being so stupid and ruining her vacation, we packed up our stuff and moved across town to the more familiar confines of the Cara Mara. Oh, it's a dump alright, but it's our dump, lumpy beds and all. Ahh!
Maybe we'll book an extra day again this year. There's always room at the Cara Mara. $79 a night includes use of their charcoal grill where seagulls peck at your steaks 'n shrimp that you'll later shamelessly feed to your mother-in-law.
This just in: I might live to be 150.
by mg at 07:47 PM on July 16, 2003
Hi. When last we spoke, I was begging for help moving. Since then, I've moved.
No one helped.
I ended up paying a couple college kids I found on the Internet, which is also how I find sexual partners, so maybe I should have just gone that route first, instyead ofg expecting that I had any friends.
Anyway, I'm in my new place now. It's very tilty. I put a level on the desk in the bedroom, and the little air bubble is over near the second set of lines. I put my dresser in one of the corners of the room, but I had to move it because the drawers kept opening. That's how titly the apartment is. But it is cheap, and I was being ousted from my old apartment, so I guess I'll take what I was forced to get. And like it.
Actually, the point of this wasn't to talk about my apartment, though I promise to at some point, because it is a positive hotbed of interpersonal intrigue. My last place, I lived there three years and didn't know the names of any of my neighbors. I already know that one of my neighbors is really a man, another spent some hard time in jail, and another runs a pornographic video company.
No, the point of this all was to complain that I don't have telephone or Internet yet. I'm not willing to pay for cable just so I can have cable Internet, and Verizon is evil - they wanted to charge me $125 to keep my old phone number, and are not going to be able to install my new phone until August. Fucking August.
So, while I haven't exactly been around much previous to moving, at least I would read posts and comments and whatnot. I've been kind of stressed, but I lurked, because I love. But now, I'm more stressed AND I don't have any way to check, even if I had the time. So, I just wanted to mention that I'm not exactly going to be around much. Even less so. I have no idea what you kids have been jibber jabbering about here for the last couple days, I wont exactly be able to reply in a timely manner if you email me, and. Well, thats it. Bye now.
by ezy at 01:16 PM on July 16, 2003
I told a bit of this story commenting on one of Eff’s posts. I would link you to it but I’m too lazy to go find it. To fully appreciate the story, I need to tell it from the beginning. This will, also, be a two or three part odyssey.
I met Becca at a friend’s house when I was a junior in high school. My friend played guitar and I thought I could sing so he twanged away as I howled at the moon. He was giving Becca’s brother lessons so she was always around. Whether we were good, or not, I can’t say. We impressed the hell out of Becca though. She would sit there for hours listening to us making moon eyes all the while. All was well until the weekend I fucked up.
I was at a field party and Becca happened to show up. I was hammered, one thing led to another and I ended up sleeping with her. I, honestly, didn’t remember much the next day. My friends filled me in on my antics of the night before. They ribbed me mercilessly for having sex with Becca. She’s not the best looking thing. Well, I’m not either but if I can say this about someone, well, you get the picture. My friends dubbed her Chewbecca, in honor of everyone’s favorite wookie, due to some visible facial hair among other things. Kids are ruthless.
Monday rolled around and I thought I might get off easy. Man was I wrong. Becca was waiting at my locker for me. My friends were also waiting with amused looks on their faces, probably to see how I handled the situation. She wanted to know if what happened meant we were going steady now. I really didn’t want to hurt her feelings but was, in no way, going to go out with her. I told her that, while we had fun, I was interested in a girl at another school. Needless to say this hurt her feelings. I didn’t say it in a mean way but the result was the same. C’mon. This was the 80s. Free love was making a comeback and everyone, it seemed, was getting on the bus. She walked off and I didn’t hear from her until that night. She called me around 8pm and wanted to talk about our relationship. Relationship!? What relationship!? I was thinking. I asked her what she meant. “Well,” she says “the more I think about what we did, it just makes sense that we should be in a relationship. The other guys I’ve slept with dated me” “Becca” I said “I’ve slept with other girls besides you and none of us are in a committed relationship.” Evidently she thought I was a virgin, until the night we bumped uglies, because she hung up on me.
The next day she was, again, waiting at my locker. Damn. This girl couldn’t take a hint. I put away the books I wouldn’t need and, without a word to her, walked to my first period class. She walked the entire way with me and stood at the door peering in at me until the bell rang and the teacher asked her to leave. My God. That day in class was brutal. I got dumped on by everyone. People I didn’t even hang with were giving me shit. I know it was my own fault now but at seventeen that just doesn’t compute. She called again that night and I told her, in no uncertain terms, that we were not dating. She hung up again.
