Inside My Head... It's Dark In Here

So... I haven't posted in a while. No one reads my blog anyway.

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 05:30:00 +0000

It's amazing the difference a couple months make. I mean... just read the crap I spewed in my older blogs. It went from insightful and well thought out blogs to some poor sap crying poor me in to his computer. Well... a few months ago I said enough of that garbage. I changed my way of thinking. I participated in what will probably go down as the greatest election of my life time. Wow! I've voted three times in my life and I will tell you right now that I was never more sure of my decision when I pushed that red button as I was this time around. I voted for Bush in 2000... sorry about that. I did it because my father would have. I voted for Kerry in 2004 not because I like Kerry that much. I had just had enough of Bush. 2008, however, my heart was full and my mind was clear. I knew what this country needed even if it didn't. I have suffered the slings and arrows of some of my family and I've been subjected to the eye rolls of people who found out that I voted for Obama. Once, in Arkansas where my grand parents live, I heard an old man as my cousin who he voted for. When my cousin asked him why he needed to know, the old man's response was, "Because if you voted for Obama, you have to leave."

Well... let me just say that there are no thank yous necessary.

Maybe I drank the kool-aid, but, I've never felt more proud as I did many times throughout the campaign. There was the moment at the convention when Hillary Clinton moved to have Obama nominated unanimously out of acclimation, the moment when Pennsylvania was called for Obama and we all knew that it was going to be an early night, the victory speech in Chicago, and then yesterday, as he uttered, "...so help me, God."

Yeah... I feel good. Hail to the Chief, indeed.

So now what, you bunch of know-it-alls?

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 03:23:00 +0000

No really. I'd like to know what you people have to say. I know what you said. You said "go to school" and "get off your ass." Well... I listened. I heard at least a thousand "follow your dreams." I listened. It's great to have a support system; A network of friends and family to get behind you and give you a pat on the back when you need it. However, that pat on the back means shit ifthe whole thing crumbles at the first sign of adversity. Where are you now?

I went in to the broadcasting school and did their little tour. I wasn't sold on this thing. It seemed to me that it was just a big sales pitch. I have always been of the school that real careers in broadcasting and journalism come from talent that one is born with as opposed to skills that are taught. Therefore, I wasn't buying what they were selling. However, I wasn't exactly getting anywhere without it either. So what? I get a call offering me a scholarship that was implied as being a full-paid ride. Well... not so fast my friend. The scholarship offered was $2,000 towards the $12,000 tuition. A sales gimmick that I should be smart enough to stay away from. Not only that but I was in there last Tuesday after accepting an invitation to "the last studio tour before the winter semester begins." I went tonight and there was a tour going on. Another classic sales gimmick. I have seen it a thousand times with my father being a car salesman. You tell the mark how great something is and then you tell them that time is running out to buy. If that isn't enough, you tell them that you are willing to take $2,000 off the top. Why? Because we like you so much... you seem like a good guy and we want to help you out. I know how it works but I was too stupid to figure it out right away. So I was going to bite. Hook, line, and sinker. Hell... I would have gone after the pole, tackle box, and boat too.

I went in tonight and filled out tons of paper work and wasted another Tuesday evening in that place. I gave my driver's license and $50 for an application fee. Yeah... I know I whould have run away from the app fee but they told me ow much promise I had. They told me how good I was. I forked it over. The hot little Asian chick took my application and left the room. She came back a few minutes later telling me that my application for a federal student loan came back denied. However, it would be approved with a co-signer. Now... I am willing to buy into their dog and pony show but I am not willing to drag someone else along with me. So I left in my charcoal trousers, white golf shirt, and black sport coat. I got in my shitty car and drove to my shitty house where I will sleep in my shitty bed and go back to my shitty job tomorrow.

You see... I am not looking for fame and fortune. I just want to be comfortable. I want to be able to support myself and still have something to sock away. I want to have a life that I am comfortable sharing with someone else. I want a life where I know I can have a family and that they will be provided for. That's what this was all about. In sports broadcasting I would ejoy what I do for a living. Someone told me once that if you can manage a way to get paid for doing something that you love, you will never work another day in your life. I don't want to spend the rest of my life living paycheck to paycheck doing something I hate. I don't want to be 50 and wondering what the hell I am going to do if my car breaks down or if the plumbing backs up. I don't want to be my father who lived in his sister's house rent free, bills free and still not having enough money to take in a ball game every once in a while. That is no way to live. Yet here I am. I pay minimal rent. I have no bills aside from my car and cell phone. Still my bank account is in overdraft.

Where did I go wrong? I was born the third child in a poor family. I went to low rated schools in a hick town where the majority of high school graduates still live within a 10 mile radius. The ones that I have heard about getting out and having a great life are girls who married the right guy. I hear it all of the time. Had I not flipped out when my father died during my junior year, I could have been something. Had I not flipped out and decided not to finish my junior year, I could have been something. Had I just somehow avoided a breakdown after the death of the only breadwinner and parental support in my house, I could have been something. Here's the thing. Where were they then? My mother likes to tell the story of how I skipped school all the time and how I didn't do my homework. She laughs as she tells this story but where was she then? Could I have been something? Maybe... but who was paying for the college? I applied for financial aid once when I was 18. I was told that my step-father made too much money. Too bad he wasn't willing to pay for college. He made so much money that I fed and clothed myself since I was 12 years old. Other family members would give me birthday money and Christmas money and I would make it last all year. These were the people that were supposed to put me through school. Hell... they didn't even welcome me into their home after the death of my father. My mother brought me a bag of frozen baby-back ribs in case I was hungry. Thanks mom.

Here is how it is going to be. I WILL make something of myself and when I do, I will personally tell all of those who have always managed to disappear from my life when I have needed them the most to go fuck themselves. My mother is now divorced from my step-father after she came home one day to an empty house and a note that read, "I want a divorce." She now works 12-13 hours a day for pennies just to keep her head above water. She tells everyone that she is doing me a favor letting me live in her house. Truth is... without my rent money, she would not have her new car and new appliances. Without my rent money, the tax man would come and take her house. She asked me to move here when I let her know I was coming home from Vegas. She needed help and I gave it to her. If she thinks she will join in my success, she is wrong and I will let her know why. Same goes for a lot of other people. I'll do this on my own and I will reap the rewards on my own. Now it's time to email every program director within 500 miles.

Numb

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 05:08:00 +0000

In here it is cold
I dare you to try
The soul feels old
Waiting to die
Wanting to love
Unable to feel
Wanting it all
Too scared to steal
Eyes wide open
Not wanting to know
My entire fault
Reap what you sow

---AJK 9/24/2008

What exactly should I write about?

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 04:04:00 +0000

A friend recently asked me when she can expect to see more of my own writing as opposed to copied and pasted lyrics and words written by someone else. I told her that I wasn’t really sure that I had much to write about. I get up and go to work Monday through Friday. I spend eight hours assisting unethical worker’s compensation doctors fund their once a month vacations and silver Porsche convertibles by convincing insurance companies to pay for treatment that is not needed while keeping able bodied people from making a paycheck to feed their families. When it’s time to leave, I drive home and have dinner. I watch some TV and then go to bed to do it all over again. Exciting, isn’t it?
Mind you, I am not complaining. I wanted an office job and I have one. I am even in the running for a promotion. It’s just not something I really want to share with the world. When people ask me what I do for a living I brush them aside by saying, “Mindless corporate stuff.” It’s just too time-consuming and too boring to share my daily routine of logging in, checking my new referrals, and trying to explain why a teacher needs to see a psychiatrist after students spit in her drink. Post traumatic stress disorder, she claims. I say, Buck up and get the fuck over it, cry baby. Life sucks, get a helmet.
Now, there are the weekends. Friday nights find me at the hockey rink doing my best to stop pucks while trying to hide the fact that my lower back feels like it is made of silly putty. I do good looking the part with my Turco gold pads. I move the right ways. I just don’t always do it quick enough. Afterwards, we go out for a couple of drinks and dinner and then home. Saturdays can be a toss-up. Usually I head to the racetrack to watch some cars make left turns with my old buddy, Stefan. I do this while trying my best to get him to get his shit together and join my hockey team. Otherwise, I call around to see who is going where and what is happening. If nothing else, I’ll cook myself dinner and relax on the couch with the pup and a movie. This too is all too exciting to write about.
You see, I do not have much of a life. My friends are either married with kids or might as well be as they are dating women with kids. That means their weekends are either at home with the kids or out together. I’ve gone along on these things. It’s not fun. Their friends are couples and I end up being the only single one there. Then a cute girl comes up and I think this might be a good chance to meet someone just before her husband/boyfriend shows up too. So… anyone really want to hear about that?
I am not unhappy at all. I mean, yeah I get lonely and, although I love my dog, I would like to have someone to spend some time with. It’s not as simple as just going out and meeting someone. I want to meet someone who will blow my hair back and I don’t feel I should waste my time on someone who doesn’t. Trouble is, when they blow my hair back, I rarely blow theirs back at all. Funny how that works. But does anyone really want to hear about this? I shouldn’t even be writing it.

