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

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

2009-01-21T23:30:00.002-06:00

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?

2008-10-14T22:23:00.002-05:00

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

2008-09-24T00:08:00.001-05:00

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?

2008-07-27T23:04:00.000-05:00

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

2008-07-17T00:37:00.001-05:00

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

2008-03-06T02:19:00.001-06:00

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

2008-01-19T03:10:00.000-06:00

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

2008-01-19T03:05:00.001-06:00

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

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

2008-01-18T05:43:00.000-06:00

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.

2007-10-24T01:02:00.001-05:00

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

2007-10-07T05:12:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-09-18T04:15:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-09-03T04:03:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-08-08T03:38:00.000-05:00

...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

2007-07-30T00:59:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-31T03:03:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-22T05:58:00.000-05:00

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...

2007-04-24T23:32:00.000-05:00

... 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?

2007-03-12T06:44:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-18T01:36:00.000-06:00

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.

2007-02-10T12:55:00.001-06:00

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

2007-01-17T05:51:00.000-06:00

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

2007-01-07T04:18:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-12-22T06:55:00.000-06:00

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

2006-12-08T10:37:00.000-06:00

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.

What might have been.

2006-12-02T04:04:00.000-06:00

In the light of recent events concerning race. In light of bad leadership leading our glorious country down an all too familiar path. In the light of polarization splitting those of us who care into two hate-filled groups. In the light of an overwhelming apathy that keeps the rest of us from thinking we, as normal Americans, can do anything to change it. In this light I turn to two men in this country's history who started their political careers with nothing but ambition but grew within themselves to discover sympathy and a heartfelt desire to help not only the weak and poor and not only the rich and strong but all Americans and all members of this human race.

One of these men was a staunch supporter of civil rights and a strong believer in diplomacy before military. He was killed in November 1963 in Dallas, Texas. While John F. Kennedy was a great man in his own right, his death caused a re-birth in a greater man. Bobby Kennedy mourned his brother bitterly and struggled to find his own identity as he served as attorney general under Lyndon Johnson. Bobby was tortured inside by his own distrust in Johnson and his public responsibilities to remain Loyal to the man his brother chose.

The Kennedy's led an easy life up on Camelot and never knew the struggles of poverty and civil rights. Bobby was apathetic to the plight of the black community in the sixties. What did he care? He was a privileged white boy from an upper-class family. It all changed when he was charged with the questioning of law enforcement's activities during a labor dispute among grape pickers. Picketers were arrested because the sherriff was sure they were going to commit a crime. Bobby asked, "How can you arrest someone when no crime has been committed?" The sherriff answered, "They were ready to commit a crime." Bobby laughed in a sort of dumbfounded tone and suggested that, "... on your lunch break you should read the constitution of the United States." Later he would witness blacks in the south being beaten by cops and bitten by police dogs while peacefully protesting. He would see black children swept away by the rush of a fire hose spraying water in the streets. Later LBJ would sign into law the Civil Rights Bill that was introduced by JFK on behalf of his brother Bobby.

After winning in the Senate, Bobby was encouraged to run for President. He did so forcing Lyndon Johnson to announce his decision to not seek a second term. The writing was on the wall. Bobby was steam-rolling in his campaign as he went for California. Bobby Kennedy was to be the next President of the United States. He would have changed the world and of this I have no doubt in my mind. No doubt at all. Instead, he was shot along with five other people in the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, California after winning that states primary. Bobby was the only one to die of his wounds.

Below is a transcript of a speech given by Bobby Kennedy in Indianapolis just two months before his death on April 4th 1968. He was scheduled to stop for a quick campaign rally. Instead he was informed after touching down that Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated hours earlier. Here was a white man in a black neighborhood at the height of the race wars. He was strongly urged to get back on the plane and go to the next stop. He refused. Upon arriving at the podium he was made aware that the crowd had no idea that Dr. King had been shot. He felt it his duty to inform them and after shaking off an aides redrafted speech, Robert Francis Kennedy delivered an honest, heart-felt impromptu speech that, while in other parts of the country blacks were rioting, left the crowd somber, calm, and united in their mourning. In this speech he quotes a passage from a book given to him by Jackie Kennedy. She gave him this book to help him cope with his brothers death. Enjoy.

Robert F. Kennedy---April 4th 1968

Ladies and Gentlemen - I'm only going to talk to you just for a minute or so this evening. Because...

I have some very sad news for all of you, and I think sad news for all of our fellow citizens, and people who love peace all over the world, and that is that Martin Luther King was shot and was killed tonight in Memphis, Tennessee.

Martin Luther King dedicated his life to love and to justice between fellow human beings. He died in the cause of that effort. In this difficult day, in this difficult time for the United States, it's perhaps well to ask what kind of a nation we are and what direction we want to move in.

For those of you who are black - considering the evidence evidently is that there were white people who were responsible - you can be filled with bitterness, and with hatred, and a desire for revenge.

We can move in that direction as a country, in greater polarization - black people amongst blacks, and white amongst whites, filled with hatred toward one another. Or we can make an effort, as Martin Luther King did, to understand and to comprehend, and replace that violence, that stain of bloodshed that has spread across our land, with an effort to understand, compassion and love.

For those of you who are black and are tempted to be filled with hatred and mistrust of the injustice of such an act, against all white people, I would only say that I can also feel in my own heart the same kind of feeling. I had a member of my family killed, but he was killed by a white man.

But we have to make an effort in the United States, we have to make an effort to understand, to get beyond these rather difficult times.

My favorite poet was Aeschylus. He once wrote: "Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God."

What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black.

So I ask you tonight to return home, to say a prayer for the family of Martin Luther King, yeah that's true, but more importantly to say a prayer for our own country, which all of us love - a prayer for understanding and that compassion of which I spoke. We can do well in this country. We will have difficult times. We've had difficult times in the past. And we will have difficult times in the future. It is not the end of violence; it is not the end of lawlessness; and it's not the end of disorder.

But the vast majority of white people and the vast majority of black people in this country want to live together, want to improve the quality of our life, and want justice for all human beings that abide in our land.

Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world.

Let us dedicate ourselves to that, and say a prayer for our country and for our people. Thank you very much.

Home movies

2006-11-15T13:06:00.000-06:00

Okay so I was snooping. Sue me. Just do not tell on me. I was looking through mom's house in search of fingernail clippers. Apparently hers just fall off because none were found. I did, however, find some old VHS tapes labeled "Home Movies". Now I do not own one of those fancy gadgets that transfer video to the computer so I took some crude pictures with my cell phone and uploaded them to my machine. Now, my friends and loved ones, I share them with you. Please, take the time to meet my family.

First we will start at the budding years of greatness. I was five years old when my father purchased a video camera and obsessively began video taping every single stinking moment of our young lives.

Now we move on to my siblings. Here we find Tiffany at age fifteen. At least I think fifteen. Either way I don't think she knew she was being filmed at this moment. I was unable to get a clear(ish) shot of Krystal alone but she will come up later.

That year, as every other year, my school held a field day. This is when all the kids compete in track and field events for cheap ribbons glued to plastic plaques. Blue was for 1st place, Red was for 2nd, and Yellow was 3rd. As you can tell the greatness was already strong in me. Here is one 1st place ribbon.

Here is another. Scoreboard, bitches.

Now let's meet my cousins. These are my Aunt Debbie's kids. Sorry, Kels, you had yet to be brought into this world. First is my favorite cousin of all time, Jennifer, who is to be married next October.

Now we have Cris. I think it was Chris back then. Either way he has changed a little bit since this innocent blonde baby.

Next we have Chase as a brand new baby. I think I was told he is pushing 10 feet tall now.

Next up will be two characters who can't be left out when talking about family members. These two have so much personality I am surprised the both fit in the same room. First let's take a look at Uncle Lou or, as the kids called him, Bubba.

Then we have Uncle Donnie or Jimmy Don, the resident metal god. He once played for his own band Ricky's on Fire before joining up with Nazareth's Manny Charlton to form a band he would tour with. Seriously, and I am not saying this because he is my uncle, the man can flat out play a guitar. Hopefully I'll hear him play again soon.

Let's move on to Christmas where the height of technology was in our house. It was a gift given to me but you will be hard pressed to find me playing with it on this Christmas video. Come to think of it, the best video this family has of Christmas was when my Dad danced around with my keyboard. These people stole my presents. Here it is...

Believe it or not, the Atari was hot shit back then. Here are my sisters playing it on my thirteen inch color TV. Oooooo!!!

My father had a bad habit of stealing my presents. Here he is playing Pole Position.

Oh well. I was busy shooting hoops with my mini basketball hoop. You can't tell but I am using a mini Fighting Irish of Notre Dame basketball. Oh yeah... that's for anyone who thinks I jumped on the bandwagon in 2002. I was an Irish fan from the start.

I hope you enjoyed my stroll down memory lane. My eyes did water a bit seeing my father and listening to the voice of my grand father. Thanks for playing.

Days Go By

2006-11-13T09:05:00.000-06:00

I am still plugging away at the NaNoWriMo project. I thank those who have sent their well wishes and good lucks. It may suck, damn it, but it will at least be 50,000 words of suck. In the meantime why not enjoy some lyrics from a song you would not expect to have any meaning other than get your ass on the floor and shake what god gave you. It's a dance mix by Dirty Vegas called Days Go By.

