the cult of pally

I have many obsessions and pet causes that I fetishize over. Those who know me best know what these things are, probably better than I do.

I get attached to weird concepts or strange tangents. For example: in high school, I remember being fascinated by Bono's use of the qualifier "of love" for everything: the U2 singer is always singing about the "fire of love" or the "hands of love". He even went so far as to cover "Satellite Of Love" by Lou Reed! And let's not forget the the heart-shaped stage they used for the Elevation tour...

But I digress. The point is, I think I have finally discovered why I am so obsessed with Pally, a minor character on The Simpsons.

Who is Pally, you might ask? Well, he goes by many names, usually describing his ever-changing array of jobs. He is mostly a clerk or a driver or a repairman of some sort. In one episode, Sideshow Bob referred to him as "Raphael" as he was managing the Broken Dreams Storage Locker joint that Bob moved into temporarily while plotting revenge against Krusty The Clown and Bart Simpson. But technically, he has no name.

In Simpsons lore, he is known as The Sarcastic Man. My friends and I call him Pally because he uses that label, among others, to address anyone he comes into contact with: other labels include "Romeo" "Buddy" "Fatty" (as in "Hey fatty, I got a movie for you-- A Fridge Too Far!") or "Casanova".

His voice is done by Hank Azaria, a Simpsons mainstay, and it's a voice that Azaria also uses when impersonating Charles Bronson, as in the episode where the Simpsons end up in Bronson, Missouri, instead of Branson, Missouri. The town of Bronson is populated by people who look and sound like Charles Bronson.

A mother and son are walking down a street in Bronson, and they both resemble the tough-guy acting legend.

The boy says to his mother, "Hey ma, can I have some cookies?"

She replies coldly, "No dice."

The son, unfazed, retorts with, "This... ain't... over!"

Funny stuff. And yes, I know I'm a geek.


*/*


Anyway, I think the reason why I adore Pally so much is because he is so acerbic. Daniel, my British friend who shares my Pally enthusiasm, insists that it's because Pally is Everyman, but for me it goes further: Pally is simply above reproach.

He is not especially good or bad at his various jobs, nor is he meant to represent any particular type of person in the real world. One can say that he speaks for all the surly laborers out there who toil away in subservient jobs, but there doesn't seem to be any bitterness in Pally's tone.

What makes him above reproach is that he is relentlessly sarcastic, and devastatingly candid. He's the limo driver who sees the whole Prom Night situation going down between Homer, Marge Bouvier and Artie Ziff, assesses it, and gives his opinion without taking sides; he's the box office attendant at the local theater who tries to help Homer decide what movie to watch; he's the aforementioned storage space manager who already knows that Sideshow Bob wants to live in his storage locker ("You wanna live in the locker? It's two bucks a day!"); he's the taxi driver who films a drunken Homer for the benefit of a cable reality series that is eerily similar to Taxicab Confessions...

Thus, he is somewhat of a sage, and a very sarcastic sage at that.

Pally always has a clever quip or insult on hand. And yet he is also quick to admit when he's been bested, like when Bart counters Pally's suggestion that Homer is buying a Turbo Diary for the wrong reasons.


HOMER: One Turbo Diary please.

PALLY: Trying to keep those crushes secret, eh, Romeo?

BART: It's not for me. I'm not a girl, like you!

PALLY: Well played.


I like the fact that no one ever gets really mad at him, or confronts him when he is pulling their leg, despite his downright ornery-ness. The closest he ever came to dealing with someone's ire was when Pally (appearing as a bug exterminator) prompted Marge to ask Homer why he must always choose the cheapest company in the Yellow Pages.

Pally is so sarcastic, he even put Comic Book Guy (aka Jeff Albertson) in his place, causing Comic Book Guy to retreat to his comic book shop, where he "dispenses the insults" and not the other way around.

In other words, Pally possess some sort of power, in spite of his menial position on the societal ladder. He may not be as influential as Mr. Burns, or as famous as Rainier Wolfcastle, or as rich as Artie Ziff (before the embezzlement scandal), bit Pally has an acidic wit on his side.

His function in the world of Springfield is strictly utilitarian, but on a larger scale Pally is akin to some Native-American trickster god, appearing in all places at once, alternating between causing havoc or solving problems.

He takes on many forms, and not just with job titles. In early episodes, he is sometimes drawn differently but retains the nasal voice with its slightly Polish accent. My favorite example of this is during the "Treehouse of Horror" episode involving the homicidal Krusty doll-- a toy company serviceman shows up at the Simpson house and checks out the doll, who has already tried to kill Homer on numerous occasions.