Sorry Signs on Cash Machines

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 05:37:00 +0000

Oh, my heart is a thoroughbred
I can't sleep in my bed
Everything is burning up inside me
I need something i can feel
Cigarettes and a driving wheel and
Oh, my god, when you cross your legs beside me
I know true love don't love like anybody else
I know your heart don't beat like anybody else
When it all comes down to kerosene
And sorry signs on cash machines
And it don't look like anything you've dreamed of
I won't let you give it up
With sorry sighs and forced bad luck
Come on baby, you know what we're made of
I know true love don't love like anybody else
I know your heart don't beat like anybody else
And all these burning battlefields are now behind us
Life has brought us here together to remind us
That love will rise above it all and just keep growing
Life keeps flowing, and every moment starts right here with us
I know true love don't love like anybody else
I know your heart don't beat like anybody else

-- Mason Jennings

Girl

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 08:19:00 +0000

Girl

Is there anybody going to listen to my story
All about the girl who came to stay?
She's the kind of girl
you want so much it make you sorry
Still you don't regret a single day
Ah, girl, Girl, Girl

When I think of all the times
I tried to hard to leave her
She will turn to me and start to cry
And she promises the earth to me
and I believe her
After all this time I don't know why
Ah, girl, girl, girl

She's the kind of girl who puts you down
When friends are there
You feel a fool
When you say she's looking good
She acts as if it's understood
she's cool, ooh, oo, oo, oo
Girl, girl, girl

Was she told when she was young
that pain would lead to pleasure
Did she understand it when they said
That a man must break his back
to earn his day of leisure?
Will she still believe it when he's dead
Ah, girl, girl, girl
Girl
-----------------------------------

sigh . . .

Back in the Day

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Sat, 19 Jan 2008 09:10:00 +0000

I hate roller hockey. I hate it with a passion. I still go when Stefan calls and tells me that he is heading out to the rink, however. I still lug my heavy gear to the cramped benches to strap on my ice hockey goalie equipment only to risk ripping something on the less than slick surface. Why? Because back in the day…

It’s that little phrase that causes a lot of us to do things that we would rather not do. It makes us do things that are only fun for nostalgic purposes. Back in the day we used to go to that bar. It was smoky, dark, loud, and the bartender had a severely short pour. Still, though, they never checked our IDs and, since we were eighteen, that was a good thing. Now, being of age, we are welcomed into the finest bars and clubs in the city. We can go to that place downtown where everyone knows us and we only pay for half of our strong drinks. Sometimes, though, we go back that bar and have a damn good time listening to the same songs on the same jukebox that we did ten years ago. Why? Because back in the day…

Thompson Elementary School was where it all really started. Don’t get me wrong. We were playing hockey long before. Most of us begged our parents for gear as soon as we watched Mike Modano and the Dallas Stars, back in 1993, play the first NHL game in Dallas. It was a win versus Detroit, by the way. We did not know good gear from bad gear or a hockey skate from a figure skate. Ice was too expensive so we adapted our play to the streets. We wore generic inline skates with bright blue plastic straps. You know the kind made for recreational skating as opposed to hockey. We wielded solid wood sticks with screwed on plastic blades that we got a Wal-Mart and smacked around tennis balls. However, Thompson is where we learned that everything we were doing was all wrong.

Our first day at Thompson, we witnessed real inline hockey skates and the difference between Mylec and CCM. We noticed the difference between Wal-Mart and The Hockey Shop. It wasn’t long before I traded in my flat bladed plastic goalie stick for a Curtis Curve and the paper-thin leg pads for some old Coopers. I painted a skull on my mask. Stefan, in his new skates, tore up and down the rink like the wind. He developed a slapshot that was not only accurate but hard and fast too. We named it “Boomer”. We turned ourselves in to a couple of good hockey players out there.

Sunday nights were the magic nights out there. Stefan and I would go almost every day after school and we would stay until the lights went off regardless if it was freezing cold or a hundred degrees. Normally we would be there with a handful of old guys, kids our age, or young kids. On Sunday night, however, that place was jumping. Benches would be so crowded that players would have to stand until a spot opened up for them. They played ten-minute shifts. Goalies would switch out every other shift change. At one point there were so many goalies that some would get frustrated enough to remove their gear and skate as a defenseman. Talent ranged from barely skating to highlight reel moves and we had a blast. Sunday night was our league in a sense. Monday through Saturday was our practice. The leagues were still a couple years away.

Well, we grew up. It sucks, doesn’t it? Growing up. It was a blast though, back in the day. We played in various leagues on the same team and against each other. We met some characters. One a goalie who had to take smoke breaks. Another guy who swore he played juniors up in Canada yet barely kept up with us beginners. There was Dallas who wore extensions in his hair but had a wicked wrist-shot. When the Stars lost in the playoffs we played until I split Stefan’s lip with a puck. He had to get eight stitches. When the Stars won the cup Stefan and I were in D.C. When they tried to defend it we watched Jason Arnott spoil it from a booth at Sports City in Mesquite. Over the year we went our separate ways. Stefan got married and had kids. I moved from Dallas to NYC to Vegas and back again. We still play hockey though our bodies and bones are older and sore, but we love the game. That’s why, when he says that he is headed to the roller hockey rink, I go.

Last night we skated around shooting the puck and talking about “back in the day”. Memories came forward like the time we were all suspended for an entire season for brawling. One of our players took a baseball style swing at the other teams goalie, which started a fight. Both teams cleared the benches and a brawl ensued. I recall the 1-0 shutout win that determined first place where, with second left in the game, I snagged a well placed shot with a desperation wave of my glove hand. That caused problems too when an opposing player slashed at my hand trying to jar the puck loose. He was quickly and forcibly placed on his backside behind the net. Last night we broke two of those plastic roller hockey pucks. I guarantee that none of us had a shot that hard “back in the day”.

Gene Simmons Kitty

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Sat, 19 Jan 2008 09:05:00 +0000

N everbodi sayz she lukin gud
N tha ladi noes it undrstud
Strutter.

No... I am not a psycho. It is fiction... get it?

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 11:43:00 +0000

I know my friends ad I know that each of you will send me an email wondering if I have flipped. I have not. The protagonist here is a new character I am working on. I am not sure I if I will develop it or not but I wanted to get the thoughts down. So here you go... The Addict.

Heroin addicts know the feeling. It is hard for normal people to grasp a complete understanding of the shear euphoria and sense of peace that washes over me in these situations. A druggy could. Maybe even an alcoholic. I had to laugh as I thought of that. It is very ironic that peacefulness should be a feeling that washes over me at this moment, but it is like that, isn’t it? Just as one has an uneasy, restless, and anxious feeling before the needle enters the vein. Then that sudden comforting cozy feeling as the chemicals enters his blood stream flowing straight to his brain. He is at ease. He got what he came for and, for a little while, his inner turmoil is quieted. I have gone without my drug for too long. I need a hit.

