I just like to stay up and watch these things because I start to feel like I am right there in the living room of Kelly Clarkson or Jessica Simpson. I even feel tears well up in my eyes as I see the struggle that each person had to go through to overcome their "pizza face" youth (P-Diddy, I feel your pain). To me, it is like witnessing a real miracle in this modern day, a time where miracles were once thought dead.
I am convinced that somewhere within the contents of Proactive Solution there is concentrated "Essence de Jehovah", and maybe a hint of Holy Spirit. There has to be at least enough contained in one bottle to start your own cult with. A truck load of this stuff might just put Scientology out on its ass and in dire straits. Scientology, you've just been served. What you got, huh? You're leaving this racket tits up my friend.
Just for fun I thought I'd share with you something that I found to be hilariously disturbing. My brother has a ton of old records, VHS, and DVD's. Whenever I need to find something like that I go to him first to see if he has it. Well, he keeps meticulous records/inventory of all his collections. I decided to help myself to one of his catalogs and see if I could find the movie Easy Rider. What I did find had me totally scratching my head while laughing my ass off.
This is what I found.
"A list of funny word combinations that you can try on a dead bird or a mailbox."
Monkey Onions.
Potato Beans.
Salty Logs.
Bongo Chips.
Onion Mints.
Nose Candy (not really funny and is already a name for cocaine).
Boing Boing (not original, but funny sounding if you think about it long enough).
Birdy Birdy (running out of ideas).
Monkey Heifer (anything is funny with the word "monkey" in it).
Anal Claus (what kind of toys are in his sack?)
Banana Glasses.
Albatross Tacos.
Naughty Beans.
Monkey Things (monkey!)
Yeah, Pointy Pointy!
Above all of this scribbling, my brother wrote a thought balloon coming from the sheet of paper itself. Here is what the piece of paper had to say: "So, this is how you treat me after two-hundred years of living in the forest?"
To be fair, here is an excerpt from a religious publication that featured the nativity, of which I so proudly defaced awhile back: "All of a sudden three men walk into the room bearing gold, frankincense, and myrrh. I sat there with my wife and kid with a complete look of horror as the sheepdog mounts a lamb right in front of the men. Well, I guess we all just kind of laughed it off and got piss drunk. The end."
It gets better, or worse, depending on your viewpoint. I must include something that I wrote in my Franklin Covey Day Planner from 1997.
Under "Record of Conversation": "Oh, yes! Why, I converse daily with my records." Project: "Slap Happy" Subject: "The correct use of slaps whilst one is happy." With: "My dear friend, Fredrick Stole, better known as, 'Crackie the Fucked up Clown'." Telephone: "Depends on whether he's over that whole 'fixation' paraphiliac phase." Meeting at: "The Angry Pharaoh Funeral Home for Tyrants and Pat Robertson Look-Alikes." By: "The Seaside Rendezvous Hotel." Date: "Back in college. We were curious." Topic Discussed: "Proper slapping posture and technique." Action: "Slight rotation of wrist while making contact."
Within ruled notebook area:
(A sketch of a crazy floating head, who appears before a balding man wearing glasses, a sweater, and sporting round prescription glasses)
Crazy Floating Head: "I am a floating head who is afraid of heights and social situations. So, I'm rarely seen by crowds or in the sky. I also have a large penis."
Balding Man: "You're also a compulsive liar!"
Hey, I didn't say that any of this would make any sense.
Here's my challenge to three people of whom I will officially tag (something that I don't normally do, but what the hell): Use the "Franklin Covey" format as used above and come up with your own brand of silliness to share with us on your blogs. I choose Scary Monster, Logo, and Vera to carry this out for me. If Vera is no longer with us in a blogging capacity, then I pick Jules. Go have fun with this. Anyone else is welcome to do this as well.
The more obtuse and abstract the better. We're shooting for pure and utter nonsense here, folks.
This is one of my favorite songs from the late '90s and is from a Welsh group that I dig a lot: The Manic Street Preachers. I don't know why these guys didn't cross over into America. I mean, Catherine Zeta Jones is Welsh and look at her! Anyway, I love Nicky Wire's lyrics in this song, a song about The Spanish Civil War, specifically the volunteers from around the world that wanted to join the Republican fighters (Socialist) cause against the then current Nationalist government.