This cycle went on for about a week then, to my surprise, it quit. She had found a man. Thank the Gods. I could, finally, move forward, assess the damage, and live again. I, actually, thought this would go away forever. My tranquility lasted for a month. She and her boyfriend broke up. She called me up that night wanting to talk about her breakup. She seemed genuinely upset so I decided to talk with her about it. We talked for an hour or so and had a good conversation. No crazy talk about relationships or UFOs. Maybe we could be friends? Maybe? Fuck no. The conversation drifted back around to our “relationship”. I got off the phone pretty quickly after that. This vicious cycle went on through the remainder of high school with me taking the brunt of many jokes. I thought that once we were out of high school the girl would just fade away. Wrong.
When I finished school I decided to give college a try and stayed with my parents while attending. This gave Becca access to me. She had already won my Dad over and I would come home to them sitting in the living room having spirited discussions. She would act like that was the reason she came bye until I left the room. She would then disengage herself and follow me around. What the hell!? I only slept with her once. I came to the only diagnosis that made any sense to me. She must be certifiable. Crushes are one thing but this crap was ridiculous. This behavior went on until I left for the Army. Finally, some distance and, hopefully, peace.
My hopes were soon to be dashed. My first deployment was sunny downtown Port-au-Prince, Haiti. I was kicking back playing spades with some fellow troops when I was called downstairs for a phone call. Guess who? Becca. My family couldn’t even get through to me and she, somehow, found a way? We made small talk for a while then, much to my chagrin, the relationship talk began. She kept telling me about these recurring dreams she had been having where we’re married. She thought it was fate talking to her. Well, Mr. Fate and I had some drastically different views of my future I’m here to tell you. I told her that dreams were just that, dreams. While they may be a direct representation of what your subconscious may want, they are still nothing but dreams. She never heard me. Well, she may have heard but some connection between her ears and brain wasn’t functioning correctly. She continued to call every other week to see how I was doing and tell me more about her whacked out dreams which I refused to listen to. She quit calling after a couple of months. Thank you again God. She must have found another boyfriend. I finished out my deployment and returned to Ft. Bragg.
I had about two months of peace and quiet then one night, after being at the bars until closing, I came home to find Becca sitting on my barracks steps. What the fuck! She made up some lame excuse about traveling through and needing a place to crash. I still, to this day, don't know how she found out where I lived or what she would've done if I hadn't come home that night. Against my better judgment; I told her she could sleep in my bed and I’d take the other one. My roommate was away on deployment. Everything was fine until about 4am. I awoke to Becca trying to crawl in bed with me. I told her to get the fuck out and find a hotel. I asked her why she couldn’t respect my wishes and get it through her head that I didn’t want to date her. Her reply was “But I think we’re supposed to be together”. I said “Well I don’t. Please leave”. She left and things returned to normal. For a while. To be continued…………….
A long, long time ago I read a horrible letter penned by a self-proclaimed "true submisive." She told of a terrific and life-affirming weekend she'd spent with three drunken slobs at a hunting camp---except at this camp she was the prey. They'd arranged to borrow this chick from her husband as one might borrow a lawn mower from a neighbor. The leader of the group called in advance of their tryst to dictate her attire. Think the cover of low-rider magazines.
Maybe I've led a sheltered life but honestly, I'd never heard of such a thing. Since this isn't a porn site I'll try to sanitize her acount and spare you some of the more sordid details while still making my point. (Assholes were licked.)
The festivities kicked off with her sitting there telling them what a worthless slut she was, as if her very presence there didn't make that obvious. The guys then proceeded to utilize all her orifices in a most unsavory sequence. Next they staked her out on the lawn and masturbated on her face. Off to a seedy local bar where they encouraged the slack-jawed locals to have their way with her. To top it all off they whipped her with cat-o'-nine tails and made her stack wood nude and fetch them beers. How romantic is that?
Needless to say, like some of Linz' clumsy lovers, they were hardly sensitive or attentive to her needs. We're talking out and out brutality here.
Those who might find such stories titillating must have a sadistic streak a mile wide. Myself I felt like I needed to be dipped in bleach after reading it. This tawdry tale has stuck in my craw not because I enjoyed it, which I didn't, but because of what it screams about the human condition.
Dude, this isn't an alternate lifestyle like homosexuality. Nor is it a harmless fetish like watching those "squishy flicks" wherein ladies stomp frogs to death with stiletto heels. We're talking about tolly degrading a fellow human being with siblings, parents and quite possibly children. Regardless of the fact that she was a more than willing participant, those guys should be ashamed of themselves. Nobody deserves that kind of mistreatment.
Now in wartime it pays to dehumanize your foes. In WWII Americans spoke of "Nips" and "Krauts" as if Japanese and German people were animals fit for slaughter. Today Islamic terrorists call Americans "infidels." Ancient Romans derided nomadic Mongol hoards as "barbarians at the gate." But this useful degradation practice has no place in the bedroom.
I can't help but wonder what combination of misfortune, genetics and psychological issues results in these true submissives in our midst. And "true" as opposed to what---a weekend submissive who is otherwise assertive?
Then again, to each his own. And right now mine is the pristine beach of Wildood, NJ. I am so there! Holler at y'all when I return.