Wearing shades and sporting a tan, he looks more like Duff Man than the Pally I've come to know and love. But the voice and the delivery are unmistakable:

"Yup, here's your problem. Someone set this thing to 'Evil'..."

Pally is quite the jester when he is called upon, and for that I appreciate him. And if I'm not mistaken, the creators of the show have been using him more and more as time goes on. They are wise to reuse him on and off over the course of each season. Sometimes he says nothing, a mere face in the background; other times, he is right there, interacting with the principals. But nothing is really known about his private life, other than what he offers up... which is usually very little.

Pally is a mystery wrapped in a riddle wrapped in an enigma, and I think he likes it like that.


*/*


When I was a kid, I played this game with my neighbors that I made up. It was called "Life" and it bore no relation to the popular board game.

I would corral my friends on the block and put them through the ropes: the first part of the game was all about amassing personal wealth, so I would direct the action by telling them, "Okay, now you need to get a job, so there's the employment office" and I'd point to a part of my backyard. They'd walk over there and wait in line, while I jumped behind the "desk" (usually a picnic bench) and handed out jobs.

"Okay, you're a plumber."

"But I don't want to be a plumber."

"You can change your job later. Right now, you're a plumber. You need money, right?"

Then, each person would go and do their "job", which meant they would pantomime something approximating what a plumber or cop or stock trader might do. Then, after fifteen minutes of this, I'd blow a whistle to signal the end of the workday. Then, I'd have everyone come back to the "desk" and collect their money: leaves picked from off of a tree. Sometimes I used Monopoly money, but my brother got angry at me for ruining them so I switched to leaves.

Everyone received the same amount of pay, regardless of what their job was, and then it was time to buy a place to live. They'd give me some leaves, and I'd rent them a piece of my backyard.

As the game progressed, I'd transform into different occupations, depending on the situation. If one of my friends was riding on their bicycle too fast, I'd become a cop and pull them over and write them a ticket. Then, they'd have to go to the Police Station and pay it-- and guess who was behind the desk at the Police Station? You guessed it.

If it was "nighttime" and they were supposed to be asleep, I'd become a burglar and sneak into their homes or perhaps steal their bike. Then, I'd return as a cop and tell them that I will do my best but there's no guarantee that I will be able to recover their stolen goods.

While playing that game as a preteen, I was a Pally of sorts, seemingly omnipresent and unavoidable. I think that's another reason why I admire this fictional cartoon character so much: there's a bit of Pally in me. When I see him on the screen, I think to myself, There but for the grace of God go I.

I can be sarcastic and petulant, and I can also be helpful. Sometimes I'm just there, in the wings. Other times, I am at the forefront of a situation, but I blend into the scenery so well that I am unrecognizable the next time around.

Not only that, but I strive to be Pally. He is always funny and apt. Some of my favorite lines include the following:

"Sorry, pally, 'The Dingleberries' are sold out... but looking at you, I'm sure your kids are used to disappointment."

"Either give me some of that, or let's get going." (Said to Marge as she kisses Bart goodbye)

"These are no ordinary termites. What you've got here are Russian Nogoodniks... in order to kill these bugs I've got to live like a bug, think like a bug, BECOME a bug." (Proceeds to eat the furniture)

"I'm afraid I've got bad news. The trees have gotten into your plumbing... the pipes have more roots than the list of all-time top-rated TV shows."

Something about Pally reassures me, makes me comfortable. Maybe it's the fact that he is always nearby, doing something to make the world go 'round and yet stopping every now and then to weigh in on the important plot points.

I don't tire of his antics. I hope they flesh him out over the next few seasons. Yes, it's true-- I'm certifiable.

And, in case that wasn't enough, here's a link to a web page put up by Simpsons fans who are more obsessed than I could ever be.

Have a nice weekend, pally.

housesitting

Okay, so I posted about discipline last time. Doesn't mean I know a damn thing about it though.

I smoke, take drugs, drink (in addition to being allergic to alcohol), and lately I've been putting the food away in pounds. I'm a slave to my dick and I spend all my money on CDs and party-nights out. I keep doing things that are bad for me, and yet I'm posting about... discipline.

The truth is, I do have discipline. I'm two people, you see. Remember?

I'm an old man and a little boy, and it's the little boy who breaks the rules and stays up past his bedtime and goes out without mittens and catches cold and doesn't eat his Brussels sprouts and is afraid of snails.