I can't help but think of our current occupation of Iraq and think how our presence undermines whatever altruistic goals we may have had at the beginning. I know that altruism really had nothing to do with our going there in the first place; it's just a salve to help us cope and continue with the more selfish and destructive reasons that we go to war. Journalist/writer P.J. O'Rourke was on "Real Time with Bill Maher" last night and he recounted a thought that he had to himself as he was flying over Kuwait right before the start of this war, seeing the endless mass of war machines in formation ready to roll, "Boy, it's a lot more expensive to steal oil than to buy it." Yes, getting oil certainly is more expensive, more costly, and more insane to do it this way.
Getting back to the song, I think of how our presence, right or wrong, rallies idealistic Arab men to unite to the cause of being a thorn in our side. I think our supposed intent was to make the lives of Americans and Iraqis safer has been demoted to "boner" status now, and we all know how embarrassing it is to commit those kinds of lapses in judgment. The solution is to do more of the same and expect different results. This has nothing to do with George Bush's record of failed business empires, nope, none whatsoever. He needs to get on his knees and thank God in Heaven for having passed through his mother's womb and having his father's last name, because that is essentially all that mattered.
The further point I want to make is what do "we" (U.S.' & other involved countries' citizens) do to get our governments to improve/change their foreign policies for the better? Are we all going to stand for gross errors in policy, logic, and strategy from our respective governments? Have we lost the will to effect change in our world? Have we all turned into "gutless wonders", as mentioned in the song? Megadeth's Dave Mustaine sings, "Peace sells, but who's buying?" Are we too cheap to spring for peace, so we settle for war instead? Where's the fucking outrage?
Where's the fucking solution?
"If we tolerate this, then our children will be next."
I thought of putting up the clip of the character, Bobby Trippe (played by Ned Beatty), gets ass raped by a hillbilly, but I figured that was a bit too much for morning viewing. So, here's the "Dueling Banjos" scene from the first part of the movie. I have to admit that I love this movie. It is one of my all time favorites and it still terrifies me. The best part about the movie, and James Dickey's original novel, was how the mild mannered suburbanite Ed Gentry finds out that he's a natural born killer. He does more than survives: He turns the tables on the hunter and conquers his fear.
Of course, my favorite character has to be Lewis Medlock (played by Burt Reynolds). He is such a cocky son of a bitch, but he totally walks the walk and backs up all his machismo. The other man in the group, Drew Ballinger (played by Ronny Cox), gets points for being double jointed (see the scene where they find his dead body caught in a debris pile). The banjo boy, Lonnie (played by Billy Redden), really was from that area, and according to IMDb was ridiculed afterward for being the poster boy for inbred hillbillies everywhere. That isn't fair. Billy was tapped by Tim Burton to make a cameo as a banjo man in the movie "Big Fish". Billy also used to do "Deliverance" tours down that river but quit, due to the dangers involved (30 people have died running that river since the movie was filmed). So, rent "Deliverance" if you want to get your TIGF on...and a one and a two and a "ber-ner neer-neer na-neer neer-nah!
When I was getting potty trained there was a period of time where I was absolutely terrified by our toilet. I used to even flush my underwear down with my doodies just to make sure that the "toilet monster" was well fed. I thought that this way he'd not be hungry enough to eat me. My mom and dad used to pull their hair out trying to snake out my Fruit of the Looms from the plugged up toilet. Eventually, I gave up going on my own and sought out other places to do my business.
I found that the closets of my siblings, namely my two middle sisters, was a great place to hide and take a crap. I think I even crapped in one of their shoes. I have a distinct memory of listening to Peter Frampton on my sister's eight-track Panasonic and making a little log cabin in the corner of her closet. When I hear the lyrics "Woke up one morning with a wine glass in my hand. What wine? Who's wine? Where the hell did I dine?" It brings back certain dark memories. I mean, there was no light in there. I couldn't see what I was doing!
Eventually, I was tortured to death by the wrath of my middle sisters' sharp nails and nougies. This posed certain problems. See, if I crapped in my oldest sister's closet, she would either smoke it (that's good shit) or her vast array of stoner boyfriends would hunt me down and kill me for giving them a bad trip. They didn't care that I was only just three at the time. Hell, I might have been four by then. The freakin' toilet monster was still pretty damn real to me.
The other option was to do it in my big brother's closet, which I did and was severely beaten for. The other part of that problem was that we shared a room together and I would have to smell my own doo doo feces if I continued to use my brother's closet. I had no closet, so that was not an option. It was either my mother's sewing room or outside. Hey, I figured that my dogs did it out there, so why not me?