My heart races and I am sure the beating can be heard echoing throughout the garage as it does in my ears. However, no one looks up at me as I walk towards the elevators. This one is special for me. It isn’t as random as in the past. I usually pick some poor sap out of a crowd and follow them for a few weeks learning their routines and habits; their perversions that they think are secret. I like using their secrets against them. Young Brain enjoyed random sex with much older men in gas station restrooms. That’s how I finally got him. Of course I could have just attacked him a hundred times before but what fun is that? When he entered the piss-scented restroom he smiled and dropped to his knees on the grimy shit stained floor. He unzipped my pants and where he expected to find my cock, he found a silenced pistol. You see, I cut a hole in my pocket and, strangely enough, through my blue jeans it looked like an aroused penis. Brain was an impish sort of guy and a simple hand on the back of his head kept him from jerking away at the sight of the black steel. I made him put his mouth on it. He was expecting a throat-full of cum. Instead I fired a piece of lead down his neck. His head was nearly severed as his body twitched on the cold tile. That rush lasted me for months.

No, this time is not like that at all. This time is vengeance. I haven’t tried this particular brand yet. I knew exactly how it was going to happen too. I have not repeated myself yet. That way nothing looks related. I don’t know what gets me off the most, the killing or the getting away with it. In the elevator I am riding down with an Asian girl in her early twenties. She is smoking hot with lilac skin and jet-black hair. I stare at her in her tight skirt and silk blouse. Through a gap in the buttons I can make out a hint of a purple nipple. Her breasts are not big but they are perky and she gives me such a hard on. I almost forget about why I am here and I want to pin her down right here and have my way with her. She is small and wouldn’t be able to put up too much of a fight. No! I have to do what I came here for. She smiles as she gets to her floor and exits the elevator. I smile back. Maybe I’ll see her again soon.

The elevator reaches the lobby and I make my way to the rotating door at the front of the building. My palms sweat as I cross the street despite the cold and snowy weather. I am reeling inside and I need my fix. I can feel that my eye is starting to twitch. Soon I will be in position. Soon I will smell her perfume and she probably will not even know who I am until after the syringe is in her neck. It will be too late to scream then. The drug would have already taken effect. She will, however, have time to think about ignoring my calls and leaving with no explanation all those years ago. I heard she was married now with a little girl. I am sure they will miss her. I can hardly wait now as I duck in to the restaurant from the back door. I worked here before and I know that they never lock the storage area. I find myself a dark corner and I wedge between a stack of wine boxes and a couple of beer crates. As long as I stay crouched, no one will see me until she comes down to stock her bar. The waiting is the hardest part.

Thanks for the memories, Joe Torre.

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 06:02:00 +0000

In 1996 Joe Torre came to lead the Yankees. He was handed a team with a young Derek Jeter, Jorge Pasoda, and Andy Pettitte along with crafty vets such as Bernie Williams, Paul O’Neill, and Tino Martinez. Shrugging aside New York headlines touting him as “Clueless Joe” and the grumblings of fans that hiring him was a colossal mistake, Joe Torre, or Mr. Torre, as Derek Jeter calls him, led his team to it’s first World Series Championship since 1978. Torre’s later years with the team would resemble the late seventies. Just as Billy Martin was given ultimatums and never felt his job was secure, Torre would be told by George Steinbrenner to either win or be fired. Twelve trips to the postseason, five trips to the World Series, and four Championships later, Torre was told, for the second year in a row, win or be fired. Having second thoughts, Steinbrenner did offer Joe Torre a contract for 2007. A manager that has been with your club for twelve years and led your club to the playoffs in each of those years should not be offered a one-year contract. As if that was not enough, the contract was laced with incentive based bonuses. For every level of the postseason that the Yankees reached, Torre would earn another million making it possible for him to make eight million dollars for the 2008 season. If they were to win the World Series, Torre would receive a contract worth eight million dollars for 2009. Call me what you will, but a man who has worked for a company twelve years should not have to audition for his job. If Steinbrenner did not want to bring him back, don’t bring him back.

With all of that said, I do believe Joe Torre has nothing left to offer the Yankees. Right or wrong, the team has set a standard for itself. That standard is to win the World Series every year. Year after year Steinbrenner spends his money to better equip his team to win and, since 2001, year after year they have fallen short. There were questionable managerial decisions that were made be Torre this year. It is easy to sit back in my barstool and say as much but I can’t think that any manager in the league would have started Wang over Mussina in game four. Wang was the best pitcher in the rotation all season long winning 19 games and maintaining an ERA of 3.7. However, in game one, he folded. Perhaps it was his age but he showed that he was useless in the postseason and should have never gotten the ball with the season, and Torre’s job, on the line. Where was Jason Giambi? I do not care if the pitcher is right or left handed or if you were going for defense over power. In the playoffs, Giambi should be in the game. Doug Mientkiewicz is a much better first baseman. I get that. However, it makes no difference how good of a glove you have at first base if your pitchers cannot keep the ball in the infield. The Yankees have always played power baseball. Why change now? Matsui was hurt. He bats from the same side as a healthy Giambi yet he starts as the DH over Jason? Keep Mientkiewicz at first at let Giambi DH. These mistakes might be ok in a season of a hundred and sixty-two games or even a seven game series. However, in a best of five series, these mistakes are fatal. Did the best team win? No. Why? Well, Derek Jeter never got going, Alex Rodriguez did more than he usually does in October but it still was not much, the starting pitching failed to perform as the had since the all-star break, Jaba Chamberland was literally bugged on the mound, and Joe Torre failed fix what was broken.

I will miss you, Mr. Torre. The fans will miss you. Your players will miss you. It is time for a new era. Bring on Mattingly. Steinbrenner, ultimatums rarely produce results. Please allow Mattingly, or whoever takes over, time to do their thing.

Mr. May

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Sun, 07 Oct 2007 10:12:00 +0000

October is upon us and with it comes cooler breezes and an off chance for storms. As children anticipate dressing as ghouls, pirates, super heroes, and princesses, I settle back with a cold beer and a bag of salty peanuts and take in the sports of the day. There is the joy that comes in the form of silver and blue streaking down field posting an undefeated first month for the Cowboys. Then there is the disappointment in the blue and gold and knowing that Touchdown Jesus has not smiled fondly on the catholic boys at Notre Dame. The eager anticipation that comes with the unknowing feeling at the beginning of the hockey season. I wonder if the Dallas Stars will do well this year. However, my favorite thing is the fall classic. The green grass and perfectly drawn base lines. The crack of the bat and the warm hot dogs. The smell of the leather and the crimson threads. This is a game. This is America's game. There is nothing better than sitting back and watching navy pinstripes going for yet another World Series. There is nothing worse than seeing the Yankees choke.

Alex Rodriguez is, without a doubt, the best player in the game today. He has won countless American League Most Valuable Player awards. Over five hundred career homeruns. He is one of the most clutch players to ever grace the game of baseball... in the regular season, that is. In the playoffs he has had fifty at bats. He has gotten a hit four times of those fifty. More recently A-Rod has gone zero for his last eight-teen at bats. We name Derek Jeter "Mr. November" for his prowess in late 2001 when the season was delayed in the wake of the Trade Center attacks. Although Derek's ability to make a clutch hit did not equate to a 2001 World Series championship, he has more than proved himself over the years leading the Bronx Bombers to titles 1996-2000. We are now looking to Alex Rodriguez to become the new "Mr. October". However, with his ability to dominate the league in the regular season and crumble in October, A-Rod, although he will, more than likely, break the career home run record set by Barry Bonds, will forever be remembered as "Mr. May". The man who couldn't get it done.

Will I change my tone if he comes through tonight with a big hit instead of striking out on bad pitches? Probably. However, he has to be consistent for his new nickname to fall away from him. Tonight we play in the Bronx. We get the last at bat. We will throw out The Rocket. If Torre is smart Giambi will get to swing his mighty bat. There will be no bugs flying around. October, for the Yanks, starts tonight.

O muse! Sing in me, and through me tell the story...