I get a lot of mileage at work telling my working class audience what a waste of time college is. They want to hear it and in many ways college is a waste of time. I tell them, college is like sex – no matter what you think you are getting yourself into, chances are what actually happens will leave you feeling disappointed, humiliated and, if you keep going back for four or five years, you will be in debt up to your eyeballs.
The benefits of college are illusive. College is a double-edged sword.
The truth is, college is just not for everyone. A good old fashioned university education would be, but college today is a business and the humanities, the very spirit of the university education, are the last priority. College is all about getting a degree that will get you a job. Like its a technical institute or a community college mechanics program.
Teachers have been telling us forver we need college, that everyone should go. That is kind of the problem, it's like democracy. Whenever you tailor something valuable for the masses, you tend to lower the value of the thing itself.
Basically, we do two things by convincing everyone they should go to college. We alienate all of the people who don't go to college which makes them feel stupid and makes them veangeful on those of us who come out of college and get McJobs working for these people. And it fills the halls of academe with morons who think that just because they went to college they are smart.
College has its moments. I made out with a gymnast once, for example, something that would never have happened if I hadn’t gone to college.
Back in the day, the university was a place of learning, pure and good. A university education used to mean that when you graduated, chances were pretty high you would be a much better and well-rounded person than when you went in. Universities once taught critical thought, logic, communication skills, and if you were not learning, you did not graduate. Today, most people come out just as stupid as when they went in, but they have a piece of paper that says otherwise.
Today, any monkey can graduate from college in four or five years because universities are big business. They need your butts in their lecture halls and your cash in their pockets to keep the show running and make their profile look good to corporations that choose which schools to invest in thus changing the direction of innovation and research and saving a few dollars by prostituting some scientists rather than buying their own.
And just to add insult to injury, corporations aren’t even impressed with the university degree in your pocket. They know just how devalued degrees have become, because they helped to devalue them. Oh, the engineering firms need to know you have a degree in engineering, but they are much more impressed by your internships.
Advanced degrees are almost mandatory anymore. Big Business could care less if you have a degree in archaeology, communication or Sanskrit. But if you have an M.B.A., you could be a sociopath and still get on. Being a sociopath is actually helpful in today’s competitive market.
Universities have turned into very expensive trade schools, so why not be smart and go to one of those instead? If you want the kind of enlightenment that only philosophy, history and literature bring, then get a library card and read books on your own time or wait a couple of years until you are old enough to appreciate your education. College is wasted on 18-year-olds. Very few people leave high school prepared to go to a major university.
To prepare, I highly recommend soul-crushing labor, preferably in some filthy telemarketing outfit for a few years. Only prison is better for making you take your life seriously. If you just want to be rich, I suggest you go to truck-driving school or become a plumber. If you want to learn about the world, read books on your own, travel or join the Army, preferably the American one.
Whatever you do, don’t expect college to spoon-feed you your future.
So there I was on Sunday buying colored hair gel with my 11 year old nephew at Sally's Beauty Supply Outlet. We just got done making his hair green and this being his first big cosmetic change, he was just sure everyone was staring at him. When we got in the car, he said that woman in the next car was looking at me. I looked over and saw the woman in question had a great many face peircings. I said, you mean with the one with all the shit in her face? I don't think she is judging you one way or the other little man. Then I recognized the women with all the shit in her face. Besides, I said to him, I think she's a stripper. So my nephew says to me he says, How do you know she's a stripper? Oh, they grow up so fast. Eleven: somewhere between innocence and jaded.
I just got done trying to match up 25 beauty queen photos to their high school senior pictures. The HS pics were labeled but the glamour shots were not. Some of the high school pcitures were just candid shots as well. Do you have any idea how hard it is to match faces to faces. Pretty soon, everybody looks exactly the same. You can't look at the big picture either, details are how you make an ID. The shape of the eyes, the size of the chine, the placement of prominent freckles, the depth of dimples. The size of the forehead, to be sure, but did you know that people have lumpy foreheads? The closer you look, the easier it is to tell if a person has one lump in the middle or two lobes or a slight concavity just above the eyebrows. Creases in the neck tend to be good identifiers. If you had them in HS, you probably still have them. The shape of the ear is not as telling as how much that ring of skin and cartilage on the outside curves. The more it curves the darker the line inside. At the end of the nose, some people have a piece in the center that is quite prominent while others is very flat. Widow's peaks, that divit under the schnoz, eyes bags, eye lids, smile lines. You look long enough and all you see are the defects and nobody looks pretty. Frankly, nobody looks pretty to me all made up. I like my women au natural with just a little base coat, lipstick, eye liner and maybe some highlights. And blush, but that's it.
