Stefani:Hold on… (her kid is screaming in the backseat) Troy! Stop your crying!... (The screaming becomes a soft whimper and then stops. Silence. I can tell this is where she’s giving him the death look in the rear view mirror. The look that means business)… And I’m back. Sorry, what we’re you saying?
Me:So I called him on Monday and left a voicemail but he hasn’t responded.
Stefani:Yikes. (she begins to laugh) I can’t believe he hasn’t… (her kid then realizes that his Mom isn't paying attention to him and begins to scream again) Oh jeez, hold on… Trooooy! I swear I’ll pull this car over and spank that bare bottom. Now stop! (He stops. Lesson learned. Her voice softens as she continues talking to him) Now listen, I know you really wanted to go through the car wash, but we’ll just have to do it another day, O.K. dude? I promise next time. (I hear him mumble in approval)… And I’m back.
Me:Wow, our lives are completely different.
Note:I want Stefani’s life. She’s a house wife/mom/hero. I actually went to my high school Prom with her. It was the only dance I went to without the pressure of a goodnight kiss at the end. She had a boyfriend but he had graduated a few years earlier and my school didn’t allow pedophiles on campus. So she went with the next best thing, ME. It was great because during the slow dances she had a rule that we had to keep at least a foot in between us at all times, because if word got back to her man that we were any closer, he was going to kick my ass! We went as friends and it was the best dance of my life.
Listening to shinedown Just watched my wife and kids reruns Today I read jimnasuims blog. I hope I’ll never be 30 single broke and waiting on a rich man to take care of me But he seems to make it awesome…
Oh dear… What have I become? Or NOT become might be the better question… Side note: he doesn’t have to be rich, just as long as he has a job that allows me to stay at home and raise the children. It’s fine if we’re a budgeted family, I know how to pinch a penny.
“Good morning Isabel,” I said to the short and oddly proportioned, brace faced freshman passing by. She was shocked that a senior was actually talking to a freshman.
“Hi,” she said back timidly and scurried off to the locker bay.
I then turned to Barba and said, with a straight gay face, “Every vote counts.”
“Jiiiiiiiiim,” she said as she smacked me on the shoulder. Barba, which is Spanish for “beard,” was exactly that, my beard. She was the closest thing I ever had to a high school sweetheart. We were like a couple minus the intimacy. “You’re terrible,” she said as she wrapped her arm around mine.
It was Homecoming week and I was nominated for King. As much as I played it off, this was a big deal. The Marti’s were notorious for winning the crown. I remember going to the Homecoming game when I was just a little boy, standing on the sidelines watching as my Sister Twin waved to the crowd from the back of a red convertible. Atop her head sat a sparkling crown. I wanted that crown. I wanted to be in that convertible. I wanted to wave to the adoring crowd.
The crowning of King and Queen during Homecoming/Prom is a popularity contest, normally reserved for The Pretties (every once and a while a below-average-looking couple will weasel their way in simply because they’ve been together since grade school, therefore garnering them the sympathy vote). The fact that beautiful people are popular is nothing new, it’s been the case since day one; however, thanks to media and technology it’s only gotten worse. Let’s take one of the biggest popularity contests in this country, the Presidential Election, and use it as an example. After the first ever televised presidential debate between Nixon and Kennedy, people were polled and asked who they thought had won. Results showed that people who watched the debate on television said that the calm, well-dressed, and dashing Kennedy had won. On the other hand Nixon, who was constantly wiping away the sweat that dribbled off his huge schnoz and down his beagle basset hound cheeks, was voted the clear winner by people who listened to the debate on radio. Since then, candidates are carefully prepared with their appearances, knowing that pretty prevails. That pesky, yet sexy, Sarah Palin only made it as far as she has because of her looks. The shit that comes out of her mouth is absolutely absurd (which has also definitely helped her get attention and notoriety). Hmm, maybe her and I have more in common than I thought.
Cute Writer Zombie:How honest are you in your writing? 10%? 30% 90%?
Me:What? (I couldn’t hear him over the music)
C.W.Z.:How honest are you? What percent?
C.W.Z.:Two?! That’s it!
Me:No. T-O-O. I’m too honest!
Note:Everyone likes an honest person, right? However, I’m not a fan of someone using “honesty is the best policy” when their opinion wasn’t asked for. I knew a girl in high school who found it appropriate to say shit like, “I don’t like your shoes… What? I’m just being honest,” even if her opinion wasn’t asked. Even though I believe in honesty, I think when someone asks if you like their new hair cut or if they look fat in something, unless the dress won’t zip up then you should always throw honesty out the window and tell them what they want to hear. That’s just being polite and we we're all taught to have manners.