The old man is the part of me that gets the job done time and time again, despite the best efforts of the little boy to sabotage it all.

The old man is stronger and wiser, but he doesn't have much time. There's a sense of urgency to everything he does, as if he cannot forget those Depression-era days of yore and keeps memories of them fresh in his mind like cut flowers in a vase.

And the old man knows only one thing: that he doesn't know the first thing about how to master a discipline. At least the little boy has his five working senses and an awestruck view of life on this planet to help him get by. The old man squandered that part of him and now he is desperate.

They need each other. Those two different sides of me are interdependent upon each other to survive.


*/*


Eve's brother Randy left town and asked her if she could housesit. Eve agreed, knowing very well that this entailed watching over Randy's dogs, Victoria and Fargo.

Victoria is an epileptic Chihuahua, who needs to be medicated with phenobarbital to manage its seizures. Fargo is a beautiful Golden Lab, barely a pup but already big enough to knock someone down with unbridled enthusiasm.

I'm not crazy about dogs, but Eve asked me if I wanted to hang out with her while she was housesitting, and I figured it would be nice to do that. But I'd been feeling bad ever since my meeting with The Green Fairy on Valentine's Day, and after playing a show with my band the following evening-- in the freezing cold with only a sweaty shirt and tie sticking to me in the frigid temperatures --it was safe to assume that my ass was done for.

Ever the Angel of Mercy, Eve began nursing me back to health with a series of incredible meals that gave me the vitality to continue through the remainder of the week. I must have gained at least 15 pounds from this past weekend, what with all the good eatin' we got in.

There was the promise of the hot tub, but then it started raining, and even if we wanted to say 'the hell with it' and use the hot tub anyway Eve couldn't figure out what was wrong with it. That was probably a good thing, though, because I was trying to recuperate from illness-- jumping into the hot tub during the rain would set me back a few days, no doubt.

If the hot tub had been working, I just know I would've jumped in.


*/*


Have you ever housesat for an extended period of time, only to find that you are being sucked into the comforts of a home that doesn't belong to you?

It's a weird feeling: after a while, you walk around like you own the place. You're not afraid to walk around naked, or rummage through the fridge. And yet, if you make a mess, you are a bit mindful of it. However, as time goes by you become less mindful, thinking "Oh, I'll clean up right before they get back"... you keep telling yourself this over and over, so as not to get in the way of your own enjoyment, but then comes the day when you have to clean up and leave.

Then, the reality sets in, and you realize that you were getting used to that way of living. And when you leave, you end up shaking it off of you, no matter how appealing it may have seemed.

Eve and I slowly transformed into a domesticated couple during our stay at Randy's house. She and I are apartment dwellers, and to be inside a spacious two-bedroom home in Burbank, with a beautiful kitchen and a baby grand piano in one of the rooms, with the TiVo and widescreen TV and the comfy couch that mold to your backbones as if it were tailored specifically for you...

We did crosswords together. Together. Halfway through the Sunday puzzle, I realized that I had never shared a crossword with anyone ever. Sure, I've asked people for help with clues every now and then, but she and I were looking at the same puzzle, figuring out answers.

Weird. But not scary. You wanna talk about scary? Try dealing with the bevy of snails that oozed out of the woodwork when the rain came. That was scary.

Eve did laundry and cooked, I played with the remote control and looked for movies to watch on cable. Granted, I was taking cold medicine and trying to keep myself from getting sicker, but my discipline was selective: no alcohol, but cigarettes and pot were fine; no dairy products, but loads of carbs at every food op...

On Saturday night, Laurie and Daniel (The Dynamic Duo) came by and we ate Thai food while watching The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. It was still raining, and watching a movie about an underwater explorer seemed to hit home. It was as if we were miles beneath the ocean, in a submarine, or perhaps a waterproof cocoon.


*/*


I'm feeling better now. I'm here at work, sitting around doing nothing all day, wondering if I'll ever have a home of my own or a hot tub or a TV the size of a large fishtank...

The only reason why I'm wondering about all that stuff is because I gave up on the way of thinking a long time ago. By age 16, I was no longer an active participant in The Game: I did everything I could to ensure that I would end up a loser.

Now, at age 32, I realize that I failed-- I didn't become a loser. Yeah, I'm far from a winner, but I haven't lost anything. In fact, I've gained something, if anything.