While watching a rerun of TNT’s original film “Caesar” (you know I like a well-told story with Romans in it), I noticed Taco Bell was advertising their latest new chicken Caesar wrap thingy that is basically a salad in a tortilla. It didn’t register at first like so many other things on TV that wash over and through the subconscious mind, but about the third time it hit me: this was a tie-in. Somebody at Taco Hell wanted to advertise this thing and might have even held the release of this concoction for this movie.
Fact: The Caesar salad is not so named because of Gaius Julius Caesar, it is so named for the Mexican chef Caesar Cardini of Tijuana who invented the dish in 1924.
The Napolean is named for Napolean though which is cool because almost anything can be Napoleaned if you stack a few items like a sandwich and dump sauce over it. It’s just that easy.
Beef Wellington is named after Lord Wellington. Not a bad dish. Filet mignon wrapped in a pastry crust with mushrooms covered in gravy.
If I had a food item named after me, I would like it to be something savory like a meatloaf pot pie or a meatloaf with a hollow center of cheese covered broccoli or portabella mushrooms or something completely different like a hamloaf.
Since the first hominid came down from the trees, man has struggled with difficult philosophical questions like “Who am I?” “Where do I come from?” “Is that lion looking at me funny?” “Is there an afterlife?” “If I drink Coke and eat Pop Rocks at the same time, will my stomach explode?” “Is there a God?” “How can I convince women to have sex with me?” “Is that all there is to a fire?” and “Can I get extra cheese on that?”
The duality of man – two sides at odds that create a kind of a whole or A-hole as the case may be – is in everything we do. We are driven in various ways by biological needs, but we are also compelled by curiousity about our world. This makes us explorers as well as plunderers. We love and destroy nature at the same time. We can crave luxury until it overwhelms us and makes simplicity preferable.
While I do not believe men should lose touch with their animal natures, there seems to be a less-than-impressive trend lately of men reveling in their supposed manliness the way pigs fail to avoid their own feces. Programs like “The Man Show” on Comedy Central portray men as hairy children who think the funniest things in the world are extended fart jokes, watching women jump around on trampolines and daring audience members to let a fat man sit on their face. And this is one of the good shows. The trend has been spreading across cable networks far and wide. Recently, one network has decided to take the trend to the outer limits.
Spike TV (formerly The National Network, formerly The Nashville Network) wants to be the first network for men. Apparently, no one at TNN or Spike got the message that CBS won that distinction in the late ’70s when they ran “The Incredible Hulk” and “The Dukes of Hazzard” back to back.
Having just settled a ludicrous lawsuit with director Spike Lee over the use of the name, Spike TV plans to become “the first network for men” by converting its programming to include only such quality programs as “Stan Lee’s Stripperella,” “Gary the Rat,” “Trucks,” “Baywatch,” “Miami Vice,” “The A-Team,” “Car and Driver TV,” “100 Most Irresistible Women” and, as if the originals weren’t vulgar enough, “Ren & Stimpy Adult Party Cartoons” in which our early-90s heroes are back to actually try and gross us out this time.
Apparently, being a man is about sitting around sniffing one’s finger. Being a man means taking WAY TOO MUCH delight in one’s own bodily functions while drinking stanky, cheap beer from a can and doing everything in one’s power to not use the brain. If fact, brainlessness is about the one thing Spike’s shows have in common. I don’t think Spike TV’s programming is so much about being a man, but about being a man who is also a HUGE, FREAKIN’ loser.
Watching Spike TV, you’d never realize Plato was a man. Or that Ben Franklin was a man. Or Oscar Wilde, J. Edgar Hoover, FDR, Michelangelo, Alexander, Marcus Aurelius. Heck, this kind of programming makes General Patton look like a pretty, little school girl because he liked poetry, read history books and believed in reincarnation.
I suppose Spike is some kind of backward reaction to Lifetime, Oxygen and WE purporting to be women’s networks, which, appropriately enough, don’t represent women any better. I would be the first guy to line up for a “network for men,” if such a thing could be conceived and executed by someone with brain cells, but frankly, it’s like cold fusion – a good theory but not bloody likely unless our world suddenly gets 57 hour days.
I’m a man, a real man, a hearty, lusty man of adventure ready for just about anything and between the History Channel, Sci Fi, Cartoon Network, Food Network, CNN, Comedy Central and TNT, my needs are pretty well covered. Most guys can get their kicks by adding ESPN, ESPN2, FoxNews and maybe Telemundo.
Spike TV represents a very small and mentally challenged segment of the masculine audience that can still get its jollies staring at breasts bouncing in slow motion, grease, gay jokes and poop. Call me light-in-the-loafers, but I need something a bit more mentally stimulating on any given night.
Now I've heard it all. This loser goes on a murderous rampage, kills himself and we're supposed to view him as a victim? I don't think so---Homey don't play that. May God roast his soul.
The Washington Times is a conservative rag owned by Moonies. As such, I disagree with most everything it says. The exception being the way it distinguishes between people and terrorists when reporting on the latest spate of carnage. Terrorists aren't people, nor are they freedom fighters or martyrs. They're just subhuman scum. Yet, in the wake of Sept 11, most papers routinely included Mohammed Atta et al in the death tallies. Clearly the world would be a better place had his mom aborted him. Just as clearly, nobody would consider him a victim.