You are still a whisper on my lips
A feeling in my finger tips
Pulling at my skin

You leave me when I am at my worst
Feeling as if I've been cursed
Bitter cold within

Days go by and still I think of you
Days when I couldn't live my life without you

Current word count: 15,234
Oh yeah... someone is about to DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey, that's a shot, Lady!!

2006-11-02T02:41:00.000-06:00

John Lewis plays music. It's less what he does and more who he is. What he does, if he has to do anything at all, is wait tables with me at Amuse. He has a pretty steady line up of gigs that keeps him busy plying his trade. On Mondays he is with his three piece band playing for the regulars at City Tavern. On Thursdays he can be found strumming his guitar and mixing his brilliant original songs with wonderfully stylized covers of his favorites at the Belmont Hotel. On Wednesdays, however, he sits in a small chair behind his trusty six-string and a microphone surrounded by plush lounge seating at Amuse. He sings for us. At least, we, the staff, are the only ones there most Wednesdays. Oh sure, there are some tables coming and going but mostly he serenades the staff of Amuse as we lean on the bar trying to, as the Dallas Observer put it, play cool.

John is a character. So much so that I plan on including a carbon copy of him in my NaNoWriMo writings even if he doesn't know it yet. Hey, if it gets published I'll send him a copy. John can usually be found at a bar, any bar, wearing faded jeans, a campy t-shirt, an old forest green corduroy sport coat with elbow patches, and flip flops. His head is shaved but still he leaves a slight stubble to match his unshaven face. His laugh is as contagious as it is raucous and genuine. His entire body bends with the laugh as his head falls back to his shoulders and his hand meets the stubble on his head. His teeth stick out from his dark complexion as his eyes twinkle to let you know that he is truly amused. One cannot help but laugh along. John loves music. He loves the Texas Longhorns. He loves when Notre Dame loses. Mostly, though, he loves to drink.

On Saturday the twenty-eighth of October, The staff of Amuse dressed up for Halloween. I was Jake Blues, Sam was a priest, Ieva was a faerie, and Suzi was Medusa. John? John was a black-eyed pea. That is he wore the letter P glued to his shirt while using a burnt cork to give himself a black eye. Get it? It was on this night that John learned of the fall back time change. He was beside himself that more drinking could occur in the hour we gained. Most people celebrate the extra hour of sleep. Not John. John relished the idea of another hour to ensure that he was adequately inebriated. As I entered my Jeep to leave, John asked me, "Where are you headed?"

"I am going to a party," I replied.

John tilted his head back and bent his body as he does when he laughs and let out an abrupt and loud, "FINE!" and he was off to drink for an extra hour.

John played his guitar at Amuse this evening and there was a point where John was in a slight dilemma. Sam purchased a shot of Jaegermeister to be delivered to John as he sang. At the same time, Mitch sent over a shot of Knob Creek. Just as John pondered the notion of finishing off both shots, Alicia, John's girl, walked in. He gave her the Knob Creek. We all lifted our glasses to toast, tapped the bar with the glasses, and shot our shots or drank our drinks. All of us except for Alicia. She said she wanted to sip it. To which John replied, to all of our amusement, "Hey, that's a shot, Lady!!"

Damn crackity ass Cracker Barrel

2006-10-19T01:12:00.000-05:00

Chris Rock's mother along with Al "My Homeboy" Sharpton is suing Cracker Barrel for what she claims to be a discriminatory act. According to Ms. Rock, she was having an early dinner with her daughter around 4:30p at a Cracker Barrel located in South Carolina when she felt she was ignored because she is black. First off... racists in South Carolina? Get the fuck out of here!!

Ms. Rock says she was talking to her daughter for about thirty minutes before she realized that no one had taken her drink order or had even been to the table. She then looked around and noticed that everyone around her had been served and that tables that arrived after her were already eating. She then complained to the manager who apologized for the situation and then offered her a free meal. That crackity ass manager, who was white, said they he himself would wait on her table. He claimed that is was a mix up caused by a shift change. Apparently Ms. Rock and her daughter were seated at a table that was not assigned to a server. Ms. Rock refused his offer and left the restaurant. She then phoned the human rights department of the state of South Carolina to complain. The assured her they would look into the situation and get back to her once an investigation had been carried out. Months later the State had never called. Ms. Rock called Rev. Al "My Homeboy" Sharpton. He suggested she sue Cracka' Barrel. Imagine that... Al Sharpton wants to sue someone. Previous to being sued, Cracker Barrel has sent Ms. Rock a gift basket as well as numerous vouchers for free meals. She, as opposed to using her free vouchers like a normal person who bitches to get free stuff, decided to sue.

Let me start with this. I am not going to sit here and try and pretend that racism does not exist in this world. It does. However, some things are just ridiculous. Ms. Rock was a regular at this restaurant and never had any problems like this before. What happened? Did they suddenly realize she was black? 4:30 is a normal time for a shift change in a restaurant. Ms. Rock was seated at 4:26. My guess is that the waiter assigned to that section was scheduled to leave at 4:30 and decided to ignore the table for a few minutes and let the next guy take care of it. This would be done not to keep from serving a black lady but rather to leave work without having to take that last table. I have seen it many times. Manager says to the hostess, "Who has table twelve?" Hostess says, "Tommy." Manager looks for Tommy only to learn that Tommy left thirty minutes ago. Sure it may seem simple, right? I mean those two ladies are just sitting there and no one is helping them. Shouldn't someone check on them? An assumption was probably made that the two ladies were there before Tommy left and he did wait on them. However, they paid out and Tommy went home. The ladies were just sitting and chatting. After all, she did say that she was distracted by her conversation and did not realize how long they were waiting for service. A simple mistake was all that was made. No discrimination. No Racism. Ms. Rock should have taken the free meal and shut the hell up.

Too often in this day and age we are quick to say that we were mistreated because of discrimination. "That guy cut in front of me in line because I am a jew." or "My teacher failed me because I am fat." or "The only reason I wasn't given the promotion is because my feminist boss hates men." Come on people. If I cut in front of you in line it is only because you look like a sissy boy and I know you aren't going to do anything about it and, besides, I am in a hurry and far more important than you. Your teacher failed you because you are retarded. Seriously, General Lee's best friends were not Bo and Luke Duke. As far as that job promotion. It's true your boss hates men. However, you did not get the promotion because she knows that you leave thirty minutes early every day and you drink hard liquor at lunch. Sometimes unfortunate things happen to us. Life suck; Get a helmet.

Seriously though... that shit is funny as hell that Chris Rocks mom is suing a place called Cracker Barrel. You couldn't write anything that funny if you tried.

And Now the Time of Year Where Summer Gives Way to Autumn

2006-10-10T07:04:00.000-05:00

So the equinox was a couple of weeks ago but it hasn't quite felt like fall yet. According to the weather reports that will all change this week as temperatures drop from close to 100F to 60F in less than a week. Nights are already feeling a tad bit nipply. This Saturday past I accompanied some friends from work to a local bar with a large outside area composed of picnic tables and glowing fires burning in pits scattered around the grounds. By the end of the evening I sat on a bench wrapped in a Hello Kitty blanket with Suzi and Jinger as we tried to escape to chill. Was I cold? Naaa. Just taking the opportunity to be wrapped in a blanket with two beautiful women. I am a great many things but stupid is not one of them.

This reminds me of the daunting task I never look forward to as cold weather approaches. This is the task of replacing my full top on the Jeep. I do prefer the Jeep topless but I know that it is illogical when the temp drops. However, the full top is the biggest pain in my ass to put back on. Not only that but I am surrendering my back seat... but I gain the ability to leave valuable items in my Jeep without the fear of it al being stolen.

Next on the list of getting ready for a Texas fall and winter is the purchase of new tires. With the wet winters in this town I feel unsafe with the tires I have now. My rubber friends have seen their better days... like two years ago. They should have been replaced a long time ago and this negligence has led to one wreck on icy roads that very nearly killed me and did cause four grand worth of damage to the Jeep. Another instance had me on the inner shoulder of I35 changing a blowout. Another time my right rear lost traction on a rainy highway on the way home from San Antonio. This sent me spinning across lanes of traffic and fortunately coming to a stop inches away from a concrete barrier. Yeah... it is time for new tires. How about some 31 inch BFG All Terrain KOs? Talk about mean looking tires. A nice little upgrade to the Jeep.

Here comes another equinox
Where Summer gives way to Autumn
It's the time when I review my stocks
And wonder why I bought them

On the subject of "that song's lyrics sound familiar to me and I have to hear them over and over"

2006-10-02T07:00:00.000-05:00

So recently I found myself at the Gypsy Tea Room in Deep Ellum standing on a worn hard wood floor flanked on either side by John Lewis and Ieva. I'll not introduce these two because the intricacies inherent in their separate personalities would be enough to fill an entire blog each. I will leave it at this: They are good people and I am better for having met them. At any rate, Ieva seems to be a big fan of Mason Jennings and she caught wind that he would be stopping by our fair burgh for a performance in the famed Tea Room. I was invited along with Lewis and, although a little grudgingly, I shared the short drive from the restaurant to Deep Ellum. I did not really know what to expect from this experience. I had never heard of Mason Jennings but John seemed to speak well of him and Ieva was nothing less than fanatic about his music. I have to tell you... I absolutely loved it and it started from the first song that he played. He stood alone on his stage with guitar in hand. His band had yet to make it to the stage and their instruments stood idle surrounding Mason. Ieva, I thank you for introducing me to this. It speaks to me and helps to make sense of a lot of things. You people will have to check him out. "Boneclouds" is the name of his new album on Sony/Epic. This song makes me smile... "Nothing" by Mason Jennings.