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 09:15:00 +0000

My brain is cluttered and I am unable to fetch the creative juices from the depths of my brain. My imagination is mush and my motivation is nonexistent. How can I focus when my life is in chaos? That's the ticket, is it not? I need to get the life in order so I can concentrate on listening to the sweet voice of the muse. Where to start?

I wanna be your Superhero, even if I tumble and fall.

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Mon, 03 Sep 2007 09:03:00 +0000

Looks like the flood gates were opened with the last few posts. I apologize to most of you. Most. The others, and I say this with the deepest sincerity that I can muster, can blow me. Actually, no. Strike that. Your lips are not worthy of the greatness that is my penis. Relax... it's a joke. I swear.

I watched a movie called The Ringer last night and I was actually saddened at the fact that enough people thought the script was good enough to fund it, cast it, and produce it. The only thing that made it slightly enjoyable, and I mean only thing, was the presence of Katharine Heigl. She is the blond doc on Gray's Anatomy. Smokin' hot this chick.... where was I? Oh yeah.... The movie being a piece of shit that I would not even let my dog chew up for fear it would cause him to fall into a fit of vomiting where, instead of small chewed pieces of silver DVD, he would spew up big huge piles of shit. This guy fakes being mentally ill in order to fix the special olympics, falls for one of the councilor chicks, has an inner struggle over his feelings for her and his need to win the bet he made, eventually admits to being a fraud, and loses the girl. I will admit that it had funny moments and the acting by the mentally challenged cast was great. The end is the part that makes it shit. She forgives him after about two seconds of him apologizing and they live happily ever after. It is almost like the original script had her hating him forever and the studio threw this ending together at a bar a few hours before shooting it. It made me realize that I know plenty of characters in my life to write a good script. Hell... they'll make The Ringer, they should make mine.

So what becoms of you, my love? When they have finally stripped you of...

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 08:38:00 +0000

...The handbags and the gladrags that your poor old granddad had to sweat to buy you?

I want to run. I want to hide… but I can’t because they won’t let me. Who are they? I wish I knew because if they ever showed their face I would punch them in the throat and laugh while they choked. I have, in the last months, written some blogs that make me seem like a downtrodden person with little hope or happiness. Some have even called me “emo” and decided she was the reason for my unhappiness. If she only knew the half of it… You see, you can cal me a whiner or “emo” all you like but until you have lived life in my shoes you will never understand where I am coming from. If you did spend a month seeing what I see and having things happen to you as they do me, you would come back looking at me and telling me how sorry you are that things are the way they are. It is easy to sit on your beauty and wealthy parents and scholarships and call me a whiner. How does it feel to have good genes? Good upbringing? I wouldn’t know really. When I was born my father drove a truck and my mother stamped out telephone parts on an assembly line. My nursery was an eight by eight room with old carpet and a cracked window. I was driven home in a ten year old Pontiac. My toys were usually broken before they ever got to me. I never had a chance from day one.

My father was fat. So was his mother. So am I. Why don’t I exercise more or eat better? I do both. I play hockey and run on a treadmill. I do indulge in some good barbecue on occasion but I mostly stick to salads or skinless chicken with veggies. I dropped forty pounds in the last year but no more is coming off. I talk to girls who laugh at my jokes and look me in the eye but they must have found someone with a better body because they all seem to go away. As I type this I sit in my mother’s house in boxers wishing for a brand new life. Just let me start over and I will make it right. The truth is, however, that this is who I am and it is who I am stuck with. Bad things happen to me all the time and one day I will get used to it and learn to live with it. If there is a god or Jesus, he is looking own at me laughing at my troubles. Why do I think he is laughing? Well, he certainly is not helping. All I need is just a little bit of luck every now and again but I get nothing. No extra push… nothing.

I bought a laptop and I loved it. My dog broke it so I bought another one. I loved it as well and used it to write every day. Well, some kids down the street decided that they wanted it along with everything else of value in my house. They kicked in the door and raided the place. Tore up the house and took everything. No problem, right? Just call the insurance company and file a claim. It is, after all, what they are there for. Nope. Claim was denied because they can’t get it in their heads that we had all the things we said we did. Your Jesus must have laughed at that one good. I did not find it as amusing. Well, I am ready to move out of the neighborhood then and decide on Manor House as my new home… Wait… Nope… The apartment in Vegas was left a mess so they filed a claim against us and now I can’t get any apartment let alone a loft Downtown. So Here I am at 27 years old in my mother’s house. Fuck you for calling me “emo”. I am upset and have every right to be.

This shit has been going on since birth. I was premature and almost died then. When I was two I was struck in the head by a wooden swing. As a result I was in a coma for a while and almost died. Nothing has been easy… as a matter of fact, everything has been as hard as it possibly can be. Every get pulled over for speeding and gotten off with a warning? I haven’t. I get pulled over for speeding and I get hit with a fine for a broken taillight as well. Who ever gets a ticket for that? Me. My entire life has been uphill and I am tired of it… When is it going to be my turn?

Once, in Vegas, I put five dollars in a slot machine. It paid off nothing. I left the machine and two seconds later it is ringing and lighting up. An old lady put in two dollars and won five grand. This is my life. If you want to call me a whiner or a loser or “emo”, go ahead. Trade me. Let’s see how you like living life as AJ. See what a little bit of light in a dark world can do? I really could care less if the cunt lives or dies yet her calling me “emo” pisses me off.

My wine is always turned and my milk sour. I will be the one to pick out the electronic at wal-mart that does not work. This is my cross to bear and I must walk alone. Oh and to a few of you who still read these even when you say you don’t care… go fuck yourselves. I hope you swallow something that hatches in your intestines and eats you from the inside out with a pain that rivals the heat of a thousand white hot burning suns. And then you die. Thanks.

AJ

Drinking as Religion

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 05:59:00 +0000

After all this useless fighting, after all our schemes
We could sense a final battle and started picking teams
Due to lack of education, i fell in with thieves
And took to drinking as religion and landed on my knees
Truth that starts as understanding finds you in the night
And circles all around the ceiling a frightened bird in flight
After spending hours beneath it, everything comes clear
Truth will pose no danger to you, what haunts you both is fear
Somewhere in our everafter telephones still ring
Somewhere in future journals, love still means something
I have learned a mighty lesson from this change of plans
Loss is brutal, i can't stand it, i wonder how you can
And all the while there's dogs a-barking
Streets are talking out my window
Out the light and the snow is flaking, hearts are breaking
Words are making a mess out of these
Thoughts i'm thinking, boats keep sinking
It's drown or keep drinking
And if this darkness came from light
Then light must come from darkness i guess
If this darkness came from light
Then light must come from darkness i guess

A Bunch of Drunk White Boys Acting Like Homosexuals

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Thu, 31 May 2007 08:03:00 +0000

Disclaimer: There will be a blog devoted to introducing the cast of characters in my life. However, I will seek out each individual's permission before doing so. A few you have already met, if you read the blog, and others you will meet shortly. Until then, enjoy.

Downtown is gone. It completely disappeared this morning as I stood in my Kenneth Coles looking out the front window of the restaurant. My little red jeep beat the storm by a few minutes. Unfortunately David, one of my servers, was not so lucky. As Chef and I peered towards the sky where Downtown Dallas used to be, David came in looking as if he had been shoved head first into a swimming pool. The rain was pouring down sideways as fierce winds whipped the blue awning making loud claps along the sides of the building. In the distance lighting laced the sky like a spider web hanging from the old oak tree in my backyard and the resulting thunder shook the windows bemoaning a sense of peril in the early part of the lunch hour. An old church song rang out from my lips. “The lord told Noah there’s gonna be a floody floody…”

Downtown Dallas did eventually show itself once more and with it came the hungry guests hurriedly in and out to get back before the end of their lunch breaks. Dressed in orange from head to toe was Suzi. I mean this literally as she entered the restaurant sporting a very flattering orange hooded sweatshirt and a pair of orange Pumas. The servers, Chef, and I were seated along the drink rail telling stories of our mischievous long weekend full of drinking and debauchery. Suffice it to say that passing out at one of our parties is rarely a good idea. Especially when the remaining drunkards are in full swing of a few cases of beer and half a bottle of Tuaca. Josiah was our target and he played the role quite lovely.