I found a nice secluded spot on the West side of the house right next to our central air compressor. There were two trees that grew out from another in a tight "V" and had two knots that I could use as footholds in order to straddle effectively. This setup worked great. I even came up with a game called "Rocket Ship". I would do a countdown and blast off, all with cool rocket noises. It wasn't actually rocket fuel that was being expended, but it surely was quite a spectacular scene. Even the neighbors thought so. Eventually, it all came to an end for me.
I remember it well. This time I was almost five and still going out to the side of the house and playing Crap Armstrong, Alan Shityard, and Butt Aldrin. I forgot that my friend Jason was coming over to play. Jason came and asked my brother and his friend where I was--they were playing some one on one in the driveway on the East side of the house. After they looked in all the usual places they found me.
So, here I am up in a tree making rocket noises with no pants on and crap dangling out my asshole. I was totally oblivious to anything else going on until I heard this: "Oh my god! Your brother is taking a shit in a tree!!!" Scarred for life does not even begin to describe the absolute horror that I went through that day. I mean, I was in my little fantasy world, taking care of business, and then I look to see that I have an audience. My friend ran away from me. I put my pants on and tried to convince him to come back. He just kept going. Do you know what that does to a kid? I know that the toilet monster was behind all of this. He was always going to get me one way or another.
I look back and laugh at this moment in my life. It is so damn funny to me, but it wasn't back then. I had to be shamed into properly using the toilet. My friend wouldn't play with me for a month, and Joe, my bro's "Mexican Twin" friend (a real "Pancho and Lefty", those two) just loved holding that one over my head. That was probably the single most embarrassing thing from my early years as a child. I do feel liberated telling ya'll this, so liberated, in fact, that I just may need to feed the toilet monster right now.
Where are all the animals? I feel so disillusioned now.
I had a dream about John Voight's daughter last night. It all went down in a church. I like those kinds of dreams.
Gum seems to find its way onto the bottom of my shoes lately. I think I've had about enough of that.
Full Throttle "Blue Demon" is now my favorite drink. I can feel those kidney stones forming as we speak.
I know a guy that just got married and it's only been a month and a half and he's gained 30 pounds. I'd at least wait a year before I let myself go.
Rib eye steaks are damn tasty. Porterhouse are top notch as well. New York Strip is good if I'm feeling lean. However, Sirloin really needs to step up if it wants to get back on my dinner plate.
I am vowing to never again trust the neighbor's dog. I thought he was totally on my side until he shit on my lawn. Cooper, I thought we were friends but you had to go ahead and make me miserable. Now I have gum and dog shit on my boots.
I wish I could love when I want and then get away from it when convenient. That is selfish, I know. It isn't how I behave, but I certainly have had that thought.
One more co-worker of mine has had a spouse die. It happened last night. I have been to too many funerals in the past two months. What in the hell is happening?
I used "to", "too", and "two" in a sentence. I rock!
I'm tired so I will now go and dream of large women.
Everything I touch lately turns into a giant brick of crap. Can you feel the frustration, the disappointment? I knew you could, neighbor.
There's not a whole lot I can do about it except keep plodding along until the odds are back in my favor. But, I'm not stupid; this ain't no time for me to go sky diving or try to fix the brakes. I watched "The Sopranos" and I managed to not screw that up. Maybe there is still hope for me yet.
I want to distance myself from the events of the past 48 hours--just forget about it. These weren't life or death events, just shit; you know, the kind that happens. It just seems to originate from my hand is all.
If I were a crew member of the U.S.S. Enterprise sending off Spock's casket (Wrath of Kahn), I think I would have messed that up somehow and totally desecrated his corpse by accidentally photon torpedoing his peacefully floating casket, mistaking it for a Klingon escape pod. Trekkies, feel free to suck my big toes if any of that Star Trek stuff was inaccurate. Hey, things are looking up already. I'm getting my toes sucked tonight!
Yes, you may call me by my new name. What new name is that? Title, baby, read the title.
I wish I were talking about the comedian, Emo Philips, but unfortunately this isn't a TIGF!!! in a good way. Sorry for the streak of TIGF in a bad way posts. Well, the last one was pretty cool. I guess I am going to have to devote some time discussing pussy hair, and I am not talking about "Brazillians" or tabbies.
Oh, you'd like it very much if that's what I was going to talk about, perverts! No, I must discuss a problem with society that only I, Senior Grunty, can tackle.