Nothing

Make yourself at home, 'cause i'm going out
Across the street to get us some water
'cause this water's brown, and i'm so embarrassed
To have you here but i want you around
Usually i'd sing, or play you my guitar
But i know it won't get very far with you
'cause you like music that makes you move
And mine has a groove, but it's nothing i can prove
Please know what I mean
When i say, nothing
Things that i buy and things that i think
Haven't made this a better place to be
Drugs that i try and drinks that i drink
Haven't made this a better place to be
It's still just a room with the drums in the middle
A couch along the wall that works as my bed
I still have a phone that rings all day
I still have things i wish i would of said
Please know what i mean
When i say, nothing
When i say
This whole thing's been hard on me
It breaks my heart, do you know what that means
My new place seems strange to me
It breaks my heart, do you know what that means
It means nothing

"Jesus was skinny... Look what happened to him."

2006-10-02T01:31:00.000-05:00

Okay, boys and girls. This is a piece I did not write although it is as good as something that I would write and I can understand any confusion. Enjoy.

"Fat guys kick ass"

If I ate less, I'd lose weight. But I don't, because I love food.

- - - - - - - - - - - -
By Steven A. Shaw

That the world is run by fat guys is no secret (more on this later), yet Americans devote a tremendous amount of time, effort and money to losing weight without ever stopping to consider the advantages of obesity. And the advantages are many -- not least of which is that you can eat whatever you want.

I'm a fat guy -- always have been. I'm not "big-boned" (surprise, there's no such thing), I don't "carry it well," and I'm neither "husky" nor "just a little heavy." There's nothing wrong with any of my glands. I'm not a victim in any way. I'm a fat guy because I eat too much. If I ate less, I'd lose weight. But I don't, because I love food (and I even eat food I don't love, because I love the mere act of eating). I'm a fat guy, as in I could lose 50 pounds and still be fat, as in I'm 5-foot-10 and 250 very apparent pounds (plus or minus 10 pounds depending on what I ate that day). I'm a fat guy, and I'm not alone.

According to a study published in the May 29, 1998, issue of Science, 54 percent of American adults (and 25 percent of children) are overweight (and that figure is likely skewed downwards by all the people who crash-diet the week before their annual physicals because they know they're going to get weighed). We, the fat, are the rapidly expanding majority. (The fat population has grown by 33 percent since 1978.) It is the thin who are abnormal.

I enjoy being a fat guy, although I must confess I wouldn't want to be a fat girl. The societal deck really is stacked against them (unfairly, I might add, because fat girls are in many ways superior to skinny ones). But being a fat guy is great. I've never felt that my weight kept me from getting a job or a girl, or from gaining admittance to a club. And it has many, many advantages.

Fat guys are strong. Ask any bar owner who hires bouncers, or anybody who gets in a lot of fights, or any high school wrestler. They'll all tell you the same thing: Don't fuck with fat guys.

Despite the propaganda of 10,000 suburban strip-mall tae kwon do "academies" and health-club self-defense classes, the simple truth is that victory in a fight is largely a matter of inertia. "The 300-pound tub-of-lard beats the 165-pound musclehead every time," says Navy Lt. Jonathan Shapiro, my brother-in-law and all-around physically fit tough-guy, who spends much of his life recovering from various exercise-related injuries. "Fat guys kick ass."

In competitive wrestling, if one guy outweighs another by a few pounds, they put him in a different weight class -- the match wouldn't even be fun. Every fat guy is inherently strong, but the ultimate weapon is the fat guy who knows how to fight (aka the sumo wrestler).

Fat guys aren't as slow as you think, either. I don't have time to explain all of Newtonian physics to you, but remember that a body in motion tends to remain in motion. Fat guys may have trouble turning on a dime, but they can move in one direction with great alacrity and effectiveness, as demonstrated repeatedly in every NFL game.

Still, the fat guy is essentially a peaceful creature. War is for the thin. Fighting requires effort, and minimum effort is the mantra of the fat guy. Efficiency and economy of movement are the fat guy's greatest allies. The thin think nothing of bounding up four flights of stairs, running to catch a bus or invading a Caribbean nation, but fat guys plan their days around avoiding these very situations.

But they don't avoid dating. Dating is eating. Nearly every date centers around a meal, and fat guys are far and away the best dining companions. They are uninhibited eaters, they know all the best restaurants and they know how to cook. Therefore, fat guys are the best dates.

The thin choose restaurants based on ambience; fat guys choose restaurants because the food is good. The thin may know how to operate a grill (badly) and make breakfast (badly), but every fat guy intuitively knows how to truss a capon, bake a wedding cake and roast a whole hog.

The fat guy's love life is inextricably linked to his love of food. For the fat guy, food and sex are two points on a continuum. No fat guy would ever dream of making a move on a girl without first feeding her a nice meal -- it's just not done. And when you're out with a fat guy you don't have to worry about looking like a pig. You can eat whatever you want, because nothing makes a fat guy hornier than a girl who can devour a big steak (although fat guys also appreciate skinny girls because they represent leftovers). As an aside, fat guys can hold their liquor. This is a simple biological fact. Remember those charts they show you in driver's ed? How much you can drink is a direct function of how much you weigh.

And who better to bring home to mom than a fat guy? Mothers, especially immigrant mothers who speak little English and have yet to be co-opted by American neuroses, love men who can eat. They (correctly) equate eating prowess with intellect and potential for success.

The fat guy wages a stealthy seduction. The woman sees the fat guy as a confidant. She thinks the relationship is platonic. Eventually, she marries the fat guy. Sound familiar?

When it comes to sexual prowess, women in the know prefer fat guys because fat guys are better in bed. The thin and the fit like to demonstrate their manliness by getting on top and banging away, but no fat guy in his right mind would do the equivalent of 100 pushups when he has the opportunity to lie on his back. Plus, do you know what the odds are of a girl getting off in the missionary position? If I have to tell you, you're obviously not a fat guy. But do you know what the odds are of a girl getting off when she's on top? Pretty damn good. And with minimal effort (i.e., reach down and help out with your fingers), you can make that a virtual lock (if that doesn't work, it's her problem -- not yours). For every hard-bodied two-pump-chump out there, there's a fat guy ready to lie back and provide an erect instrument for as long as need be.

Fat guys are particularly well-suited to being passive sex partners for fit-and-trim athletic girls who have the stamina to ride all night. You've seen the couples; now you know why. If you want a man who will make the earth move, a fat guy is still your best candidate (see inertia and Newtonian physics, above). Remember when Chris Farley and Patrick Swayze had a dancing contest on "Saturday Night Live"? Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.

The best thing is that fat guys sincerely appreciate women who deign to sleep with them, because every fat guy harbors the deep-seated fear that he's unattractive. And really, what many women want (more so even than great sex) is to be appreciated. Fat guys are particularly appreciative of fellatio, because it's the ultimate in minimum-effort sex, even less strenuous than masturbation. And fat guys are themselves masters of oral sex, because their mouths are so agile and in such good shape from all that eating (and because all they think about is sex, food and maybe Seven of Nine on "Star Trek: Voyager").

There was a time in history when, to get respect, you had to be fat. It meant you were affluent. It meant you were healthy. Now it's all twisted around: You can never be too thin or too rich, they say. But while it's possible nowadays for anybody on food stamps to maintain an impressive body weight by eating potato chips and Entenmann's chocolate doughnuts, the fat-as-healthy stereotype is making a comeback -- at least in the gay community -- and it's only a matter of time before straight people catch on.

It's simple: As my friend David, they gayest guy I know, put it to me, "Everybody knows fat guys don't have AIDS. In the gay community, fat is in."

I pity the thin. They spend their lives fighting the inevitable weight gains that come with age, butting heads with their chubby destinies. When they finally get fat, which they all do, they become inconsolable. Their spouses and partners, terrified by this harbinger of what is to come for them, are likely to up and leave. The formerly thin die miserable and alone, raging against the injustice that has befallen them.

The lifelong fat guy experiences no such problems. He's a rock, a source of stability for all around him. He was fat as a child and remains fat. He looks no worse in middle age than at age 20, and therefore his lifetime of fatness keeps him looking young (plus, it is well-known in the dermatological community that fat equals fewer wrinkles).

I was a fat kid, and I took some flak for it. But now, as I enter my 30s, all my formerly svelte friends are getting fat -- and I'm having the last laugh. As my long-lost friend Andy said to me 10 years after we graduated from high school, "You guys who were fat in high school are the only happy people at the high school reunion -- we've all gotten fatter; you look the same."

Now, I'm enjoying my life, whereas my slowly ballooning friends are consumed by the battle against fat. They climb pretend stairs, "spin" on pretend bicycles and run for dear life on treadmills. They deprive themselves of bodily pleasure, engage in self-indulgent and self-righteous fad dieting (no meat one month; no carbohydrates the next) and are otherwise miserable companions. They are particularly insufferable at the dinner table, because they are driven by an irresistible impulse to deliver a running commentary on the nutritional and medical ramifications of every bite they (and I) eat.