This brings me to Monday. Memorial Day. Debauchery day. It all started at Central Market as drizzle glazed the windshield of my Jeep. I made a bee-line for the alcohol knowing full well the wonderful selection of imported and micro-brew beer awaiting me in those cold aisles. I was not disappointed. In fact, I was almost lost in the rows and rows of wine that I wanted to explore but, alas, I was here for the beer. I picked out a good micro wheat beer for myself, Strongbow Cider for Suzi Q, and a six-pack of Heineken for Jamie. On the way out I spotted a bouquet of white daisies and could hardly resist. Jamie said she loves daisies because they make her smile and we all want to see pretty girls smile, right? Since she was not drinking, Jamie’s Heineken ended up in my system along with the wheat beer, some Tuaca, a few Buds, and a couple sugary sweet sour apple malt things. At that point I was no longer worried about the taste. Everyone else seemed on the same level as myself. Josiah, however, worked all day and drank with us all night so, by two in the morning, he was passed out on Sam’s couch. This is the time to strike.

Josiah, my cowboy bartender, was sitting up with his head resting on the back of the sofa. His cowboy hat was resting on his plump belly. It was when Chef Wayne was trying to make out with Chef Jesse that we noticed Josiah’s vulnerability. Jesse had the idea of squirting mustard on Josiah’s head. This was good, but not good enough or mean enough for me. I wanted more. I took it upon myself to talk the crowd into trying to rest their testicles on Josiah’s face while I stood ready with my phone to take pictures. This was not a hard sale because everyone was pretty blitzed. Sam would be first. He was able to get his pants down but stumbled as he climbed atop the couch causing Josiah to wake up and look him dead in the face. Fearing for the wellness of his manhood, Sam wisely retreated. Wayne was not discouraged, however, he attempted the same feat only to find Josiah waking up again. Wayne, instead, planted a kiss on Josiah’s lips and then planted his exposed ass on Josiah’s nose. Snap went the camera shutter. Next up for the belt was Jesse. Jesse almost made it but he paid dearly for it. Jesse climbed on the windowsill and positioned himself directly above Josiah’s head. Gingerly Jesse lifted himself up and began to pull down his shorts. At one point he was mooning the Dallas Police Department Headquarters that is situated across the street. Josiah awoke like a hibernating bear and look straight up. Jesse froze and was unable to react. Josiah punched him directly in the gonads. This was the end of our molestation of Josiah. Why do white boys always get drunk and act like a bunch of homosexuals?

This was only the end to my outstanding weekend. Everyone who contributed to this, thank you very much. I needed it. Jamie… wow… just wow. You rock, kiddo.

The Movies

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Tue, 22 May 2007 10:58:00 +0000

This is not the movies. I get that. I understand that real life is much different and much more… well… harsh, blunt, and real. Things do not always happen the way we would like them to and that is just a fact of life that we are going to have to deal with. More times than not you are going to wake up and find yourself feeling like shit and completely unprepared for the day ahead. There is not going to be a good song on the radio and you will never, not even once, make the light at the intersection. Did you expect roses and rainbows? Why? It is raining outside and even the most beautiful white horse is covered in mud. It is just the way it goes. To quote the great Dennis Leary: Life sucks so get a helmet.

In the movies our leading man wakes up to a sunny day and he does not require a shave or a brush through his hair. He finds that his clothes are neatly waiting for him in his closet and, as he opens his cupboard, there is always plenty of cereal awaiting him. The milk is fresh. His dog has not taken a shit in the corner. Instead he waits patiently for his master to leash him and take him for a walk around the neighborhood. You will also notice that the leading man has plenty of time to take his best friend for a walk around the neighborhood. The city bus that conveniently arrives at his doorstep is not crowded with dirty people with undesirable smells and questionable means of acquiring money. It also, magically, drops him off a few short feet from the door of his office building. His job is way more interesting than yours and you can accept that because he is way cooler than you. He is better looking too even if he did not take a shower, brush his teeth, or even look in a mirror before leaving his huge apartment with hardwood floors, stainless appliances, and luxury furniture in a part of town that you could never afford in a city that you aren’t even cool enough to live in anyway. His coworkers love him and his subordinates respect him. They all get together and make fun of the big boss but never the leading man. When he tosses wadded up pieces of paper at the wastebasket, he does not miss… ever.

When I get up in the morning I feel like crap. What’s worse is that, if I did not drink the night before, I am despairingly aware that this is the best I am going to feel all day. My back hurts and my knees are sore. The radio blares some refried pop song from the mid-eighties and, judging by the sounds on my window, it is raining… hard. I hit the snooze button a few too many times and I am going to be late no matter what I do. I know I should shave but I have no time. My shower is too cold and I am out of soap. I remember now that I noticed I was out of soap yesterday and I was really going to go to the store and get some. However, after my sixteen hour shift, all I wanted was my uncomfortable bed and to check my email. No, no new messages. No message from the job I sent my resume to. No message from that girl I knew once for a few minutes. She was nice. I notice the hour and realize that, if I go to sleep right that minute, I can still get four hours of sleep. I tossed and turned… I am still out of soap was my point. I use hand soap from the sink. The top of my jeep leaked a little bit with it raining all night and, although the passenger seat is bone dry, the driver seat is damp. I need to stop for gas before work. I do not have time for this. When I get to work I am greeted with a message. It says, “Hey guys. This is so and so. I can’t come in today. I have a bad cough and bla bla bla bla bla…” The message translates to, “I had too much to drink last night, again, and I won’t be coming in today. I won’t be in tonight either.” I call this person back to let them know that they are needed here but they do not answer my call. I tell someone else to do something. They say they will but they do not. I get yelled at because of something I failed to do but was impossible to do anyway. The big boss calls. He needs something this afternoon that I can’t possibly get until later in the week. I toss a piece of trash at the wastebasket. I miss.

Our leading man leaves work looking just as good as he did when he arrived. The sun is still in the sky and his buddies are always waiting on the other end of the phone. They always want to go out. They all meet up at the classiest bar in the city and everyone there is gorgeous. The women are all single and none of them have kids, crazy ex boyfriends, or serious psychotic issues. They all have something interesting to say. Our leading man goes out looking for a girl and, lo and behold, there she is. She is perfect in every way. Her hair is shimmering and her lips glisten. In her eyes he can see forever and she feels the same. All of this and they have yet to talk. He approaches her and they hit it off. He does not want to take her home for a cheap fling. She is the leading lady, after all. They talk at the bar until well after closing time and they both laugh at the fact that they failed to notice the crowd dissipate around them. They walk arm in arm through the magnificent city night as he escorts her to her glamorous apartment in yet another part of town that I could never afford… we have been through that. He wants to kiss her. She wants him to kiss her. They make small talk for a minute or two and, what do you know, he kisses her. He kisses her so hard and meaningful that she feels it in her soul and it makes her knees weak.

I leave work and the sun has long since set if it was ever out to begin with. I call people but they do not answer. I look like shit and I smell like I have been working all day. I do not go out looking for a girl. The ones I have met lately are not exactly what I am looking for anyway. So I accept that I need to straighten some things out for myself now and focus on me for a little while. I haven’t had feelings for anyone for a long time and I find life easier that way. My career is going in the right direction and soon I will move to a more desirable part of town and plant my feet firmly in a real honest life. Then she shows up uninvited; A shock to my system and a bump in my perfectly flat road. I have to admit that I am taken aback. She is exactly what I would have been looking for had I been looking for anything at all. She is stunningly beautiful, kind, sweet, and playfully funny. So what if she came a bit early in my plans. I haven’t moved to the better part of town yet but at least my career is set in motion. I can handle this. I fight it for a while but I can handle this. I want to see her and she wants to see me. We talk. We hang out. We laugh and joke and play around. We agree that we do indeed like each other and things are going great. She invites me out to dinner and we end up at her new place lying on the floor and talking for hours before she wearily walks me to the door. We embrace for a long while and I want to kiss her. Does she want me to kiss her? Should I just try it anyway? She did sort of hint that she wanted to. I should kiss her. I did not kiss her. If I did she would have felt it like all the others that I kissed and meant it. She would have felt it in her soul and her knees would have grown weak. I should have kissed her.