This is what I am talking about: Why on earth would someone put lard in their hair and stand out in the sun? That's what it looks like to me, at least. It's like it freakin' melted that way. Then there are the ones that are all messed up and pointy on the top. I was perplexed by this trend and decided to look into this matter further. What I found really made sense.
Emo hairstyles originated in Burbank California and New Jersey (home of all bad hairstyles) concurrently. It must have been, what I call, "The America Ass Cheek Trend Phenomenon", where the coasts start to form an ass first and later the asshole develops somewhere in the Midwest. Seniors, cool kids, jocks, and lunch ladies were having their way with the effeminate and disaffected outcasts in their high schools. After enduring years, decades, of swirlies and other humiliating (read hilarious) hazings, some of these kids with the most tender and emotive souls started to speak out for the rest of their oppressed kind. They began to let their hair dry exactly the way the "Standard" urinal or crap trap styled it. It was a sign of their solidarity.
Before you know it they were writing songs in unmanly and annoying whines that seemed to tell girls that they just might know what it is like to get their period, but not quite. It is in this acknowledgment of empathy that the emo lead singer has his key to the princess' pleasure palace. Somehow, the rest of the band just seems like dudes who just need a gig and so they go along with it.
Whatever it is that keeps this going on (thanks "bad" Peter Parker) I must admit that I really had bad hair in high school. I couldn't decide which actor from the movie "River's Edge" I wanted to be like most, so I tried a bit of all. I ended up having more of the "Crispin" instead of the "Keanu". I think this is why my supply of hot ass tapping was very limited--limited to unruly goth chicks. Ah, the folly of youth.
I felt normal today: aggravated at all the right things, happy at the right times. Having to start over from scratch with some developments in my life. Been there plenty of times. I didn't get as much done as I wanted, but I will forgive myself. I sure am glad that my team, The Jazz, was the first to advance into the NBA (Western) Conference Finals. I was really bummed that Phoenix lost tonight. I was born there and spent the first part of my life growing up in that city. The thought of one of my two favorite NBA teams making it to the finals was pretty nice. Now it looks like that dream may not come to pass. Don't the Spurs already have enough rings?
Anyway, I have had to bum rides lately. I really feel like Han Solo dealing with all of the Millennium Falcon's little quirks here--in fact, there are so many parallels to be made between Han and I (yep) . Clyde is undergoing major surgery and it is hard to get things done on him during the week when I have to work and take care of family. Fortunately, my family also takes care of me where they can. For instance, my mountain of a brother has been a great taxi service for me, as well as a few other friends.
So, my broham was taking me to the bank and an auto parts store to pick up a part that I had to special order. We get that done and decide to hit the local Taco Crime. I think Taco Crime is better than Taco Hell, any day of the week, except Saturdays or midnight onward. Those others, like Taco Faker and Hell Taco, just suck ass. If I am in the big city, however, I hit the taco carts. See, no silly name there. I practice the utmost reverence when it comes to those guys.
We get into the Taco Crime and order. I notice a family that I know sitting at a table having their meal. I go and sit down in the booth beside them and start talking. My brother sits down and their three-year-old kid flips a cow and exclaims, pointing at my bro, "Mommy, Daddy, It's the Banana Man!!!" We were all laughing and having a moment of WTF. We realized that this kid had formed in his head an identity of my brother based on his old yellow 1972 Chevy Suburban that he used to own, the "Banana Wagon". Back then this kid probably didn't talk much. This was the first time any of us heard the kid call my brother the Banana Man. It was so awesomely cute.
I think my brother could possibly become a super hero based on this kid's nickname for him.
It really was. But it really didn't add up. No girls hanging around me, much, or even paying attention...OK, a little. Boss wasn't around enough to get on my case, though. Clyde is still in pieces, but I did have one real triumph: I finally got the lock nut off of the stub shaft on my power steering box. It required that I make my own tool and plenty of "heat valve" lubricant to soak through the rust weld.
I know that is real exciting for all of you. It is just hard for me to do without my truck. I get a lot done with it. I use the thing how a truck is meant to be used. If I didn't need it I would be happy with a Volkswagen GTI to be honest. I love the direct injected diesel technology. Add that with the rise of bio-diesel and I get excited. I don't see a straight conversion from where we are to electric cars. Let's face it, unless the energy that we get to run those cars and manufacture them is clean we are no better off. We just get to feel smug and pat ourselves on the back for it. The internal combustion engine makes the best power per cost ratio at this time right now. There are many options left to keep us running and enjoying our driving experience. The bio fuel revolution is here and we just need to support it where we can.