Yet, self righteous though they may be, the joke's on them. Thinness is an unattainable goal. We've all seen the charts and tables -- you know, the ones that say the "ideal weight" for a 5-foot-7 man is 138 pounds. Maybe that's what people weigh in television fantasyland, but, according to Kathryn Putnam Yarborough, a therapist at the Center for Eating Disorders at St. Joseph Medical Center in Towson, Md., "Less than 5 percent of the population, healthfully and genetically, can expect to achieve the shapes and sizes the media portrays as ideal. The media holds this unrealistic goal up to us and suggests that we try to reach it. No wonder so many men and women are struggling with body-image dissatisfaction."

I have a seemingly convincing excuse for being fat: I'm a restaurant reviewer. I'm supposed to be fat. But being fat requires no excuses and, truth be told, most restaurant reviewers are skinny -- which perhaps accounts in part for the current sorry state of the food press. Never trust a skinny chef, even less a skinny restaurant reviewer. Would you believe it has now become commonplace for restaurant reviewers to negotiate gym memberships as part of their employment agreements? It's a latter-day myth of Sisyphus.

Speaking of myths, Western culture's belief that thin is better is a rejection not only of common sense but also of basic human instinct. Children and animals (the most anthropologically pure subjects available) love fat guys. Watch the baby's face light up when it sees a fat guy. Watch the dog beg for a fat guy's attention. They understand.

Non-Western cultures, which invariably have less emotional baggage than ours, revere fat guys. The fat Buddha is worshiped the world over. Only in self-flagellatory Western religions are our idols so anorexic. Look how skinny Jesus was. Look what happened to him.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

But, you say, being fat is unhealthy.

The thin see this as the trump card in any discussion of weight. But even if the statistics are true, even if being fat is unhealthy, can we really do anything about it? Despite the $33 billion a year that Americans spend on weight-loss programs, the Federal Trade Commission reports that 95 percent of the 50 million Americans who will go on diets this year will fail. Even better, according to the Center for Eating Disorders, "33-50 percent of these people gain to a higher weight," which means we're talking about a serious waste of money.

Although near-constant attention is paid to the health risks of being fat (the National Institutes of Health says that "someone who is 40 percent overweight is twice as likely to die prematurely as an average-weight person," and the American Heart Association calls obesity a "major risk factor" in heart disease), the consequences of the war on fat are largely ignored. Yet the unquestionable harms of eating disorders and diet-drug abuse surely must be weighed against the largely speculative harms attributable to weighing more than the "ideal" weight. For example, The Center for Eating Disorders' records indicate that 8 million Americans suffer from anorexia, bulimia and various other disorders -- and 20 percent of these people experience premature death.

Moreover, the one statistic glaringly missing from most mortality studies is quality of life. How much happier is the person who lives life free of the constant pressure of negative body-image and fad dieting? How many days, months or even years of life is that happiness worth?

Still, perhaps there is another explanation for the statistics.

Have you considered that the so-called evidence on weight and mortality has been fabricated? That a secret brotherhood of fat guys has engineered what can only be described as the most effective disinformation campaign in human history? That fat guys want to keep you thin, miserable, afraid and powerless so they can enjoy the fruits of your labor?

Think about it. Fat guys sit around and eat whatever they want. Meanwhile, they tamper with the statistics and use fear of obesity to sap the thin of their energy and will. They keep the thin exercising and distracted, like rats in a maze, like gerbils on a Habitrail.

This master plan also includes a carefully cultivated image that allows fat guys to manipulate the thin into doing their work. The fat guy sits behind a desk all day, most likely screwing his secretary, while the secretary's athletic husband is out fighting fires (fat guys have made it very difficult for themselves to pass the firefighters test), protecting democracy (fat guys have arranged it so that the military will not accept overweight recruits) or otherwise creating wealth for fat guys to exploit. The fat guy holds the ladder while the thin ascend, risking life and limb to do the fat guy's bidding.

Actors are thin; producers are fat. Candidates are thin; chiefs of staff are fat. The fat guy retreats from the spotlight, content to be served. Content to rule the world.

And so, the next time you see a fat guy eating a double cheeseburger or struggling up a flight of stairs, do not pity him. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
salon.com | Oct. 15, 1999

Music speaks to the soul...

2006-09-26T05:09:00.001-05:00

... in a language all it's own. As a matter of fact Music uses a different language for each of us. No song says the exact same thing to two different people. We listen to what we like; Something we can relate to or something we can move to. It's what gets us up in the morning and it is what sings us to sleep at night. Maybe it all starts with a mother's or father's lullaby. The comforting voice of someone we love whisking us into dreamland. It is a very spiritual thing in a lot of cases. We hear a song and close our eyes as we are transported back to our proms, first kisses, or the first time we saw that girl that we just had to have. Think about it and I am sure you could make an album of songs that, no matter how many times you have heard them before or since, always bring you back to one moment; one memory in time.

I'll start by listing a few songs that make me think of my father. Tony Bennett belting out "Rags to Riches", Jerry Vale's "Pretend You Don't See Her", and the piano coda from "Layla". When I hear these songs I can close my eyes and see his face. I can hear his voice as it was when I was five years old riding on his back to the gruff tone it took after his first stroke. I remember shadow boxing in the hallway. Very vividly, I remember his limped swagger (even with a limp he had a swagger to him) as he climbed out of his Lumina and approached me in the driveway as I worked on my truck. I was supposed to be in school and he was supposed to be at work. He drove me to school that day and escorted me into class. It is not that these were some of my father's favorite songs. He did like Clapton but that's beyond the point. The reason these songs remind me of him is that they are in the movie "Goodfellas". He, my sister, and I literally wore the tape out so much that we bought him another copy for Christmas. I say we because my sister bought one copy and I bought another. We did not know this until he opened the first one. My sister and I have since worn those copies out as well. Thank god for DVD.

Let us move on now to "Bullet the Blue Sky" by U2. I am well aware that the song existed before this moment but, as I mentioned before, that has no bearing on anything. I was sitting in my bedroom at the age of fifteen looking over some algebra and figuring that I would blow it off until morning. I turned my attention, instead, to a hockey game with the sound turned down. The Dallas Stars were playing the St. Louis Blues. I couldn't tell you the score or who won but I know it was on. I was feverishly penning a love letter to Heather Berringer as the song came on the radio. It was one of many such letters that I would write to one girl or another and never deliver over the years. It is a practice I shy away from these days although the admiring in secret habit is alive and well. It is more the spoken verses of the song that strike me with this memory... "So this man comes up to me, his face as red as a thorn bush; like all the colors of a royal flush and he's peeling off those dollar bills and counting as he slaps them down. 'One hundred. Two hundred..."

Then we have songs or particular music styles that bring us to a different realm of reality. Classical music to relax by as I lie with eyes shut imagining myself a tree. I stretch my arms and legs far out like branches and let negative energy flow through them and out of my body. It's a sense of flying through clouds. Then there is irish instrumentals that seem to trigger my souls memory. I've talked about this before in a previous blog so I digress. Nigel Kennedy playing his violin brings me to Christmas of 2001. Jessica and I had just become really serious as opposed to kinda serious and it was our first Christmas together. WIth all the people living in that apartment, it was a little like having a large family. Everyone was buzzing around decorating and shopping in the weeks leading up to the twenty-fifth. I had a great job that I loved, great people around me, and it was cold outside. Cold is important to me around Christmas time. I'd go shopping with Trish, dinner with Jessica, drinks with Brad and Amanda. Speaking of Brad and Amanda, they were engaged that Christmas season. On Christmas night the apartment hosted a dinner for all of the families. Twenty some-odd people around a table eating Christmas dinner. That is what it's all about. It was all and all a great Christmas. Maybe we were all just sentimental because of 9/11 and we felt closer to each other. I don't know. It was the best Christmas ever, though, and I would bet a lot of those people would agree with me. Jess??

Now we get to songs tat just plain flat out describe us. I am talking those songs that, during a happy time or not so happy time, you turn up and say, "Fuck yeah!". While having warm fuzzy feelings for someone I seem to turn up "Crash" by the Dave Matthews Band. In fits of anger "Judith" by A Perfect Circle does the trick. In those many times that I pine for someone like a little school boy with a crush and never ever tell them how I feel? (yeah.. it happens quite a bit. I am, as it has been so delicately put in numerous occasions, a pussy. Sue me) "With or Without You" by U2 rings in my ears. It doesn't hurt that I am a self acclaimed professional in car/shower singer and this happens to be one of the songs I sing well. Of course I would never know because I don't sing when someone is with me either in the car or the shower. I only have my own judgment on this. If you have ever known someone who was just hot as hell and, for whatever reason, every time you were around her, you wanted to rip her clothes off and make passionate love to her right then and there but instead just sit silently and laugh at her jokes while hoping she can't see what's going on in your head because you wouldn't dare let her know that you are uncontrollably attracted to them physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, "Add it Up" from the Violent Femmes is your ticket. How about that one song that sums you up. The one that fits you to a tee. You know, the song that if you took one of those quizes on the web would always pop up as YOUR song. For me it is "Creep" by Radiohead although I like the Jeff Buckley version better. For me it is about having such high standards in who you have feelings for that you can never measure up to them. In essence, no girl I like would ever have anything to do with a guy like me. It's a mix of egocentric arrogance and low self esteem all in one. You see, I know what I like and what I want in a woman and I refuse to settle for less than that. However, I don't think I am good enough for any woman who measures up to my standards. It's hell to think this way but it is what it is and I doubt it can be changed. Most times it is misleading. I often hold her up in a light and on a pedestal so high that no one could reach her. Let alone me. Whatever... it's hard to explain. I am sure of myself and I think I am great. It's what everyone else thinks that I am not so sure about.