Our leading man introduces his new lady to his family and friends and they, of course, love her. One day they have a fight and they both say things that they know they should not have. She leaves and he mopes around the house looking at pictures of the two of them together. He stands in the pouring rain, yes it is raining now, holding a boom box playing “In your eyes” outside of her window or they pass each other on the street and talk about old times and how they are doing at present. He asks her to lunch and she goes. They talk and make up while deciding that they belong together. The families and friends are happy that the two are back together and everything is going to be fine. Usually these two will get married, have kids, and provide us with a sequel or two. Sometimes, however, one of them leaves. There is never any uncertainty though. The one that leaves usually leaves a note explaining why they are leaving or they might even talk about it in some sappy scene with soft rock playing in the background. There is closure and an honest reason why things just did not work out.

In reality, this never happens. Just when I was kicking myself for not pulling out my secret weapon and kissing the girl and thinking I will have another chance soon, she leaves. Just like that. Like a light switch this girl that I did not look for, expect, or understand turned it off. I do not mope because I do not understand what it is I would be moping for anyway. I go to work and I go out with friends. I come home and check my email. No, no new messages. That job still does not respond. Neither did the other one or the other one. No messages from the girl. In the movies the other shoe never falls. In real life it always does. I check my messages again and this time an explanation is there. It was all in my head. The feelings and thoughts that something was developing were all in my head. I am more confused now than ever. I still do not mope. I miss it though. The feelings and thoughts that were all in my head are no longer in my head and I miss them. Everything that came to me new recently was now gone and I had no clue why. So I move on. I meet another beauty. This one makes no mistakes about it. She is in to me without games or playing it cool. I still miss what was all in my head. I rarely sleep now even though my phone is a lot quieter. I get up and go to work on a couple hours of sleep and manage to survive sixteen hours only to stay up all night again. Oh, shit. I forgot to get soap again and I need to stop and get gas before work. I feel like shit again and I am still not going to shave.

In the movies your friends are interesting but not as interesting as you. They are all supporting roles and they never interrupt you when you are talking. In reality, sometimes, you are the supporting cast and you just aren’t that interesting. Your car is a piece of shit and you still owe the bank for it. You never look good when you first wake up and it is only when you are running late that you will hit traffic. Your job wears you down and your coworkers are so sick of you after working with you all day that none of them want to be around you afterwards. Your subordinates do not respect a damn thing you say and they would follow you to hell and back as long as it does not interfere with their favorite television show that keeps them from working on Wednesday nights or that important trip they are taking because, man, they just need to relax. No one cares if you need to relax or not. Keep telling yourself that you are a leading man and one day someone might be convinced enough to stick around longer than a couple of months. Don’t you know, baby, I’m a leading man? You will never see anyone like me again.

I've Seen This Diamond Cut Through Harder Men...

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Wed, 25 Apr 2007 04:32:00 +0000

... Than me myself, but still I pretend.

Please allow me to introduce myself to those of you who do not know me. Which, admittedly is very few as I suspect no one reads this thing. Not even friends. Oh well. Their loss. This brings us directly to the matter at hand. Me. I am exactly who I say I am. I don't deny that and I never once have or will apologize for it. I am blunt and most times emotionless and hard. I rarely wear my heart on my sleeve but when I do, I mean it. I carry this coat of arms around with me where ever I go. It is my protection against the world. It is hard to get to know me... even harder for me to trust you. However, I will lower my shield and let people in if I see them as worthy. Don't betray this show of trust: This invitation to my heart and soul. I think highly of myself. I question how highly others think of me, though. I am hard to read. If you know me and disagree with me being hard to read, consider yourself lucky. This means I have let you in. You want that. Trust me. Once you are in you get to see me for me. You get the real Anthony. The real me might be sappy and romantic. I will tell you how I feel about you. Sorry if this is a problem. Deal with it. The real me is fiercely protective of my heart, my friends, and my family. I will fight for what I want and I rarely give up on what I know to be right. If you motivate me, inspire me, or even put a smile on my face, you will be rewarded for being a good friend. Ten fold. This should be my eulogy when my body is resting in a casket. Tell them, "Anthony loved with his entire heart. He worked with all the strength in his back. He thought with every fold of his mind. He played with every ounce of the energy left over. Most of all... He refused to give up on what he wanted."

Oh, Paddy dear, did you hear the news that’s going around?

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Mon, 12 Mar 2007 11:44:00 +0000

St. Patrick’s day is coming up and with it, I am sure, plenty of insulting green beer and obnoxious morons guzzling said green beer with no idea what it is they are celebrating. Sure, drink. Celebrate and party. However, do it responsibly and do it right. Skip the green beer and, instead, opt for something a little more traditional to the Emerald Isle. Guinness is an easy solution. It will do the job and is readily available in the States now. Looking for something a little lighter? Go for a Smithwick’s. It is, after all, the best selling beer in Ireland. For a shot, skip the Scooby-snacks and surfer on acids. Drink Jameson’s whisky. No, not Bushmill’s. Do not touch that British swill from Northern Ireland. Enough about drinking.

Who was St. Patrick? Naomh Pádraig, as he is called in Gaelic, was a missionary from Wales. He is credited with converting Ireland to Catholicism. He converted almost the entire island using techniques that, instead of banishing the Celtic and Pagan traditions, enveloped them into Christian beliefs. For example, the Celtic bonfire was simply transformed to the Easter bonfire and because the sun was so important to the Celts, Patrick designed a cross with a symbol of the sun incorporated in the Christian cross. This design is known today as the Celtic cross and is, no doubt, tattooed on the majority of Irish-American young ladies. I’ve seen it myself. In folklore, Patrick is credited with driving the snakes from the island. In fact, there are no snakes in Ireland. However, there never were. It is believed that the snakes the folklore refers to the ancient Druids.

During British rule of Ireland it became law that Irish people could not celebrate St. Patrick’s Day and Irish soldiers in the Royal Army were forbidden from wearing shamrocks, as was the custom on St. Patrick’s Day. This followed a long era of Irish oppression in which land was taken from Irishmen and given to British nobles, Catholics were hung by British protestants, and the predominantly Catholic Irish were not allowed to go to church on Sundays or even mention anything Catholic. The penalty for such an act was death by hanging. Musicians started singing folk songs in protest of the oppressive British crown. The solution? Queen Elizabeth I set fourth an order to kill pipers, harpists, or any other musician on sight if they practiced their art. Musicians were hung in trees five or six at a time for their viscous acts of blowing wind through a pan-flute. All of this and the British moan about the IRA bombings and uprisings. You rape our women, kill our children, deny out freedoms, and you expect us to lie down and take it?

Escaping persecution, Irish immigrants fled to America. Home of the free and the brave. That is unless you were Irish. Many people don’t think about this but long before the African-Americans were persecuted based solely on the color of their skin, the Irish were treated just as badly. Once arriving in New York and Boston, Irish men found no one to hire them. The Irish women would work as maids for fourteen hours or more a day for nothing save a few scraps she could give her children. They were heckled for their accent and slain for their Catholicism. Remember, Americans were protestant just like the British and they hated Catholics just like the British. The Irish were not allowed to vote or live in non-Irish neighborhoods and they were depicted in magazines as drunken monkeys. Back in Ireland, St. Patrick’s Day was a somber day to go to church and celebrate Patrick’s contributions to the island. The Irish in America decided to celebrate publicly as a sign of unity. There were riots and arrests but eventually the Irish gained respect. They formed a St. Patrick’s Day Parade and insisted that all who participate dress in their Sunday best. This was to show everyone else that the Irish were clean, respectable gentlemen and women. Soon, politicians were viewing the parade and the Irish gained credibility. Soon they were given the right to vote. One St. Patrick’s Day President Truman visited New York to show his support for the Irish immigrant, but also to gain their numerous votes in the upcoming election. Nevertheless the Irish were now legit and very much a part of this country.