On Saturday, my favorite girl and I met up with some other friends at The Roosterfish for a Zombie Prom themed party. I’m a little nervous to be around this particular group of friends ever since I went to one of their birthday parties and went home with the Birthday Boy’s ex-boyfriend. It was drama. I’m never one to hook up with friends of friends but the Devil (Makers Mark) had taken over that night. I apologized profusely to the wounded the next day and swore to never make a fool of myself in front of them again. So when one of their Zombie friends, a super cute writer, was flirting and inches away from kissing me, I had to put my foot down and say, “Sorry, not tonight.” Even though the Devil was again on my breath, I fought it and said that we should exchange numbers and go out on a date sometime. It was hard not kissing him. Especially when he put his hand on my back and my delicate parts tingled. That doesn’t happen often (except for when one of the Latinos at work grabs my ass and calls me a “puto”). We exchanged numbers and are now in the texting-phase. We’ll see.
“Just wanted to say Hi and I miss seeing ur face… Too bad u decided to stop seeing each other! Hope ur doing well!!!
So, I don’t know how to feel about this. After reading it, my first thought was, “direct translation.” My second thought was, “I’m an asshole.” But am I? As I’ve said a hundred times, I’m too old to fiddle around with relationships that I know aren’t going to be right in the end, so there’s no point in stringing them along. But I tell ya, if I saw him at a club randomly, I’d take him home and start the drama all over again. Shit, I’m just horny and lonely. Maybe I’ll read a book.
Adel:So, were you representing Geishas? (Regarding my last video)
Me:What do you mean?
Adel:Well, you were wearing socks and sandals.
Note:I love my close friends for noticing every detail. I didn’t think that anyone would be looking at my feet. I’m super clean and hate shoes in my apartment, so I wear “safe sandals” when necessary. Regardless, I'm representing Japanese and Chinese and Gay and Yin and Yang.
One of the most serious assault cases in Coupeville in recent memory culminated in what a judge described as “a very unusual and heartwarming situation.”
O.K., so the saga of my bat-wielding nephew continues. I wonder what it’d be like to go to jail at such a young age? When he gets out, he’s either gonna be wiser or worse. I pray that this changes him for the better. But judging from my family’s track record, it won’t.
So last night I saw that f-ing one night stand I had a few months ago. Like always, he had a scowl on his face and was looking for a fight. While I got stuck talking to him, Louie disappeared. Once I was able to escape I began to search Louie. No sign. I checked everywhere, except for the bathroom. Stupid. I left and went to a different bar, expecting that Louie would turn up eventually. I finally got a call from him and his voice sounded shaky and panicked.
“Are you O.K.?” I screamed over the music and into the receiver.
“I’m fine… I’ll be there in a minute,” he said and then hung up. When he walked in, his eyes were red and it looked like he had been crying.
“What the fuck happened?” I asked.
“Some guy attacked me me in the bathroom stall!” he said with panic.
“What! How?” I asked.
“He locked me in and wouldn’t let me free. I was screaming but nobody could hear me. Finally one of the security guards heard my cries and banged on the door until the guy finally opened it and I escaped,” he said as his eyes darted around the room. I was dumbfounded.
“How the hell did he get you into the stall in the first place? Come on, let’s get out of here,” I said as I grabbed his arm.
“No, no, no. I’m fine. I just need a drink,” he said.
He refused to talk about it the rest of the night. Now he’s flying under the radar and not picking up his phone. I need to get the full story before I start pointing fingers at possible rapists in WeHo, because you don’t often hear about gays getting accosted by other gays in bathroom stalls. It’s always consensual. Oh, a bit of info I learned from a made for T.V. movie: the police say that if you ever get raped, to not shower afterwards. Your first instinct is to wash off the filth, but they say that it’ll destroy any evidence you might have on/in your body. You must go straight to the police station so they can run tests… The more you know.
I was the kid who always stepped on exposed nails. Growing up on a farm (when I say “farm,” I mean we raised livestock, had a few sheds that doubled as barns, a vegetable garden, and more than 1 acre of land) allowed me and my brothers plenty of room to build forts. We’d climb a tree and hammer a few boards to a limb and call it a fort, and if we ran out of trees we’d build them on the ground in the middle of the field. All this fort building left behind used 2x4’s scattered around the yard. And piercing out of the 2x4’s were sharp nails just waiting to get stepped on by a delicate sole. I don’t know how my brothers avoided stepping on them, but my foot somehow found them. I’d feel the nail slide through the rubber soul and penetrate my skin. I’d recognize the feeling, take a deep breath and slowly remove my foot. Then I’d fall to the ground and scream. My Mom would hear me crying, recognize that it was a ‘just-stepped-on-a-nail-cry’ and yell from the porch, “Was it rusty?” “Nooooo,” I howled back. “Then just keep pressure on it and it’ll stop bleeding,” she said. As long as we didn’t have to pay for a tetanus shot, we were all good.
my mom still has her exboyfriend’s password to facespace.