And... there is nothing wrong with a little bit of Stones. Mick wrote these lyrics and they are speaking to me today. They are telling me that nothing is as bad as it seems and no matter how fucked up we are, there is someone who is just like us.

Monkey Man

Im a fleabit peanut monkey
All my friends are junkies
Thats not really true

Im a cold italian pizza
I could use a lemon squeezer
What you do?

But Ive been bit and Ive been tossed around
By every she-rat in this town
Have you, babe?

Well, I am just a monkey man
Im glad you are a monkey woman too

I was bitten by a boar
I was gouged and I was gored
But I pulled on through

Yes, Im a sack of broken eggs
I always have an unmade bed
Dont you?

Well, I hope were not too messianic
Or a trifle too satanic
We love to play the blues

Well I am just a monkey man
Im glad you are a monkey, monkey woman too, babe

You're going to reap just what you sow.

2006-09-14T03:06:00.000-05:00

I wake up screaming and in a cold sweat some nights. I keep having those dreams, the ones where I am backed against a wall by an army of masked gunmen. They shoot but I can’t feel the bullets hitting me. I know they must be but I do not feel the sting. The pain in my dream is more mental and emotional. I even have my own gun but I can’t seem to fire it. It just sits in my hand no matter how hard I want to spray the assailants with a spread of gunfire; I can’t will my hand to squeeze the trigger. I look at my hand occasionally as if to make sure it is still there because it fails to respond to my wishes, my brain's commands. I can’t do anything to get out of this corner, to get away from this wall. I can’t fight them off and suddenly a clock starts ticking somewhere. The pounding ticks and tocks are much louder than the gunfire. I have a sense that I am running out of time and the only way to get away is for, somehow, my hand to squeeze the trigger of the sub machine gun in my hand. Why can’t I shoot? I have all the tools at my disposal to get out of this spot but I can’t shoot. My mind is blocking me. I am thinking about it too much perhaps. All at once the gunshots stop and the ticking ceases. A man approaches slowly as I stand motionless in the corner. He removes his mask just as he strolls into a shadow. As he nears, light slowly crosses his face. It is my father smiling at me. He says, “Hey, boy,” before the smile fades into an angry glare as he continues, “Time’s up.” Then he raises a double barrel sawed-off shotgun to my face. Click… I wake up screaming.

Then I listen to soothing music…

Just a perfect day
Drink sangria in the park
And then later, when it gets dark
We go home

Just a perfect day
Feed animals in the zoo
And then later, a movie too
And then home

Just a perfect day
Problems all left alone
Weekenders on our own
It’s such fun

Just a perfect day
You make me forget myself
I thought I was someone else
Someone good

It’s such a perfect day
I’m glad I spent it with you
Oh such a perfect day
You just keep me hanging on
You just keep me hanging on

You’re going to reap just what you sow
You’re going to reap just what you sow
You’re going to reap just what you sow

Number 5

2006-09-06T00:49:00.000-05:00

If you haven't read the post before this please do so. This is the second part of a two part post.

5. Jessica Brown (2001-2005)

I trudged as a waiter in what had to be the slowest low-volume restaurant in the history of eateries when I first met Jessica. I was always pining over a nameless girl for quite sometime when Jessica came in to fill out an application. I looked right through her as I often do to one girl when I am pining over another. It’s not meant as an insult and should never be taken personally. I just seem to have tunnel vision when it comes to such things. This girl I was head over heals for will remain nameless as I don’t see her as worthy or important to the issue at hand. I am here to discuss the greatest love of my life to date. I am here to talk about Jessica Brown.

I left Steak and Ale (previously mentioned as the slowest low-volume restaurant in the history of eateries) when I was twenty. As a matter of fact I left Dallas and even Texas altogether. I had decided, rather abruptly to move to New York City. I packed my bag and boarded a plane just hours after informing my family of my departure. The other girl knew earlier as she was the one who helped with the little planning that took place. I was going with no job, little money, and no idea where I was to sleep once I arrived. I was thrown a going away party with generous amounts Cuervo Gold consumed out of super big gulp cups stolen from a nearby 7-11. Jessica was at this party. The other girl was not. I lost touch with the other girl while in New York. While I knew her number and talked to her, I no longer wanted her. I did find myself missing Jessica though. This was something I never could understand.

Eventually I found myself back in Dallas and back at the restaurant I hated so much. It was even slower than before but it was no matter to me. I lived literally fifty feet away. My first night back, Jessica came to see me and we sat at one of those twenty-four hour diner type places and had breakfast. Well, I had breakfast. She had some sort of cheese blintz with blueberry compote on top. We argued that this was a dessert and not breakfast. At any rate we started seeing each other on a regular basis out side of work.

Jessica, at this point, wore her hair in a rather odd way. It was a little more than shoulder length but was shaved in the back and along the sides. It was also dyed jet black. She had a pierced nose to match her tongue, nipples, ears, and other parts I am not going to mention here. She had recently had a labret piercing done which I thought was very hot. Normally I would run from this girl. Run fast and far away. However, on her, this just all made her very sexy to me. Once she came over and her hair was in pigtails and her black eyeliner was painted on thick. I can’t help it. I thought she was hot.

It wasn’t too long before I moved in to her place. Well, her place, her roommate’s place, and just about any other stray friend’s place. These girls were like an old cat lady taking in all of the feral cats only they collected feral friends, like me. There was Trish and Maia who officially lived there. I misspell Maia’s name I am afraid but it is her own damned fault for not spelling it like a normal person. Among the strays were Tim, Adam, Julie, and Alasdaer. Another name I am going to always misspell. They were, by large, an unruly group. Once, while surfing the Internet, Jessica and I looked over to see Julie’s bare ass in the air while she gave some random guy head on our couch. We quickly scampered back to our room.

Jessica was from Dallas just like I was but her parents, who are divorced, had relocated to Las Vegas and Missouri respectively. Jessica had a very strong bond with her father and, after a trip to see him, decided she as moving out there to be near him. Being in love with the girl I decided I was going to. What the hell, right? What was I doing anyway? What reason did I have to stay in Dallas? Besides it was Vegas, baby, Vegas. She did insist that we take a trip to make sure I wanted to do this. I was sure and early in 2002 we loaded up and took off in the pouring rain at five in the morning. Our dear friends, Brad and Amanda, took the trip with us. As per the wish of Jessica and Amanda we purchased walkie-talkies to communicate between cars. It was a fun trip through the great American southwest.

I want to stop the story here for a moment to express something to my readers. I loved Jessica. I mean I really loved her. I picked up my life and moved it to Vegas to be with her. The important thing to remember about this is the fact that I wanted to go to Vegas. Sure, it was to be with her, but I wanted to go. I would have gone to China with her if she asked and I would have loved every second of it. All of this just to be with her. Love, unfortunately, does not always last. Sometimes, especially at an early stage of adulthood, we grow in two separate directions and find ourselves looking back at someone whom we truly and deeply love but can no longer be with. This is what happened to Jessica and I. We grew up and apart. Sure there were problems but nothing that couldn’t be worked out.

I grew selfish during our relationship. Actually selfish is an understatement. I absolutely refused to do anything that I did not want to do. I was going to have things my way and I did not care who I hurt on the way. That was the monster I grew to be. Jessica? She grew tired of being hurt. It was not my intent to hurt her. I just wanted to do what I wanted to do. We stayed with each other because that was the way it had been. Towards the end she had her friends and I had mine. We rarely spent any time with the each other. She would go out after work and be gone until six in the morning. I would do the same except I would stay out later to spite her. Not only would I stay out later, but my eye would wander to girls I was spending time with. One night it went too far.

I went out after work and purposely failed to call home. I knew I was going to upset Jessica and I did not care. I went out with some people from work and drank like a fish. I pretended as if Jessica did not exist in my life. I did not cheat though. I never did that. I wanted to but could not, no matter how drunk I got, take that turn. I ended that night in my Jeep asleep. I woke up around eight in the morning and drove home. Jessica was waiting on the couch for me. After a few minutes of yelling back and forth, I told her it was over. I told her all about this other girl. I broke her heart and never shed a tear about it. This was the cold, heartless person I had become. She deserved more than that and I wanted out. A little while later I packed the Jeep and the dog and I made our way back to Texas thus ending my relationship with number five, the greatest love of my life.

Having a High Fidelity Moment

2006-09-01T16:30:00.001-05:00

So I am reading High Fidelity by Nick Hornby and I figured, “What a great idea.” So, with no flashy introductions or any long preface to bore you to tears, here it is: The Gilligan’s Island, All Time Top Five Break-ups of My Life. These are in chronological order.

1. Becky (1986-1987)

I know what you are thinking. How can this have any impact at all? You were six, right? Well it really doesn’t have that much impact. We were in the first grade together in Mrs. McKinney’s class. For whatever reason we were drawn to each other. We would run and play together during recess and sit by each other at lunch. Her mom and my grandmother were good friends so we even played together after school. They joked that we were boyfriend and girlfriend so, naturally, we said we were too. Of course six year olds have no idea about any of that. We just wanted to play tag or hide and seek.