Victimhood runs rampant these days. Everyone concocts a convenient excuse for their shortcomings. She's got an eating disorder. I inherited an alcoholic gene from my old man. He suffered child abuse. She's attracted to losers. None of which is anyone's fault, because we all tried our best.
Bullshit. That is no more than a modern dodge invented by the Menendez brothers' lawyer. You are fully responsible for all your character flaws. You could change if you so desired. You're also to blame for every crime, tort and indiscretion you've perpetrated. Your best simply wasn't good enough and for that you deserve not pity or rehab but harsh punishment.
I can't fathom how O.J. Simpson can sleep at night let alone golf. He must wake up in a pool of clammy sweat, picturing what he inflicted on two innocent persons. He must know that but for his riches he'd be toast by now. Guilt must plague him. Othewise he's downright wicked. Doug Williams should have shot him instead.
After 12 dullards acquitted him he could have confessed without fear of legal ramifications. He should have begged for the Brown and Goldman family's forgiveness or better yet, decapitated himself in a symbolic act of atonement. But he did neither. To this day he begrudges them money that is rightfully theirs, namely his fortune.
While this is indeed emblematic of our amoral society, it's hardly typical. Ours is a hedonistic culture that relies heavily on the ostensible cleansing power of confession and resultant contrition. Witness the mother of all mea culpas, Bill Clinton's. He lamented the pain he'd inflicted upon his family and the ordeal he'd put the nation through and blah, blah, blah. Yet no sooner had he dispensed with his phony baloney brush with repentance did he launch into another acerbic attack on his legion of detractors. Just as Catholics feel absolved once they've confessed their sins to a priest with a bewildered lad wedged between his thighs. In celebration they go out and commit the very same transgressions anew.
I'm not a religious man but I am a firm believer in karma. Horrific personal experiences have taught me that what goes around comes around doubly as well it should.
Why not lead a righteous lifestyle? Drink responsibly. Don't harm or disrespect your peers unless absolutely necessary. Mind your own business. Live and let live. Strive to be honest but tactful. When you trespass against others, don't apologize. Seek them out and offer zesty oral as reparations. Don't be O.J.
I have kept remote control batteries working for as long as six years by licking the ends and reinserting them every time they die. I don’t know what the scientific name for this is, but try it and you will be amazed at how you can save as much as a dollar over the lifetime of your VCR by doing this kind of primitive battery CPR.
Some people think this makes me cheap, but I say that makes me frugal. Cheap is when you buy the driest, weakest, most uncomfortable brand of single-ply toilet paper just to save the extra quarter a month it costs for the good stuff. I mean really, the difference between bad toilet paper and the greatest toilet paper in the world is like a dime.
Me mum is one of those people who buys sandpaper just becuase its a little cheaper. Whenever I go to her house, I just want to grab her and shout, "C’mon lady, live a little! Here's a handful of pennies now go to the store and spring for some quilted Nortern with the lotion and vitamin E extract that smells like petunias for the love of God!"
Gather round, both you amateur sleuths. We've got a mystery to solve. Like Clue, you'll find it replete with extraneous red herrings.
On the road from my home to my job is a Sunoco station that sells gas for a dime more per gallon that the one across station. Its sundries are likewise overpriced. It boasts 3 mechanic bays but I've never seen a car hoisted on its lifts. Hell, I've never even seen a mechanic on the premise. It grudgingly does state inspections but only until 1:00 PM. Yet it does a brisk business and I think I know why.
One of the Beltway Sniper shootings occured at this station. An omminous looking stain was on the pavement. A spooked local populace avoided the Sunoco like the plague. But once the perps were caught they all flocked back. I asked Heidi the cashier what it was like to have the sniper strike there. All sh would allow was that it was "weird." I thought, that's it just weird? No more than that?
Heidi is a mildy hot Hispanic tamale who looks like a cross between Salma Hayek and Marisa Tomei in a Sunoco shirt tucked into ultra-tight black slacks. Once she dropped my change and could barely bend over to pick it up. Lips that never meet are painted a conspicuous shade of crimson but she doesn't wear any other makeup. Another time she yawned in a real exagerated way, begging the question: "Are you tired?" She launched into an elaborate explanation involvin her and her six month old who suffers with colic. I'm like, TMI. Unlike the sniper conversation wherein she'd almost seemed as if she had something to hide.
Every time I go there she's on the phone, speaking Spanish in an animated way. It's clear these are personal calls not gas station business. Yet she never botches my transaction, which is more than I can say for lots of cashiers who are concentrating solely on their mundane jobs.
Lecherous looking delivery men linger long after their business is concluded, waiting their turn to converse with Heidi. During her laugh-laced phone conversations, they often smile inappropriately. Since it's all in Spanish I have no idea why. Afterwards she converses with them in Spanish and sometimes mysterious scraps of paper are exchanged.