I love Jon and his Mom. Their relationship is real… My Mom just turned 70 this year and started a facespace profile. It still eeks me out that our parents are social networking. I guess they have to in order to keep up with the times. But isn’t there a point in your life when you want to stop tyring to keep up with everything? Isn’t it exhausting? I’m all ready to retire.
I think of Spain whenever I hear a Natasha Bedingfield song… My hag and I had just landed in Madrid and were sleeping on the floor of another hag of mine (I have a lot of hags and love them all). She lived in a 1-bedroom apartment with her Spanish boyfriend, Frijole. They were nice enough to let us crash with them until we found our own place. It was November and their apartment was heated only by a space heater that sat in the living room next to the arm of the L-shaped couch in which I slept on. One morning I woke up with a blister on my knuckle. After that, I refused to keep the heater on while we slept. As the two of us shivered ourselves to sleep, we watched MTV Europe so we could hear English (which kept us warm). Natasha’s song “Unwritten” was being played non-stop. Now I like her shit because it reminds me of those wonderful times. It’s funny how we love anything English when we’re in a foreign country.
Starting when I was 11, crank calling was a regular afterschool activity. We’d come home, make our snack (normally a plain bologna sandwich with mayo) and sit down next to the phone. We’d go through the phone book looking for good names. One guy was named Martin Lawrence, so we called him pretending to be an old high school friend: “Mar-in. You sooo crazy! Don’t you remember me? It’s Loco, from High School. Maaarrrr-iiiiin!” Sometimes we got a little more personal. We’d choose people from around town and crank call them regarding something personal. It was a targeted crank call, or what the law calls harassment. A classmate’s Dad wore the same pair of baby blue, corduroy bell bottoms every day. So we called him pretending to be the driver of a clothes donation van: “Hello Mr. Kellick, this is Randy with the Rainbow Arch donation pick-up van. We’ll be stopping by your house tomorrow and we were wondering if you had a blue pair of baby blue, corduroy bell bottoms you’d like to donate? They’re in high demand… No… Are you sure?” We’d then hang up and laugh and eat our sandwiches. This phase lasted for about 2 years.
Last weekend Jazz bought us tickets to go see Jack Johnson at the Hollywood Bowl. I’m not the biggest fan of Jack, but I am a fan of the Hollywood Bowl and their B.Y.O.B. alcohol policy. So you can imagine how upset I was when we got there and saw signs saying “no glass permitted inside.” We were allowed to pound our wine outside, but it wasn’t the same as corking it inside and enjoying it during the show. But once I got in and started getting bumped into by drunk sorority girls who had to be held up by their even drunker 5th-year-Senior boyfriend, I realized that this type of crowd breaks glass easily. We wouldn’t want one of them throwing a Blue Moon bottle at the poor family of 4 in the front row who are there because they fell in love with the “Curious George” soundtrack… The show was great, though. I think the last time I listened to Jack Johnson was my senior year of college. It brought back a lot of memories of my senior year when I lived in a house with 4 other guys (and one gal, Chanel). They’d pile into the living room with their bongo drum and guitar and sing “Flake.” Simple times.
As much as I hate technology (I’m too simple minded to deal with it all), I’m really loving the Internet right now. It’s the only medium where people have complete, unedited opnions of what’s happening and can make a difference. Unlike other mediums (T.V., newspapers, radio) which have some editor or producer or president deciding what gets communicated, the Internet allows la gente to decide what is important/needs to be talked about. “National Coming Out Day” has been a top search on Google for most of Monday, ranking just below searches for “Book Thrown at Obama,” which is just as important.
Rusti:You know, the flight place… Uh, what’s it called?
Rusti:No, where you buy plane tickets… Ummm…
Rusti:Yeah, that’s it… Jeez, I think I killed one too many brain cells this weekend.
Note:My guest said this as we were shopping in Westwood; one last excursion before she went to the airport to catch her flight back to Chicago. It’s great having friends come and visit but it’s also nice when they leave and you get to go back to your normal life routine… But what is my normal life routine? I’ve been thinking about that all weekend.