One of my friends' dads does the "backyard" grease to bio-diesel production. He has been running a Ford F-350 Super Duty with the Powermax turbo diesel on this stuff for the past two years. His cost for fuel is now running at under $1.20 a gallon. I know of some that are running as low as $0.80 a gallon. Of course, this is if you can get the used grease for free and you have already paid off your production equipment--given that someone is not there to profit off of you. The money isn't even the biggest issue. It's that we can grow our fuel--it's even better than that: we can use it before it becomes fuel for cooking. When's the last time you ever fried up fish and chips in petroleum?
It isn't just diesel. Ever heard of switch grass? It yields much, much more energy than soy beans or corn to produce ethanol. Basically, you could grow this stuff on the sides of interstates and other under used, non-wilderness land.
The ultimate benefit of all of these is that the car is back converting the fuel into energy and the energy is clean--you are in charge, not some huge energy plant. The infrastructure does not go under radical changes like hydrogen fuel cell cars would require. Plus, we might just get our dicks out of the sand within our lifetimes.
Can you tell that my mind isn't wallowing in the mire today?
Today sucked. I don't have an explanation but it just flat out sucked. I felt nauseous all day. Thoughts and feelings just came caving down on me. Depression filled me to my eyelids. All I kept telling myself was to make it through the day and I would be alright. Well, here I am. I made it! I feel somewhat better as well.
I've had a string of optimism and I was due for a crash. My body and mind can't tolerate optimism for very long. I have been conditioned all my life that "shit happens". I think my dad should get an award for filling me with high levels of anxiety, fear, and insecurity growing up. He somehow managed to make me feel responsible for always being on the verge of losing our house, and him being unemployed. Yeah, an 11-year-old kid sure has that kind of influence. It is really unsettling to grow up with a man that would lock himself away for days then come out screaming at you for minor infractions. I help care for that man now, that sweet 77-year-old man.
It really is a mind fuck, to tell you the truth. I love him dearly, yet he subjected me to a truly unpredictable and emotionally unstable upbringing. It wasn't my choice, but this is what I got. Just when I think I've gotten over it this beast rears its ugly fucking head and tears right into my new found optimism.
The worst part about all of this is that in the back of my head I am terrified that I will end up like him somehow. It really makes me want to remain alone in life. I don't want any part of passing this legacy on, you know? I've seen how it has affected my mother and my siblings. I know that my father was not the monster I thought him to be, though. Deep down I knew that he was hurting, that his life was in jeopardy. None of us really understood much about mental health to know that he was just diseased. I am so glad that he at least has found life to more enjoyable than he did back then. He still has his moments but at least he isn't Hannibal Lector anymore.
When I was in high school I could never get very close to any one girl. I deeply feared anyone getting to know what I really felt. My buddies didn't really care and I loved them for that, to be frank. I still have lingering problems with this. Usually, if I do share that part of me I proceed to cut and run. It's weird to realize that the reason you feel "unlovable" is primarily of your own making. I honestly don't know what to do with that word: love. If someone says that to me, that they love me, it is laughable. "How could anyone love me?" When your greatest profession in life is self loathing, having a person say that they love you is really idiotic, "They must really be stupid. Can't they see it?"
Of course, I have made huge leaps of progress since my deepest periods of feeling this way. But, I still have to deal with lingering bits, leftovers, of these things in my psyche. I have come to know over time what to expect and how to deal with these moments of crud. I no longer look at my scar and think about 5:30 AM much, other than that it happened long ago. I don't look at electrical cords and cross beams the same way as well. A bottle of pills or a handgun aren't seen as escape anymore. I just get through one bad day and dust myself off.
I've got no game plan. It's all freakin' crazy, you know? I get out of bed each day and I always marvel that this shit keeps going on for me: life. I say shit but I mean it in the best possible way.
I had a strange Mother's Day. Don't worry, I took care of my ma; you better have, yourselves. Anyway, today was like I was on ludes. I laid in my bed at night without so much as a wink and had a hair brained idea floating in my head to re-wire one of my electric guitars. So, here I am at 5:30 AM getting out the soldering station and working out the ideas I had rumbling in my head. I burnt myself pretty bad, due to being a tad sleep deprived. My finger hurts pretty bad still because of it. Well, the wiring job worked out perfect and I have much better "Q" control over the signal.