I've bought gas there countless times because I don't want the hassle of going across the highway to save a dollar or two. I've never seen another cashier or a manager who might monitor Heidi's activities. This chick must work 60-70 hours a week in addition to whatever else she's got going on.
Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to determine what the fuck is going on at this Sunoco given only the facts I've chosen to provide. This post will self-destruct in thirty seconds....
In an effort to raise the standard of driving safety among teens, the state of Nebraska has begun implementing random driver’s education classes. I have a crazy idea that might work, how about making them mandatory for everybody in Nebraska? It seems to work in Iowa where, in addition to driver's ed being mandatory, we understand such concepts as “using your horn for something other than making sure someone sees you when you flip them off," "the two-second following rule” and “turn signals.”
I was once rear-ended by a 16-year-old Nebraskan one rainy day a few years ago who said it was my fault he ran into me because I “stopped too fast.” That’s what people are actually thinking when they tailgate. Yeah. Scary.
The recesses of the mind are a frightening place. But you know what really burns me is that if I had shot him in the face, suddenly I would have been the bad guy.
by ezy at 09:21 AM on July 09, 2003
MG? Donde estas? What are we going to do about the Bad Sam fest homey? I know, originally, that it was tentatively set for sometime in August. That’s still good for me as long as it isn’t the weekend of the 23rd. I will be in Missouri with Amy that weekend. If it gets pushed back to September, to allow others with more distance to travel more time to plan, that will also be cool. I’ll be going to St. John with Amy in September so, with a little planning, I can do both. I just need to know what the dealy-yo is so I can juggle my life without dropping anything. No pressure man. Just trying to be proactive. Peace out!
It's actually Linz's turn to post, I think, but she hasn't. Anyway she's all anti-religious so just imagine it's her without all the sexual tension of her posts.
Many Muslims believe that an act of martyrdom will land one in Heaven with 72 vestigial virgin's at one's disposal. Oh great. Just what you need, an oversized harem comprised of fumbling, inexperienced sexual rookies who bleed profusely upon penetration. Hope you brought a change of sheets.
As that overplayed song goes, Heaven is vastly overrated. Before you can gain entrance, you must endure a grueling interrogation at the hands of St. Peter. He'll delve into every little bit of wrongdoing you've done, even those instances you've conveniently forgotten. Shoplifting, date rape, all of it (just for kicks, confess your worst below. You'll feel a lot better after getting it off your chest.) Plead the Fifth and he'll slam those Pearly Gates in your face.
Those who pass muster qualify for angelhood. Angels have wings. They can fly. I detest flying. Seldom flew before Sept 11, haven't since and never will. Flying is for Peter Pan.
Like the Holy Land, Heaven is riven by religious rivalries. Jesus, Mohammed, Moses and Buddha all compete for the title of Top Prophet. Each commands a loyal fan base but only one gets to sit alongside God and fetch Him beers.
Now some would argue that Heaven rocks cuz you get to hobnob with Him. But let's face it, every good person who's died is up there. Fat chance God will find time for a heart-to-heart with your sorry ass. Plus, God is a pushy, vindictive know-it-all. He's also a homophobe who destroyed entire villages cuz some gays were cavorting there. And this was when he wasn't unleashing nasty plagues. Or else sacrificing His only Son to absolve our sins. As Pete Townsend once wrote, I don't need to be forgiven.
Worst of all, this is the Guy responsible for the vacuous likes of Enya. For that reason alone we should all start worshiping graven idols.
Speaking of musicians, angels are fond of idly plucking harp strings and it doesn't get any more pretentious that that. Forget a pin, ever try dancing on a cloud to harp music? Likewise, suppose you require the services of a lawyer, assassin or prostitute? You sure won't find any of them in Heaven.
So to recap: Heaven is a contentious place chock full of virgins, angels, tiresome music, God and His nosy henchmen. Not only that but you're continually surrounded by goody-goody-two-shoes. And while they may indeed be virtuous, they're about as mirthful as a global warming conference. Billy Joel had it right---the sinners are much more fun.
Four things could happen when you die: Going to Heaven, going to Hell, being cryogenically frozen Ted Williams-style or rotting in a pine box. Given a choice, I'd choose the latter any day of the week. How about you?
I actually have two stories to tell about helping people move. The first is when my buddy Chuck was getting divorced and he needed to move out of his house by Monday night. All the guys in his band and several other guys we worked with were going to help him move all of his stuff about three blocks away to a new house. Now, college boy stuff is nothing compared to married guy stuff. We had washers and driers to move up from the basement of this old house. The stair case was steep and bent 90 degreess. Needless to say, nobody, I mean NOBODY else showed up. It was me and little 90 pound Chuckie. And guess who was there from 7 p.m. until midnight. I moved TVs and stereos and chest of drawers and beds and dishes and couches and shit I've never even heard of for five hours. I ripped AND stained my clothes. But a friend in need man. Chuckie was always a good guy.