Just before the Christmas holiday, as in most classrooms, Mrs. McKinney had us draw names out of a hat and we played secret Santa. I drew her name and, being the six-year-old boy I was, I bought the girl a toy gun. Mrs. McKinney took it away from her shortly after but, during the time she had it, she loved it. I was not the name she drew but she bought me some sort of G. I. Joe something. We spent the rest of the school day sharing crayons coloring Christmas trees and whatnot.

One day during the summer break my grandmother took me to Becky’s house and something did not seem right. We played as normal and had fun but something just seemed off. At the end of the day we were informed that Becky’s mother had a better job waiting for her somewhere and they were going to have to move away. I was crushed. Even going into the second grade, I expected to see her there. It did not happen this way, but I always imagine one of those movie scenes where the kid is in the back window of a car waving as her friend who is staying behind runs behind the car crying.

2. Amanda (1995-1996)

I really can’t tell you how I met Amanda. I mean, I know where and when. I just am not sure of the how. We had a mutual friend that went to my high school. Amanda went to some Christian school that I had never heard of. We talked on the phone a lot and seemed to laugh and get along great so we decided to meet each other. We did so in a local mall. How cliché, right? I remember gong into Bob’s Sports Cards before seeking her out in the food court. I bought a Mike Modano rookie card to add to my collection of hockey cards. I had, at one time, in my possession a limited edition, full set, still wrapped in plastic, Quebec released only 1991 box of NHL hockey cards. I paid ten bucks for it at a flea market in Balch Springs, Texas. Amanda thought I was cool for having the Modano rookie.
Before long I was inviting her to family cookouts and she was inviting me to her church functions. She was, in the true sense of the word anyway, my first girlfriend. It was a puppy love but don’t try to tell us that back then. To us, we were in love completely. We were going to get married after high school and start a family. Of course we were both going to be independently wealthy and live in exotic places too. Amanda kept her hair short, which still drives me crazy to this day. She was beautiful. Okay, I’ll be honest. She had big boobs. Big boobs that my fifteen-year-old hands could not stay away from and she was more than happy to let them do as they pleased. I should also mention that they were the first boobs my hands had touched. Is fifteen to old for that? I feel as if I should have accomplished this feat at a younger age. She was also my first kiss. I mean real kiss with tongue and everything. She was many of my firsts save the one first I wanted her to be that she would not give in to.

I tried relentlessly though. We’d kiss and I would reach for boob. We’d neck and I would slide a hand between her legs. We’d grind each other and I would go to unfasten her pants. That was the cut off point every time and I was always hoping that this time she would let me. Instead she would unfasten my pants, which I was more than willing to let her, and she would quell my frustration. Don’t get me wrong. This was great and as I grow older in life I realize that this was a perfect situation. I did not have to do anything. It was purely for my own enjoyment and all I had to do was lay back and let her do what she did. Once she was doing what she did and my father pulled up outside to pick me up. He honked, she stopped, and looked at me for some sort of approval. I told her to keep going so he honked some more. I was yelled at on the way home but it was worth it. Well worth it.

Amanda lived with her mother and her mother liked me. Amanda’s father did not like me at all. Do any fathers like the boyfriend before the age of forty? At any rate, Amanda stayed with her father for a few months and it must have been then that her father talked her out of seeing me. She called on the phone to let me know. I did not see, hear, or talk to her for a few years after that. She reconnected with our mutual friend and he brought her around. I have to admit that my heart skips a beat when I see her even to this day. I found out later that, some time after high school, she slept with my friend Chad. Then I found out that, just a year or so ago, she slept with my friend Justin. This pisses me off. When I first met her she wouldn’t even kiss me and after a little less than a year with her she was going down on me. I feel as if I did all the work just to see the new guy get the promotion. My obvious wish is to sleep with her so that I can join my two friends. She has a very serious boyfriend at the moment so this task would be a daunting would to achieve. I think I’ll just leave it alone.

3. Elizabeth (Summer 1996)

What Elizabeth and I had could not really be construed as a relationship, although we called it that. Elizabeth lived in Kansas and I in Texas. We talked on the phone and went through many phone cards before deciding it to be a good idea if I told my mother that I was staying at a friend’s house and drive to Oklahoma City to meet with her instead. This sounded great to me. Let’s see. I could share a hotel room with a hot nineteen-year-old blonde and all I had to do was sneak out of the state? Oh hell yeah I am doing it. I’d love to blame it on youth and hormones but I would do it still today.

We talked about what was going to happen but when we got there I was scared to even kiss her. We went to the zoo of all things and talked as we walked around the exhibits. It wasn’t until back in the hotel room that I ever so politely, and quite childishly, asked for a kiss. She laughed at me for a bit but eventually fulfilled my request. One thing led to another and, since I wasn’t using it at the time, I gave her my virginity. It’s funny. Teenage boys carry their virginity like a plague just waiting to be cured. Teenage girls treat it like a fine diamond that must be cherished and can’t be given up at any price.

I did care about the girl. I still do and I have made it a purpose to keep in touch with her. She has a dry with about her, which I love, and I remember having fun with her. I haven’t seen her in a long while but we talk through e-mails and IM. The Labor Day weekend following the summer of 1996 we met up again in Oklahoma City and spent three days together. I am not sure what it was we thought we had or we even thought about it at all. I know I thought she was great and I hope she felt the same about me.

Eventually we came to realize that we did, in fact, live too far away from each other. We still talked every once in a while but she did her thing and I did mine. I took a trip to Kansas for New Years 1997/98 and spent some time with her. We had fun together even when plans feel through and we ended up on her couch watching South Park as opposed to a party. To be honest, I preferred it. Back in my hotel we sat in the hot tub. Afterwards, she asked if I minded her taking a shower. Then she plopped herself on my bed wearing matching lingerie and proceeded to rub lotion all over herself. I looked and then turned back to the TV. This was the beginning of my stupidity and lack of knowing when a woman is throwing herself at me. This is a problem I have to this day. If you are not naked with your tongue in my mouth I do not have a clue.

4. Kathy (1998-??? It went on long after it was through)

I was playing hockey at an outdoor roller rink when I spotted a small kitten sitting in the goal. This was during a very active pick-up game so I picked the kitten up and placed her on the bench. I told her it was a much safer spot to watch from. After the game she was still there. I took her home with the intent to use the Internet to find someone to take care of her. This is how Kathy and I met. She responded to my ad saying how sweet it was but she could not take the cat. She did, however, want me to join her at Starbucks for coffee. It was raining hard that day which did not mesh well with the absence of my passenger side window on the Trans-Am. That was broken by a girl who would never make any list, even if it were a top three hundred list. I twice thought of turning around and going back home but I made it anyway. She was sitting at a table waiting for me. When she stood up to greet me my heart jumped in my throat. She was positively, without a doubt, drop-dead gorgeous. Kathy is Persian with smooth olive skin, jet-black hair, and eyes that were such a dark brown they too looked black. She was and is exceptionally beautiful.

We did nothing but talk at that Starbucks table for hours. Her eyes twinkled when she looked at me and I am sure my admiration was not hidden. At the end of that night I walked her to her car and, after we said our good-byes, she stood there for a tick looking at me. I suspected she wanted a kiss but, being the stupid guy I am, I was not sure she wanted a kiss so I hugged her. She smiled at me and got in her car. A week later we made a date to have dinner and we ended up at the same Starbucks table until they kicked us out. I walked her to her car again and, just like last time, she stood there for a tick looking at me and, again, all I did was hug her. She rolled her eyes and smiled. Then she stood on her tiptoes (she is only four foot eleven) put her hands on my face and leaned in. She left the rest up to me, which, admittedly, was not much. We shared a long and deep kiss that seemed to last for years. This is when I learned that my kiss has an awful power that can be deadly if not used properly. She fell for me hard that night. I fell for her hard that night too. I left after she did and I went home to change for my hockey game that night. I played better than I ever have before or since.

Kathy came over one night and I cooked dinner for us. We watched some TV as we wrestled on the couch and tickled one another. She grabbed the deck of cards from the coffee table and asked if I wanted to play. I said sure but I suggested we play strip poker. It was months later that I learned she folded a flush just so I would win. It was her way of taking her top off without it seeming like she chose to do it. I mean, after all if you lose a hand of strip poker, something has to come off. Those are the rules, right?

I guess I always thought she was better than what I should be with. Was she really out of my league? I was so jealous of every guy she knew. Her classmates, her coworkers, and even guy passing her on the highway made me crazy. I just knew that at some point she was going to wake up and realize that I was beneath her. I don’t think she ever did. I loved her and this time it was real love. I wanted to be with her until we were crinkly old people talking about better days and whatnot. She had to feel the same, right? She said she did. She gave me her virginity and girls like Kathy don’t do that unless they really love you. My jealousy drove her nuts and I can’t say that I blame her. Eventually it grew to be too much and she ended it.

I sunk into a spiral of depression that I felt would go on forever. I drank too much and ate too little. I was thrown out of hockey games for starting fights or hitting too hard in the corners. There was a period that I did not even get out of my bed. My father died just before I met Kathy so maybe that had something to do with it as well. I was a gaunt, skinny, drunk, pissed off guy for close to a year. I still saw Kathy at least once a week though. She would come over and bring food that I refused to eat. She would lie in bed with me until morning. Yeah, she loved me. I just fucked it up.