I know you don't come here to hear me spout off about "Q" sweep and that crap. There's a point to all of this I'm sure. You trust me, well don't you? Okay, good, we got that all sorted then. After I got done with that I got myself ready to take care of some business at a meeting. Yeah, on Mother's Day. I spent an hour after that driving in an ever increasing state of zonk. I thought of Full Throttle. I thought of Mountain Dew MDX. No, uh-uh, I passed on all that crap and went straight to my bed just before noon.
I sometimes sleep with one of my guitars, pen and notebook, if it is a nap. This way I can bang out something that comes to me in the creative, yet elusive, half-waking hall of the subconscious/conscious ballet. Some of the ideas that I write are genius. Other ideas, well, are pretty darn hilarious and not a lick of genius to burden them from making a shit taco of laughter. Yeah, that's the first time you've heard that phrase and it is phrases like that that come to me at times of in and out--oh, not sex you sillies!
I had a Bert Jansch album "The Black Swan" on repeat during this five-hour session of "slupor". (I'm full of new words right now.) It was really cool because while that album was playing I transposed Smiths songs over them, all while dreaming about uncertain hopes coming to fruition, losing/gaining them, and then moving on to pure fantasy. Somewhere in all this REM ga-ga, I came up with an idea to build a tool that will help me finish fixing Clyde (my truck).
Why I am not super rich is anybody's guess. I can't blame my Mother's side of the family for that--it's Mother's day, fer cryin' out loud. I think I didn't drink enough carrot juice as a kid, or maybe it was too much...who knows. If I take a cue from President Clinton and play "The Definition Game" then I am super rich already. My brain hasn't yet been sold by the pound (Genesis, thank you). I figure when I stop enjoying it so selfishly that I just may find myself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife, behind the wheel of a large automobile (thanks, Talking Heads). Unless I fall into a domestic "tiger trap", I can't see that happening real soon. However, I have seen cracks appearing in my bachelorhood.
Seriously though, this is what I get for having no game plan and I am having fun, for a change.
Wax on. Wax off. Repeat! Repeat!!! Now wash car. Take shirt off. I want to see your sexy dinner plates, Daniel-san.
You want black belt? I show Daniel-san way to enlightenment. Focus! Stare into the void. Void is nothing! You are nothing! Take pants off now!!! You not need any belt for this training.
Ah, I see Mama-san is coming up the driveway to pick you up. You may rinse now.
P.S. Check out "The Hoff" drunk, eating Wendy's on my sidebar.
And have 400 posts under my belt! Seriously, go here and leave my good friend Karyn some love, in the form of mucho commentos, por favor. Likey my Espanol?
Counting the nine blogs that I oversee (some have been shelved), I have exceeded 400 total posts, easily. But this blog is my main squeeze and my first. Most of my other blogs are just for my own personal fancy and are not popular--though, they are all top notch. I must admit that it is always a treat to be greeted with this when I visit my Bloglines blog "Welcome, El Bastardo!" Anyway, Grunt Ahoy is for the people. That is why this blog will always be a community rather than a soapbox for me.
I had some random thoughts for y'all, but I will save those for another time. The funny will return. I am not a damn machine!
Just one thing: I really, really don't know if I should learn how to ballroom dance, but I just may.
I took the day off of work and puttered around the yard, played my guitar, sang my songs, had a really big hamburger with a Coke and fries, bought some stuff for my guitars, bought some clothes, then had an absolute pleasure of a night seeing Morrissey in concert with someone very cool.
I don't look or feel my age one bit. Most people take me for 25-27. I am a late, late bloomer. Or as I like to say: I suffer from "Dick Clark Disease". I feel miles better about myself at 35 than I ever did at 25 or 30. I am better with women than I ever have been in the past. I'm not talking about sexy stuff. I am talking about interacting with and listening to them. It gets me in trouble from time to time and I have to ask for forgiveness quite often. I sometimes will go further with my flirting than I intend and it can cause problems. Well, sometimes I don't even really know what I want. The thing that is funny is that with some girls that I really like I tend to be real efficient with my language. This isn't always the case, but I have notice it in some instances.
It is a really good feeling to know that I can still get scared (in a good way) when meeting someone. It is a hard feeling when friendships might be in jeopardy because of misunderstandings. I thank God for forgiveness and people's willingness to forgive me for the things that I do. I don't always say what I feel, even though I can express myself deeply. I don't always hear what you really mean when I listen. Sometimes I do what I think is right, contrary to what others feel is best. Sometimes I don't stick to my guns, but I sure as hell am betting on myself from now on.