The other occasion was even worse. This OTHER person I worked with had a daughter who was involved with a drug dealer AND WAS A STRIPPER (can you see where this is going?). The drug dealer got busted and she had to move out of her swank apartment and into her mothers house all the way across town. Now, the thing about drug dealers is they tend to be pretty materialistic. Nobody gets into drug dealing to lead a simple life. A good rule of thumb is that the more expensive a piece of furniture is, the heavier it is. This fuggin' bastidge had a solid glass dining room table that must have weighed in around 200 pounds. All the furniture was oak. He had the biggest TV I've ever seen in my life. I got wrangled into helping with one other dude from work. The ladies did practically nothing but piss me off. I fell down backwards while carrying the couch and was nearly crushed because of course it had a hide a bed in it on top of being 500 pounds of solid rain forest ironwood. Did I mention the Jet Ski? Oh, I didn't? Of course the drug dealer had to have a Jet Ski and those things aren't as light as they look. And they are made of fairly slick fiber glass with no handholds. Of course they didn't have a trailer for the thing. The daughter was a complete bitch the whole time and when we finally got done at nearly 2 am, she didn't even thank us let alone pleasure us the way a woman of her loose morality should have. Doing a good deed feels kind of good, but that doesnt mean that me and the other guy didn't spend each and every truck ride back and forth between houses pitching a complete fit. "We better get hummers out of this," my buddy would say. "I'd even take one from the mother and what's up with the stripper? I swear to God if she doesn't express her gratitude and soon, they can just unload that Jet Ski their damn selves." You would think they would have at least given us some of the drug dealers booty as payment right? A couple of CDs, maybe a skull-shaped bong or some running lights for my Cavalier station wagon, but HELL NO. When I inquired about the Sega Genesis, she told me she'd sell it to me for $50. I should have taken her marble topped end table and chucked it except that I am a good person and I cannot chuck a 150 pound end table no matter what I tell you when I'm drunk.
I wonder if I needed help moving where these A-holes would be today? Probably as far from me as possible.
by mg at 02:02 PM on July 07, 2003
So, one of the many things that has kept me away from here is that I've been forced to move. And my move in date has been jerked around so much, that I'm moving this week, and I don't really have anyone to help me. Sure, I can pay some dudes to do it for me, but if this website is useful for one thing, it is begging for help and then getting it. Usually, it is some pretty damn half-assed help, but I'll take what I can get. So, if you are in the New York area, and have nothing to do on a Wednesday afternoon (this Wednesday afternoon to be exact), why don't you drop me an email and let me know. You'll be really helping out a damsel in distress. You know, if you consider someone too lazy to carry their own couch a damsel. What you'll get in return is satisfaction, the chance to meet me (your hero), some free beer, and, hell, I'll even throw in a couple bucks. So. Yeah. The end.
I realized the other day that the greatest committment in my life is my two-year subscription to TV Guide. And the reason why it is not likely to work out between us is they keep asking me to extend my subscription when I know GOD DAMN good and well I’ve got at least 22 months left on the current one. This has convinced me I could never get married. If I can’t tolerate some anonymous magazine subscription service sending me junk mail, I certainly won’t be able to put up with the demands of a wife and children, which are, let’s face it, slightly more strenuous and vastly more unreasonable. At least TV Guide doesn't bitch about my pants, which do indeed go on the floor. I have a space reserved for them when I’m done wearing them and wearing them never happens around the house. But still, FUCK YOU TV Guide!
It always freaks me out to see people buying alcohol early in the AM. But sometimes I wind up doing it myelf. I hope nobody thinks badly of me when they see me. But I know they do.
4th of July 2003 9:15 AM: I go to the grocery store to pickup some items for the trip to my mom's house. 12 pack of Corona, check. 1.5 liter bottle of red wine, check. 2 rotisserie chickens, check. I then proceeded to the deli counter where I intended to purchase some healthier items like tropical fruit salad and ziti covered in feta cheese and olive oil. I had forgotten something and there was a line so I left my cart thus laden there.
When I returned, this exchange took place: Her: Hahaha. Me: What's so funny? Her: Well, I just knew this was a guy's cart. Me: How? Her: All you've got in there is alcohol and meat. Those are guy things. And it's 9:00 in the morning. Me: I'll have you know I'm waiting to buy fruit salad and ziti. And actually it's 9:15.
Like most egotistical males who are addressed by strange women in grocery stores, I assumed she was hitting on me. Never mind that she was visibly pregnant and sporting an engagement ring the size of my testicle.
My friend Roger used to say that anytime a woman said "unnecessary things" to him, he'd assume she wanted to play hide the salami. While I wouldn't go that far, you get my drift.