Back in Ireland, however, Irish rebels were still dying and shedding their blood on British swords in attempts to free themselves form the British Tyranny. On Easter Sunday in 1916 The Irish Republican Brotherhood, formerly The Finian Force, along with volunteers stormed the Irish capitol and took over buildings. One such building was the post office. Inside the IRB were shelled until the building collapsed. The surviving militia surrendered to British forces. Though the day was a defeat, the bravery incited the Irish Revolution. After years of bloodshed and civilian casualties, the King appealed for peace and a treaty was signed making Ireland a free and self-governing state. Northern Ireland was given the choice to stay with Britain or become part or Ireland. They chose to stay with Britain. You see, this island is Irish, not British. The existence of British soldiers on the island was a mockery to Irishmen. They felt the island should be one instead of being separated into Ireland and Northern Ireland. Out of this came a civil war and the Irish Republican Army was formed. The goal? To unite the island and drive British forces out. British forces still remain to this day. This is why you shouldn’t drink Bushmill’s whisky. It is tainted by Brits.

Today, St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated around the world. Even Ireland has adopted the American way of celebrating. They party and have parades. Free at home and free in America. Think about this as you guzzle green beer and don your green threads. There is a history to this day that should be recognized for its importance. So, please, have some respect and stay away from the green beer.

AJ

Rocco DeSpirito and Anthony Bourdain

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Sun, 18 Feb 2007 07:36:00 +0000

You remember him, right? He was that guy from the TV show. Restaurant tycoon Geoffrey Chadarow thought he had an instant celebrity in this guy. Chadarow made his fortune driving Braniff airlines into the ground before opening some of the best, and tastiest restaurants in the country. His China Grills seem to be in every major city including Mexico City while Asia De Cuba and Suko can be found in London. Point being, the man seems to know what he is doing. Most of us in the restaurant business have dreams of opening just one place that can rival a RumJungle or Kobe Club and here this guy has a veritable chain of trendy, hip, four and five star restaurants. He knows how to make a restaurant.

However, his plan to turn Rocco into a celebrity fell short. Sure, Rocco is charasmatic, sexy, and keeps his chef's coat buttoned a little low while flashing his pearly whites for the hordes of single twenty-something girls that flock to get a picture and a kiss. The one thing Chadarow did not count on was Rocco's ego. A line cook who made a name cooking other people's recipes and priding himself on the fact that he could plate it up nice, Rocco opened Rocco's 22 in New York City with Geoffrey's money. Seemed like a good match. Geoffrey's know-how and Rocco's cooking, good looks, and personality. Rocco however, is not and was not a chef. He was a cook who thought he knew more than he did. Rocco served his mother's meatballs and his Chef De Cuisine's entrees. The rest of the menu was put together using recipes from his former employers. Add to all of this that Rocco was never in the kitchen. Instead he flirted with the girls all night as his food was being served cold, late, overcooked, and over-seasoned. The opening night crowds dwindled, Chadarow got pissed, and now what was Rocco's 22 is now just 22. Rocco is no longer a part of it. As a matter of fact, I don't think the place exists anymore.

I tell you all of this because of a real chef that I have admired for a long time. I just recently heard of a book he wrote that is a New York Time's bestseller and very hard to find because, according to the lady at the bookstore, copies of the book are snatched up as soon as they hit the shelves. Anthony Bourdain came across his love for food innocently and naturally. On a trip to France his parents left him and his brother in the car as they enjoyed a dinner at La Pyramide. A place Bourdain describes as the center of the culinary universe. He was nine at the time but sensed that something was inside the restaurant that was important. Until that night he viewed food as a source of fuel. He realized then that food was much more than that. On that same trip he tasted his first raw oyster and it was over. He had to be a chef at that point. He made his bones in ways DeSpirito would turn his nose up at the thought. Bourdain washed dishes at the start. He dunked fries in hot grease after that. He did it all from saucier to line cook to sous chef. A real student of the art. A CIA graduate who has cooked on just about every continent. Rocco has his mama's meatballs that he did not even know how to make. He would get his poor mama out of bed at four in the morning to make those damned meatballs which Fran Drescher described as "nothing special". Those words would never be thought of at Bourdain's Brasserie Les Halles and unlike Rocco, there is no place Anthony would rather be than in his beloved kitchen sautéing the nightly special.

In an interview Bourdain was asked to name the most underrated chef. His answer? "The world is filled with them. It's a Chinese guy making dumplings for three dollars an hour somewhere. Somebody in Taipei right now, standing in a kitchen--the dumplings he is making, if they were served at the Plaza Athénée, people would swoon."

When asked the next question, the most overrated chef, his answer mirrored my thoughts. "The easy answer would be Rocco DeSpirito . . . You can sit around with a group of ten chefs. All of them hate him and what he represents. Then, some lone voice will say, 'Yeah, but can he cook?' And everybody at the table will say, 'Yeah, fuck yeah.'"

You do what you are good at and you do it the best you can. You use your knowledge and your love for something and you make it work. You become the best you can be at that one thing that makes you tick. This way you can go home with a sense of pride in knowing, even if no one else acknowledges, that you did something. If no one takes a notice or recognizes that you give your best day in and day out, you move on in hopes of finding someone that will reward your love of the game. There is nothing that irritates me and pisses me off more than someone who does not take pride in what they do. Is what I do the most glamourous thing in the world? No, but at least I don't half-ass it. One day, that will be what is noticed. That will be what gets me my restaurant. That will be what is rewarded. If not Amuse then somewhere else.

In tradition of being lazy... here is someone else's writings.

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Sat, 10 Feb 2007 18:55:00 +0000

I have enough friends, I need sex
Written by Mike Zero
Thursday, 21 September 2006
Let me start by saying I’m a loser. I’m short, fat, balding, and aside from a vast collection of Star Gate DVD’s, I have nearly nothing to offer a member of the opposite sex.

My name is Mike, and I don’t want to be your friend.

I’ve been rejected more times than I can count. I’m no stranger to the, “I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be back,” or the, “Eighty dollar, anything you want.” Wait forget that last part, the point is whether it’s a subtle brush off or being outright ignored I can handle rejection. What I can’t handle is a woman who wraps sex around a hook in the hopes of reeling in a new, “Friend.”

When a guy approaches a woman in a bar he’s not looking for a new pal to see Jackass 2. Too often his honest pursuit for physical companionship is met by a devious woman peddling the false hope of sex in exchange for a Corona. If he’s lucky he’ll get off paying for a drink or two and she’ll move on to pray upon another innocent guy. If he’s not so lucky he’ll get her phone number and begin the slow torture that is the intentional lead on.

When a man sees a woman across the bar and decides to approach her it’s not because he thinks she looks like a fun person with whom to watch a 7th Heaven marathon. Any woman who would flirt with him and accept a drink falls in one of two categories, retarded naive or deceptive manipulative bitch. Take your pick. If you meet a man in a bar, party, or social event, he’s not looking for a friend. Most men have few female friends, but most (If not all) of those friends fall into one of two categories.

Category 1: Required Contact (AKA “So I guess we’ll be sharing this cubicle”)

These are women that guys were required to spend some time around regardless of their personal desire. These women are co-workers, classmates, or the girlfriend or sister of a friend, etc.

Category 2: The missed shot (AKA “Why aren’t we fucking yet?”)

These are women guys were trying to screw and messed up. 99% of the time they’re still trying to figure some way to make it work, sometimes even years later. “Maybe if I help her move into her new apartment she’ll notice me.” Yea you and the other four guys helping out that are trying to bone her. Or my personal favorite, “Once they get divorced I am so in!” If you’re a woman who doesn’t think this is true ask any male friend you have who doesn’t fit into category 1 if he’ll have sex with you and bask in my glorious wisdom.