I don't know what my next year in my life will bring, but I know that I don't have to carry my past around with me anymore. That is a huge relief. I did that for too long and it was totally unnecessary. I feel like I am in a place of humble Zen now. I haven't got my shit together, but the base is strong. I can do much and I can excel in what I do. I don't have to worry about being a bit of a pauper anymore. I have all I need to become a king. I just need to realize it. My faith has come around again and I never thought I'd be feeling this way now. I have that childlike uncertainty and innocence again and am willing to be led by my hand by a willing master, a caring soul, or someone who I might have thought was too good for me before.
I can't do it on my own--not what I need to do, that is. Isolation and a tough facade only brought me isolation and tough times. I was so silly to have harbored my pain, surrounded it with layers of defenses and excuses. If I can be honest about the failures and embarrassments of my life to people that are around me, and "persons of interest", then I think I will be better able to grow past those moments and get on with my life.
I uttered the phrase, "I blew it", and then kind of took off in my truck. It sounds like a bad thing, but it wasn't. Not paralleling the movie, I did not sell out so I could have "freedom", freedom that becomes a prison. No, I just admitted to myself that I have messed up in my life, considerably. I am being more honest about this now to people in my personal life here where I live. It is slowly paying off. No more fortress of pride.
After this confession, I took a long ride in Clyde: my "fuckup" truck. I had to stop to say hello to my boys (someone's horses) and moo at the cows (that's like one of my top-ten things to do). It used to not be that far away, but now you do have to drive a bit to get to the country. I, of course, am not a country boy, but I do appreciate certain aspects of it. My mind breathes better out there, unless a five year old is darting out in front of me on a 500cc Quad bike. What is up with that shit? He wasn't even wearing a helmet.
I am trying to forgive myself. I am either hot or cold when it comes to achievement. I'm ready to stay hot, but not burn out. I guess I'm going to sizzle enough to get the job done.
It's good to have friends. It's good to have strange, erotic dreams, and root beer floats are the bee's knees. I'm not going to worry about my past. I'll be too busy flying down a two-lane black top enjoying the present and looking forward to what is around the next corner. Too busy to get too weighed down with the cares of my past and the world.
So, I was at the DMV today getting my license renewed. I had to fill out an application with some strange questions. Needless to say, my family will be a bit mystified after my death when some men come to the door looking for my Wurlitzer. Maybe I am still a bit confused as to what it means to be an organ donor.
Anyway, everything was going just fine (fine, just fine). My eye sight is spot on; the line moved fast, and they took plastic--finally. The part where I go to get my new photo for my license was the place it all went South.
First off, I was wearing a hoodie, as is the fashion these days (like so two years ago). I had the hood on earlier because it was raining outside. This messed up my hair. They didn't have a mirror for me to check my hair before the shoot. I also had bloodshot eyes and dark circles underneath due to lack of sleep from working around some nasty chemicals this week (effin' headaches). My picture made me look like a tweaker. That is not going to help me get out of a ticket.
After going through the horror that is the DMV portrait, I went over to seal the deal with my signature. This is where my day got worse. I fear the UPS man because of this thing: the electronic signature machine. Normally, having the UPS man stop by is the only time I get excited about seeing brown. Now all brown is associated with disgust and disappointment. I cannot sign these things to save my life. Seriously, if they were to make an inspirational movie about my life it would involve raising Anne Sullivan from the dead and teaching me how to use these things. I can see it now...
Mrs. Sullivan: "You can do it. Feel the stylus--let it be part of your hand."
So, in closing, I will say that my new driver's license will not only make me look like a meth addict, but also a tomato head who can't write, thanks to the TIGF in a uber-bad way electronic signature machine. Anyway, I was treated to something today, something said "hi" to me and it made my day. That is for another post. Until then, GO JAZZ!!!
P.S. I've caught up with responding to your comments to this week's previous posts, including the last TIGF!!! Make sure to go back and read them.
I once had a friend confide in me that he had a gaydream. I think he either wanted me to reassure him that he wasn't gay or he wanted me to make the first move. We had just spent the night in a tent, camped out in his backyard. We were like 13, so it wasn't like it was last Tuesday or something. The thing was that he obsessed about this stupid dream he had, believing that it somehow meant that he was gay. If this were the case--you are what you dream--then I must be able to fly and run like a gazelle. Oh, and I have a magic wand that gets me anything, and I do mean anything, I want. Creep!