To Be Continued
Number 5 will get her own post. I am sure it will be long and will take a while to write so stay tuned.

This is a Blog About Nothing.

2006-08-31T02:54:00.000-05:00

Nothing in particular, anyway. I mean, what can I say? I woke up, I went to work, I came home, I went back to work, and I came home again. Exciting, eh? I just feel too many days have passed since last I blogged. Tell me, who is to say how many days are too many days? What if I just do not feel like blogging? Don't get me wrong. No one is holding a gun to my head and I really don't have to be doing this. Yet I am typing away with no direction or train of thought to build off of. My muse fills me with stories I dare not tell. How does it go, Liz? We pretend we don't want what we want for fear that what we want will find out that we want them. I think that is how it goes. Then we go on as if nothing has changed when, in fact, it has changed. It's all changing. We put on our armor and we brave the coldness of strangers and those we know but refuse to let inside. We are too tough to be bothered by anything, too busy and too important. When, really, it all boils down to one thing: Being happy. We deny ourselves happiness for fear of showing weakness. We dare not risk letting our feelings be known because they are the very things that will be used against us. Right now I say, "Fuck it," but tomorrow I will give in to the incredible urge to hide myself behind a wall. Keeping one's mouth shut is a good way to keep one out of trouble and undesirable situations. Acting on impulse is a practice long since dead to this world, rotten lot it is. Everything now has to be analyzed and picked through until the romance is out of it. Instead, we should be following our hearts with a reckless abandon to rival a sixteen year old boy on a highway on-ramp. I am afraid I cannot heed my own advice. If I lean in for a kiss, after all, I could be rejected and that risk far outweighs the reward of being accepted. Note the sarcasm. Off to bed for me now as I give the telly a rest in favor of a good book.

Some day someone is going to break my heart into a million pieces...

2006-08-18T16:49:00.000-05:00

... and I'll deserve it. Why? Because Henry Rollins is greatness.

if you'll give me one more chance
I swear that I will never lie to you again
because now I see the destructive power of a lie
they're stronger than truth
I can't believe I ever hurt you
I swear
I will never to you lie again, please
just give me one more chance
I will never lie to you again
I swear
that I will never tell a lie
I will never tell a lie
no, no
ha ha ha ha ha hah haa haa haa haaa
sucker
sucker!
oh, sucker
I am a liar

So I guess I was wrong... mostly anyway.

2006-08-17T15:44:00.000-05:00

So last night wasn't so bad. I mean my head did hurt and I did not want to be there all the same. As planned I said my hellos and stocked candles in the candle holders. Again. I considered that it was all beneath me. I still fell that way. However, we were busy and money was made. All in all it was okay. Then the fat guy showed up.

I know I am a chubby guy. Of course I have broad shoulders and a strong chest so I am fucking gorgeous regardless. This guy, however, was huge. Our booths are designed for six people. SIX PEOPLE. This guy took up one side himself. There was a chick sitting next to him but she was all the way against the wall while his left ass cheek was hanging off of the booth. Fat fuck. This guy orders the least epicurean entree on the menu. You have your choice of many different things that Chef is proud to call his like the Cider Marinaded Pork Chop or the Lamb Shank with Cous Cous. After refusing countless offers for drinks or appetizers this table sends me away five times saying they have not decided yet. When they finally do decide, this fat fuck orders a Top Sirloin with Steak Fries. Seriously? I maintain that that dish is left on the menu for people who are afraid to try anything different. It's a steak... nothing special about it at all. He orders his medium well which just aides to prove him as having a less than mature palate. Medium well steaks take some time to cook, especially when they are thick cut sirloins. I bring out steak knives to the table as we preset anything that will be needed. His remark to this was, "Does this mean there will be some food at some point tonight?"

I give him my dagger stare to let him know he is already on my bad side and perhaps he should quit pushing it. I understand he is hungry. I mean it has probably been a whole hour since his last donut or cream filled ho ho. He spent a lot of time in the restroom leading me to assume he had a big mac in his pocket. I deliver the food. I check back to assure everything is okay. Everyone is eating and says how wonderful it is. I move on to the next table. This next table had drinks, appetizers, my suggested entrees, and my suggested dessert. They were all smiles and left me with a 50% tip. back to the fat guy's table. I check to see if plates are empty and fat fuck's was. Well.. almost. He still had his steak. I asked if if was finished and his reply was, "I guess," as he refused to make eye contact with me. I ask if there was anything wrong and he informs me that he did not like it. I ask, "Was there anything specific you did not care for?"

He looks at me with this look that I suppose he felt was intimidating, but an obese gay fat fuck has a hard time coming off as intimidating, and repeats himself in a more stern voice, "I did not like it!"

I reply, "Oh, I am sorry. You just did not like the flavor of the steak."

As I am about to leave the table he gets one more jab in, "I assume it is supposed to taste like that."

I apologize one last time before leaving the table. When collecting the credit card vouchers after fat fuck had left I noticed that on one of them the tip line had been left blank. Fat fuck's tip line. Fat fuck did not tip me. Fuck fat fuck. Dear fat fuck, I hope you die of a massive coronary heart attack. I hope your dead fat corpse is found surrounded by cartons and cartons of ho hos. I hope empty big mac containers are piled up around you in your home that you never wanted anyone to see. I hope it smells of rotting food and roaches are crawling on you as the EMTs arrive to haul off your fat bloated body. I also hope your family has you cremated so that they can save money. I mean those double wide caskets are pricey.

For those of you who have friends or family that behave this way in restaurants, please leave them at home. I try very hard to eat out with my sisters for they just wear me down. They complain about anything. They bitch and moan trying to get free things such as desserts ora coupon. I mean seriously. You embarrass a waiter and make his job hell for a fucking coupon. Not only that but they are loud, obnoxious, and rude. Please, leave these people at home for their sake and the sake of others.

Other than fat fuck the night was great. I did not go to the Pub House to see John play though. It was my intent but I got sidetracked on my way out the door. I am a sucker and I can't help it. Eventually, though, it was just me, the dog, and the TV. Again. Well, I have to go back to work to do it all over.

I do not want to work today.

2006-08-16T14:56:00.000-05:00

Okay, so this is how it's going to go, right? I show up, as always, on time if not earlier. I go about my routine of saying, "Hola," to everyone I see as I walk in the door. It's 4:20 and people with certain tendencies are doing something else at this time. Not that I have anything against it. Whatever. It just never did anything for me so I never bought in to the whole blazing culture. With that said, I walk through the kitchen to find Chef and his cronies chopping, dicing, and listening to very loud, very bad Dallas radio.

I don't feel good today. My head hurts and I haven't had a good night's sleep in over a week. I can't complain. I work very little. I mean VERY little. I make good money though because I work the money shifts. Well, that is, except for today. This is shit. The last two Wednesdays combined I have walked out of the restaurant with a whopping seventy dollars in my pocket. That's thirty one week and forty the next. Forty dollars is hardly worth my time and effort of putting on the armor. I should be doing something else with my life. I should be out at the Ballpark taking notes so that I can get my recap article in before the paper goes to bed. Scratch that... I should be at the Ballpark prepping for my live report for SportsCenter, not slinging hash at a fucking restaurant. This industry has done well for me and, when I actually do get out of it, I plan to look back on it with fond memories.

Today, however, I have to go and pretend I actually like these people I wait on. I have to make them feel as though they are my world. I hate them. I don't even know them but I hate them. Not all of them. Most of them though. Last week I had a group come in and order some nice reserve wine and they let me pick their courses. When they got to dessert they were full but were willing to go with whatever I felt they would enjoy. On their way out of the door they asked my name again and promised to come back anytime as long as I could wait on them. Nice people... I liked them. They turned a slow night into a profitable night by tipping me fifty percent of their tab. Nice people.

So I make sure to put fresh candles in the candle holders. Is this what I should be doing? I mean, not to sound arrogant but tests have proved this, I have an IQ of 160. Should I really be stocking candle holders with fresh candles? Should I really be making coffee and tea? I don't feel good, damn it, but will I call in? Hell no. I don't call in. I haven't called in since I was a teenager. Why? Sense of duty. I don't want to let anyone down. Also, how can I call in when I only work four days a week. That would just be stupid. So I go about my opening duties. Make sure the tables look good. I say hello to Manny or Alahandra. I read the Observer as Josiah bumbles through opening the bar. Will he cut fruit today? I doubt it. Will his bar be ready to go by six o'clock? I doubt it. Will I get my drinks on time if we get busy? I seriously doubt it.

I wait for guests to exploit. That's right. Exploit. They don't really want appetizers AND salads. They order them because I tell them to. Maybe they should not have that fourth mojito but they do. Why? Because I tell them to. Sorry people but it is Wednesday. I have to milk you all for every penny I can get out of you tonight. So I do it. I do not feel bad for it. I read some more of the Observer while they eat. I wait for more guests. I think about things I should not think about, people I should not be thinking about, illogical fantasies that I should not be thinking about, and stupid ideas of stupid relationships that I should not be thinking about. This is my night because as soon as I think about it nine o'clock has come around. I count my money and leave the building. This hasty exit is usually reserved for Wednesday nights exclusively.