Now let's play a little role reversal game. Suppose I had said to her, "I just knew this was a chick's cart. All you've got in there are girl items: tampons, fresh fruit, Lean Cuisine, diapers, salad fixings and cleaning products. Most likely she'd have slapped me across the face.
But I didn't take offense. In fact, we struck up a pleasant conversation later in the checkout line. In the course of which she mentioned that her husband tends to sleep all day. I said I equate that with laziness. She says he works a graveyard shift. *slowly removes foot from back of throat*
Of course then I'm wondering why she's even telling me this information. Could this be some coy, suburban house frau kind of come-on? Guys. We're such pigs.
Well, there's definitely something to be said for outdoor sex. Unfortunately, sometimes it needs to be said quietly, 'cause there might be other people around.
*cough* Not that I would *ever* do something as tacky as... have sex.. with .. people ... nearby...
Okay, so I can't even type out a lie with a straight face. But man, does it ever leave you with some stories to tell.
Quite simply, it's getting to the point where, by the end of the summer, there will no longer be a safe location in my home town. Meeting someone as sexually adventurous as you? Fantastic. Just absolutely fantastic. Meeting someone sexually compatible and with the mad skillz? Even better.
There have been locations tagged and actions taken just to say we could -- sex in the park swing? Check. Handjob in the movie theatre? Check check. While driving? (Me as driver, driving stick, I might add). Check. Roof of the mall? Check.
As recently as two months ago, if someone had told me I'd be having public sex all over the place, I'd have thought them crazy. The idea of being caught does not excite me -- in fact, I got kinda freaked out by the guy who peeked in the car window, trying to see what he could see (very little, I hope/assume, what with the supremely fogged windows). The mosquitos have been the worst part of the whole venture, although the sore knees haven't helped much, either; I'm allergic to mosquito bites and they seem to prefer me.
But there's also a certain amount of bragging rights involved in the outdoor adventures, as awful as that may be. I like to talk about a location in my neighbourhood with a private grin... although when other people talk about the same locations, I try desperately *not* to catch the eye of the boy involved.
Anyhow, while the weather's nice and the boy's willing, I'm taking suggestions. Anyone?
Well, well, well. Ezy reports that his romance with Amy has blossomed into a full blown...relationship. Lockheed speaks of his porcelain doll fiance. Linz is juggling a collection of promising Boys. Could wedding bells be far behind?
Back in the day folks used to distinguish between "marriage material" and less respectable chippies you'd date and discard like toilet tissue. I'm here to say that this attitude is alive and well. It's just that the criterion has changed. In place of virginity we now have certain traits I'll relay below.
A chartered jet recently transported Kid Rock and Alyssa Milano from a USO junket in Iraq. Some steamy Mile High Club action reportedly ensued. You'll recall how until recently Mr. Rock was cavorting with va-va-voom siren Pamela Anderson. Let's contrast the two: Milano is cute in an ethnic, pixie-ish, slightly flawed sort of way. Anderson is top-heavy, heavily made-up with a shocking mane of bottle-blond hair. We watched Milano blossom on Who's the Boss and later on Charmed. We watched Anderson give Tommy Lee a slobbery Monica.
Now let's suppose Rock is in the market for a long-term partner to help him raise his daughter. He'd choose Milano over Anderson. Here's why: Marriage-minded men think in terms of compatibility, stability and shared interests. They aren't thinking in terms of flashy, trashy girls they'd be ashamed to present to mom. Nor are they after a gal who has racy videos circulating across cyberspace; ditto for those who'd do the voiceover for Stripperella or star in Barb Wire.
A recent Cornell study delved into this subject matter. Researchers found that above all, people select mates in their own image. Their findings also confirmed my point i.e. that people choose not necessarily the highest quality partner available but the one best suited to their needs.
Should the prospect turn out to be physically attractive in addition to these crucial attributes, why then, that's gravy. I myself enjoyed such dumb luck in landing my amazing wife (help me out here, Ezy!)
But God seldom bestows all those desirable qualities on any given person. Which is why you so often see seemingly mismatched couples: Drop-dead gorgeous knockouts walking hand-in-hand with scrawny nerds or beefcake hunks rubbing suntan lotion onto the shoulders of homely trolls.
The Cornell study also showed that marriages between like persons tend to last longer. Opposites may attract but their unions last about as long as a prom date sexual encounter. Stroke, stroke and it's over. Both participants are left frustrated.
Some men might remain unconvinced. Solely for their benefit I'll share my single-days experience with the head-turning party girls as epitomized by Anderson. They're easy as a Vaseline jar but not real imaginative betwee the sheets. Sex with them is like sex with someone on roofies only less gratifying. It's like what my old friend Brian used to say---fat girls are better in bed cuz they try harder. Moreover, flashy party girls are seldom faithful.
Nor do they age gracefully. At 96 Katherine Hepburn looked better than Liz Taylor does at 71. At 65 workout guru Jane Fonda looks better than onetime sex kitten Raquel Welch at 62. The list goes on...