To make matters worse I think that many women know this. I approached a woman in a bar who spent the next three hour talking to me while drinking Apple Martini’s I bought for her. Just after last call was announced and she was finishing the last drink I bought for her she mentioned her boyfriend. She knew that if she mentioned having a boyfriend when I first approached her she wouldn’t have gotten the attention or the drinks.

By the age of 27 even I have several friends. I don’t need more but if I was to make more it wouldn’t be some woman I was trying to sleep with who tricked me into a friendship.

And We're Bugger All Down Here on Earth

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Wed, 17 Jan 2007 11:51:00 +0000

This was stolen from Andrew on his 4th Avenue Blues Blog.

Carl Sagan said, "That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every 'superstar,' every 'supreme leader,' every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there — on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam."

No Caffeine and No Soda Make AJ Go Crazy

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Sun, 07 Jan 2007 10:18:00 +0000

I seriously do not remember the last time I had a caffeinated beverage. I started drinking soda of the lemon-lime variety around Christmas but soon decided to cut out soda all together. All I really want is a cup of coffee... or five. Maybe a quick shot of espresso. No one will notice right? Fuck it. I made a commitment and I will stick to it. It's been a week without soda and even longer without caffeine. Like a smoker who quits cold-turkey, I am cranky as hell. Your best bet, really, is to just nod and smile and make sure I am happy. Guys, I will probably punch you in the throat while shouting, "Winner winner chicken dinner," if you get out of line. Girls... well.. I can think of a lot of ways you can keep me happy. Hell... hike up that skirt a little bit and I'll forget al about that steaming hot cup of coffee.... mmmmmm... coffee.. NO!!! Forget the coffee you weak minded prick.

Never fear. I have not given up beer... yet. Wait... does beer have caffeine? It always makes me sleepy or at least makes me want to sleep with somebody.

This headache is unreal. Seriously, no caffeine and I still can't sleep. There is something wrong with me, but we all knew that already.

Something that has been driving me nuts for a while. The definition of being Southern.

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Fri, 22 Dec 2006 12:55:00 +0000

Here is the deal. For my entire life I have heard people around me describe themselves as southern. Being that I grew up and, although I have lived elsewhere, I live in Texas, I have to object. Texas is not southern. I know what is being muttered amongst the readers right now. "But, AJ, it is south of the Mason-Dixon line." or "Texas was a member of the Confederacy." These things are true but being a Texan does not make you a Southerner. Texas is Texas. If you have to categorize the state you would have to make it western. Now the complexities arise by the way this country defines it's regions. This task is not done by geographic locations. Instead this is done by culture. Texas is western while New Mexico and Oklahoma are southwestern. Virginia is southern while West Virginia is eastern. It's strange, I know, but follow me on this one.

In this image from PBS the southern states are represented as Virginia, Tennessee, North and South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas.

So get this straight people from Texas. You are not southern. Stop with the rebel flags and saying things like, "That's what a good southern boy would do." I have nothing against the south. I just don't like being told that I am something that I am not. We are Texan. If you want further proof wipe that barbecue sauce from your chin and analyze it. If it is thick, tomato-based, sweet, and came off of anything beef related, you are not southern. If it is thin, vinegar-based, spicy, dribbled off of a pulled pork and cole slaw sandwich, congrats. You are southern... or you are at least enjoying the one region of this country that managed to get the barbecue right.

While I am on the subject. Pouring chili on enchiladas, while tasty, is not the authentic way of eating the mexican dish. Refer to the greasy, cheesy, and bland food as Tex-Mex because it barely resembles real Mexican food such as carné asada, green chilies and pork stew, and molé. Want the good stuff? Go south of the border just stick to the tequila because the water will make you sick, gabachos.

Spinning my wheels

noreply@blogger.com (A. J.) — Fri, 08 Dec 2006 16:37:00 +0000

Thick white smoke rises from the cold asphalt as the tires fail to grip as torque from the engine spins them. No, not literally. This is all a metaphor for my life. I am 26. I will be 27 in a few months. Before I know it I will wake up and be 50 with nothing at all to show for it. Is this that awkward age I was told about? That age where you start to feel to old for the bullshit that you use to coast through life yet too young to really worry about it? From where I am sitting all I can see is a deep cavernous hole that I have dug. Sometimes it seems I dug too deep and am now unable to climb out of it. I shout in anger and frustration for someone to come along and help me only to realize that it is my hole and my responsibility to get out of it.

Where does this come from? So often a very simple thing can trigger these thoughts in me. Today I was informed that high-speed internet was not available in my area of the world. That's right. I live 10 minutes from Downtown Dallas yet DSL is a thing of mystery to these hicks. It is trivial, no? Look at it this way, friends. I have cable television, a comfortable bed to sleep in, heat, air conditioning, food, a car in great condition, and a roof over my head; A place to come home to at night. None of this is mine. The simple fact that I can't get high-speed internet brings it all to light. You see, I have all I need right here but that is not enough. We need more than that. We need those trivial things we want. At 26 years old I should be able to provide myself with such things. The car belongs to the bank. Everything else belongs to Mom. The TV is mine. Sure I pay a rent that would be considered very high, but I owe her that. Truth is, I am coasting and I am tired of it. Only problem is, I have no freaking clue how to get myself out of this hole.

Get a better job, I hear some of you thinking. Fair enough. My Aunt told me the other day that I needed to grow up and get a life. Thank you for that bit of information. Now, would you mind telling me where to start? I have worked in restaurants for my entire working life. Even before I was legally old enough to work I was waiting and bussing tables. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I know the business inside and out. I could run a restaurant blind-folded. One problem. No one with the authority to hire me for that position seems to think as highly of me as I do. McMullan's chose nationality over experience when choosing their new manager. Texas Land and Cattle shipped me off to Vegas. Lone Star answered my plea for a promotion with a broom and dust pan: "Could you get this out of the dining room." I wasn't at Rumjungle long enough to make a move. Amuse seemed to think highly of the idea. That is until it was time to act on it. Then I was offered grunt work and 8.50 an hour. With all due respect, Mr. Brown, suck my... well you get the picture. So what now? Shall I go and waste another year or two waiting tables trying to catch the eye and respect of someone? Should I seek a different path? Of course the first thing asked at an interview is, "Do you have any experience?" "Well. No, sir, but the one thing I do have plenty of experience at pays for shit and even that shit can't be counted on because it al depends on how many people show up and if they know how to tip or not. Plus there is obviously no advancement opportunities available there."

This means what? I heard someone in the back scream out, "Go to school!" Right. Good idea. However, who will pay my bills while I am doing that? I made 30 bucks last night. 20 the night before. If I am lucky I might pull down 200 for the weekend. School is an excellent long term solution, but right now I need a quick fix and restaurants are not going to cut it. I am past due on this and over due on that. I need cash now. Once I get the making money now thing figured out I promise I will give the school thing another go. What do you think about conning old widows out of their nest eggs and social security check. On that topic, social security, I can't understand why I still have to pay into SSA when they owe me 10,000 dollars. The lease they could do is let me skip paying into the system until the money is recouped, right? Of course not. I am just a voter.

All that aside, I am spinning my wheels and currently feel suffocated by the fumes. Each day I wake up feeling one step closer to being a 50 year old waiter who spends his days bitching about this and that and lamenting that "one day" things will be different. "One day" I'll get my shit straight, make a little something extra to save, meet a nice girl, start a family. I wake up this morning knowing that "one day" will not be today. Each day one day older and one step further from being 18 with my whole life ahead of me. Each day is one day closer to having my entire life behind me with nothing to show for it. Some will say, "You are still young, A. J." Really, no, no I am not. Closer to 30 than to 20. They Might be Giants said it best: You're older than you ever were and now you're even older. Now you're even older. Now you're even older. You're older than you ever were and now you're even older. Now you're older still. Time is marching on. Time is still marching on.

I am not asking for a hand out. Just a helping hand. Oh yeah, and some freaking high-speed internet.