I'll drive to the Pub House and I'll order a Guinness. I'll sit next to John's girl Alicia as John readies to put on his show. I'll watch the door for people who I would like to see, but they never show up. I order another Guinness. John plays a set of a style of music that relaxes me and calms my nerves from the day. I keep looking for her to pop her head in the door. I order yet another Guinness. John sings Tyler in his Dave Matthews meets Ben Harper style and I think about how I am going home tonight. Alone. Just me, the dog, the TV, and a slight buzz. I order another Guinness and pretend nothing is wrong as I watch some other putz do a live spot from the Ballpark on SportsCenter. I take my leave from the barstool and walk to the head. I take a piss while thinking more on what I should not be thinking about. I wash my hands, say my goodnights, and head towards the Jeep.

I still feel like shit as I walk in the house. My head hurts and I am lonely. Why do I have to set my mind on just one thing? Why can't I just settle on something that isn't even that bad. It's just not what I want. At least I wouldn't be alone, right? Fuck that. I am too good not to have what I want. What I want, however, is what I shouldn't even be thinking about. So, as tired as I am, I stay up a few more hours watching Cosby, CNN, ESPN, the Magic Bullet, and, of course, Roseanne. Seriously, that show is always on. I'll go to sleep as soon as it is over. Tomorrow I will wake up and do it again.

Laying Under the Table and Dreaming.

2006-08-11T13:22:00.000-05:00

I remember being five years old when the family would pack into whatever new car my father had that day and head over to my Aunt Carolyn's and Uncle Lou's house. We always called Uncle Lou "Bubba" but his most commonly used nickname is "Pop" these days. I guess grand children rule out nieces and nephews when it comes to these things. I would usually sit with my father and Bubba at the dining room table as they discussed politics, sports, and other inane bullshit that came to mind. They would get into heated arguments about who was better, Babe Ruth or Ty Cobb. Who was the better president? JFK or Reagan? Who was the worst? Nixon... Okay, you can't get worse than Nixon, but the current one is doing a damn good job trying to take the title.

After a few minutes of listening I would usually find myself bored with it. First I would sulk in the chair. Then I would slide out of the chair and on to the floor beneath the table. I would pull the toy car out of my pocket and roll it around as the men talked above me. Evening would turn into late night and sometimes late night would turn into early morning. Eventually, little me would not be able to keep his eyes open and I would sleep beneath that table. Beneath the two men trying to out bullshit each other into the small hours of the morning. As I fell asleep, I would listen and think that that would be someday.

My father died while I was in the midst of teenage angst and considered myself too cool for those late Saturday nights at Bubba's house. I never got the chance to join the two of them to consider maybe Mickey Mantle was better than either Babe or Ty. I never got the chance to tell them both that JFK was on his way to preserving the high standard of living America held itself to in the fifties. I never had the chance to discuss my junior year research paper focusing on the fall of the American standard directly related to the assassination of JFK. When I handed that paper in it was the fortieth time I was told, "Wow. You should do this for a living."

Though my father is gone, Bubba is still around. He no longer lives close by but I see him during the holidays. After everyone has had a turn at the long buffet of turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, green beans, and all the other holiday goodness, Bubba and I, almost on instinct, grab something to drink and a slice of pie and retire to the cold outside. Smoking is not allowed in the house. No matter. We never notice the cold as we discuss Babe, Ty, Mick, Nixon, JFK, and the other inane bullshit that comes to mind. We talk about what was the better movie, Tombstone or Wyatt Earp. While we disagree about Kevin Costner being a better Wyatt Earp than Kurt Russell, we both realize Val Kilmer IS Doc Holliday. We laugh about family members. We get angry about Iraq. We explain it all to my sixteen year old cousin, Ryan. He becomes bored with it and wanders back into the house, but he too will stay outside with us soon enough. This is what I thought about when I was five years old laying under the table and dreaming.

For the Girl Who Says I Never Blog for Her

2006-08-07T16:33:00.000-05:00

Wasted Time

Well baby, there you stand
With your little head, down in your hand
Oh, my God, you can't believe
It's happening again
your baby's gone, and you're all alone
and it looks like the end.

And you're back out on the street.
And you're tryin' to remember.
How will you start it over?
You don't know if you can.
You don't care much for a stranger's touch,
but you can't hold your man.

You never thought you'd be alone
this far down the line
And I know what's been on your mind
You're afraid it's all been wasted time

The autumn leaves have got you thinking
about the first time that you fell
You didn't love the boy too much, no, no
you just loved the boy too well, farewell
So you live from day to day, and you dream
about tomorrow, oh.

And the hours go by like minutes
and the shadows come to stay
So you take a little something
to make them go away
And I could have done so many things, baby
If I could only stop my mind from wonderin' what
I left behind and from worrying 'bout this wasted time

Another love has come and gone
And the years keep rushing on
I remember what you told me
before you went out on your own:
"Sometimes to keep it together,
you got to leave it alone."

So you can get on with your search, baby,
and I can get on with mine
And maybe someday we will find,
that it wasn't really wasted time

Fuck yo couch, biotch!!!

2006-08-07T05:42:00.000-05:00

In my recent perusing through the wonderful world of craigslist I have stumbled upon a scary yet all too common phenomenon. I know that different people have differing tastes but this is starting to be ridiculous. Who are these people, I wonder. Ad after ad I am subject to ugly furniture. I mean seriously. I want to go back to the day these people originally bought that horrible purple and pink floral couch with the high camel back and slap some sense in to them. Who goes to a furniture store and says, "Damn, that one over there with the wing backs and the big blue tulips would look great in our living room,"? I am sure Bill and Marge were just in awe of that plaid couch with the overstuffed pillows and way too many colors to count. Can't figure out what color to go with in your living room? Hell... pick them all. This thing looks like it was upholstered with a fat scot's kilt. I scroll down to an ad that reads: Beautiful leather sofa and love seat. I open the ad up and I see this billowing mess of back cushions and arm rests. It's hard to tell where the dimensions are on this thing. You could fall from a fifty story building and walk away injury free if only you landed on this terrible pathetic excuse for someone's style. What is wrong with these people?

While on the subject of craigslist ads. I would very much like to point out that it is WROUGHT iron not ROD iron. Okay? Also, that shiny thing that you look into in the mornings while combing your hair (I spend hours in front of mine admiring my greatness) is called a MIRROR... not a MIRROW. How did these people grow up, get a job, go through life without ever being corrected for these mistakes. Stupidity makes my head hurt.

Oh and just a little FYI for all you craigslisters out there. If one ad is selling a 32" tv for $125, why do you feel justified trying to sell yours for $300? Don't overcharge and people will buy your shit.

Funny how other people's stuff is shit and your shit is stuff. --- George Carlin

Official Motion Picture Soundtrack for A. J.'s Life

2006-08-05T04:45:00.000-05:00

Opening Credits: Jamrock - Damien "Jr. Gong" Marley

Waking Up: Guerilla Radio - Rage Against the Machine

Falling In Love: Eye - Smashing Pumpkins

Fight Scene: After Midnight - Eric Clapton

Breaking Up: It's Been Awhile - Staind

Making Up: Home - Michael Bublé

Secret Love: I Want You to Want Me - Cheap Trick

Life's Okay: Peaches - The Presidents of the United States of America

Mental Breakdown: Perfect Day - Lou Reed

Driving: Where the Streets Have No Name - U2

Flashbacks: Lullaby for Kamila - Nigel Kennedy

Happy Dance: Blister in the Sun - Violent Femmes

Regretting: Creep(Radiohead) - Jeff Buckley

Long Night Alone: Wandering Star - Portishead

Final Battle: Tainted Love - Marilyn Manson

Ending Credits: Sexx Laws - Beck

Shave and a haircut... and noisy movie goers.

2006-08-02T04:08:00.000-05:00

I need to shave. I do not mean that I have a slight shadow and feel the need to shave in order to conform to some work handbook on grooming habits. I am talking fur. Fuzz. Mountain man type stuff here. My face itches and I am starting to look less edgy and more hedgy. Add to this my current state of hair do. Too long? Not long enough? It's in that weird stage in the middle of those. A few weeks and I can style it a whole new way. Get it cut and go back to business as usual. Decisions, decisions.

Taking a break from my hair problems I decided to enjoy a movie. I have been waiting for Miami Vice to come out because, well, Sonny Crockett is a bad ass. I loved the show when I was a wee one and I always wanted to be Sonny. I won't say I was disappointed. I was not. However, they could have done a little more with it than they did. Oh well. Things got blown up, Sonny was a bad ass, and they drove fast cars. What more could you ask for. I even had the pleasure of the extracurricular live performance of some very talented comedians. Oh yeah. They pulled out classics like screaming, "Me love you long time," when Sonny would have an intimate moment with the Asian chick. Once they got original. I should have written it down. A guy was shot in the chest and his body flew back. These brilliants came up with, "You got knocked the FUCK out." I wish I would have come up with that one. I am still laughing my ass off. I had to get a look at these guys as they left the theater. I was anxious to see the young rascals. I was surprised to see they were not teens but, instead, a group of thirty-somethings. Seriously? You can't watch a movie in a theater full of adults without having to put up with this bullshit? I think I'll go shave now.

A more grown-up way to blog.

2006-08-01T05:39:00.000-05:00

Yeah. This one will be short and to the point. Myspace kicks my nuts and sucks my will to live some times. I am going to blog here now. I am sure I will copy and paste some of them over there. So there you have it. The greatness that is me in one little blog.

AJ