Here's the thing: I could only humor my friend's requests to compare penis size for so long before I'd start wondering if there was something to the dream. I started becoming a gaydream believer too and was awfully scared that I would be cursed with a homonocturnal omen. Let's see...I had a dream that I screwed a water slide once, a tile wall, water, sand, and plenty of food items. Of course there was a steady supply of women, but I soon figured out that my brain was just pulling shit out at random and going all Green Eggs and Ham on my libido. I don't recall if I actually had a gaydream. If I did then I must've repressed that memory. Of course, I may well have had that kind of dream and never had it breach the surface of my consciousness.
I think a lot of the paranoia that teenage boys have about "turning gay" can be quite entertaining. When I was 10 I somehow thought that if my pee ended up getting up into my ass on accident then I'd get AIDS. So, anytime I'd take a rather hefty dump I got scared that the force of the splash might introduce some urine into my sphincter region. I really thought this. I mean, what was I supposed to think? It wasn't like my parents were grand scholars on this subject. Basically what we were getting told from older peers, and even some grown ups, was that AIDS was strictly a dick-in-ass thing. Being 10, back in a more innocent time, I barely knew what semen was, so I tended to revert back to my "men pee in women to make a babies" doctrine. So, the only way I could conceive dudes getting it on was each other taking turns peeing in each other's buttholes. One of my friends was working on some kind of "funnel" theory of how that all worked. Well, at least he kept that theory to himself, other than the accidental slip in our tree fort.
Oh, there was a point to all this AIDS bidness: I thought that if I did catch AIDS from my pee getting into my ass that I would become gay by default. All I can say is thanks to Ryan White's struggle with the disease I got to see just how ugly the transformation it was from straight kid to outright flaming gay. I mean, the kid was hanging out with Michael Jackson! Seriously though, it showed me and the rest of the cornhole fearing community that you don't turn gay or that AIDS was a "gay" disease.
In summary, having a gaydream is just your mind's way of allowing you to get your Sodom on without getting blown up by the one who art in heaven. I also believe it is your subconscious' way of working out left overs in your libido. Ultimately, they don't make sense if it isn't true. Also, don't stick a funnel up your ass and try to pee in it. I don't know if that is even possible, but there is one kid who might have found out. His parent's drove a Volvo. See, that and putting your kids in private school is just asking for it.
Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.
P.S. Check out the Lord of the Rings orgy scene on my sidebar.
If you could produce your own milk what kind of cereal would go with it best?
If you could crap a bricks of gold who would you tell?
If there were a place on earth where you could throw away your mother in law and get away with it, would you?
If picture can paint a thousand words then how come I can't paint you?
If I can't figure out how I am going to stop itching my calf then the the humane society might have to step in.
If you could have any wish in the world what color would it be?
If a stranger brought you flowers does stranger danger still apply even though you are all grown up?
If a candy bar has been smooshed into the shape of a turd is there a sick sense of satisfaction involved in eating it?
If I don't respond to tags from blogger friends do I still get to have Big Mac Monday time?
Blogs that make me think/favorite blogs (combined): Tags from Mayden's Voyage/Cora & Scary Monster's Me no blog (on my sidebar). Sorry, I am too tired to tag or link. I normally don't do memes. I don't like to do them. But, Cora and Scary Monster are good blogger friends, so I will go ahead and do them my way.
1. Yours (yes, you silly).
2. Mine. I really dig myself and I am a genius!
3. Incorrigible Vagabond (sidebar). He is the reason why I started blogging in the first place, even if he doesn't ever read me. I have read everything he has blogged. I am also his cousin.
4. Daily Bread. My pal from Britain, RJW, who I think jumped off a bridge and hasn't been seen in Bloggerland in over a year. I will post that address if I can find it again. He once did a post about a dead seal and it was true poetry. I am not being sarcastic either. I miss him and his blog.
5. This one is hard, so I will have to say that I dig Captain Kirk's "Captain's Log" because it really was the first blog, in my humble opinion.
I just like to stay up and watch these things because I start to feel like I am right there in the living room of Kelly Clarkson or Jessica Simpson. I even feel tears well up in my eyes as I see the struggle that each person had to go through to overcome their "pizza face" youth (P-Diddy, I feel your pain). To me, it is like witnessing a real miracle in this modern day, a time where miracles were once thought dead.