I've gained a positive outlook on life. I'm at a point now where it doesn't seem like some unattainable sham of a dream; I'm talking about the whole 'settling down' angle. It doesn't seem like something I will never have anymore.

Granted, I still don't want it (at least for now) but it doesn't feel like sour grapes when I say that I don't want it. In the past, I used to refuse it with a bitter taste on my tongue, as if I was secretly envious of anyone who had the naivete to dare dream the impossible.

Now, the impossible seems, at the very least, plausible.

Weird.

It unnerved me, but not as much as it did to Eve. When we met up later on Sunday night at Purple Paulie's house, she confessed that a metaphorical cloud had lifted from her head when she left her brother's house for good.

She said to me, "When I got home, I threw my laundry on the bed, and sat down and said, 'Ah yes, I have a life of my own!'"

I laughed. "Isn't that funny how that happens when you housesit? You start thinking that you own the house. Then you wake up from the dream."

"More like a nightmare. I can't believe I was actually domestic!" Eve shivered for effect.

"It wasn't that bad. A bit decadent, but not bad."

"It was weird," she said, grinning. "I don't want to see another crossword ever again."

Well, I happen to like crosswords, so she may have spoken too soon. But it was weird... in a nice sort of way. It was a nice weird.

Eve said, "My mother said the same thing when she housesat for Randy. It took her a few days to get out of the haze."

She and I still have that hunger. We're not ready to settle down yet-- we're too restless, both of us. But, it's good to know that the alternative is not virtual death. It seems more like a prison sentence for a Mafia boss, with all the amenities and special benefits that come with such an arrangement.

Maybe if I can channel my bipolar impulses, I can discipline myself and get the house with the two-car garage and the 2.5 kids without having to defer my hopes and dreams.

Maybe.

discipline

Most people, upon hearing the word "discipline", think of one of two things:

1. Punishment in a parent-child relationship, and
2. Punishment in a master-servant bondage context

Wikipedia has a pretty good definition of the word:


"Discipline is any training intended to produce a specific character or pattern of behavior, especially training that produces moral or mental development in a particular direction. It is a widely held belief that most people, even those disinclined to harm others or self, lack discipline.

Discipline, while often thought to be a coercive mechanism, can be a collaborative process of building consensus regarding accepted behavior within institutions and society. Ultimately, leaders should model and promote collective rules while allowing for feelings and appropriate outlets to non-conformists."


*/*


I bring up discipline because yesterday my co-worker Sascha and I were talking about it. He had mentioned running into one of my friends, a nice guy with tons of intelligence and creativity but no motivation.

I said to Sascha, "It's frustrating, you know? Dude's got the skills to be anything he wants to be, but he can't make it work. He got fired from his last job because he was checking his e-mail, and when his bosses asked him to stop, he told them 'It's MANDATORY that I do this'... so they axed him."

Sascha said, "Mandatory?"

"That's what he said. He could've handled it better, don't you think? So now he's installing security alarms... and I don't know how long that will last, to tell you the truth." I wasn't that upset about it, but it did irk me a bit to know all of this.

"Let me tell you something," Sascha said. "People like you and me, the reason why we manage to get along the way we do is because we have discipline. I grew up in a home where my dad was not a discipliner-- he's a big goof-off. I had to discipline myself if I had any designs to be something in the future. And I'm glad I did. But I also know that I am not as disciplined as I could be. I'm always working towards that."

I replied, "People forget that a big part of discipline is not just pointing out what is wrong, but also what is right. Discipline with children is not just scolding or admonishing-- praise is a form of discipline too. Encouragement also."

Then I agreed with Sascha that I have a long way to go in terms of my own discipline. I'm sure there are people out there who see me as squandering my potential. But I can only go as fast as I am comfortable with, which happens to be faster than most but not as fast as I know I can go.

I should be a millionaire by this time, right? Well, the way I see it, if that is the case then I'd also have an ulcer, a bald patch atop my head, and a string of broken relationships in my wake. I am careful to not get overly ambitious, because life is not just about how much money you can make in how short of a time... it's also about enjoying yourself in the down time, savoring the moments in-between the endeavors and tasks.


*/*


A lot of my bright but unmotivated friends are constantly griping about the world around them, how nothing is fair, how everyone is out to get them, how the odds are stacked against them so why should they try...

As a narcissist, I recognize their own N-supply. I see that they want things handed to them. I don't think there is anything wrong with that line of reasoning in and of itself. Personally, my motto for a long time has been "This world owes me a living"... but over time even I have realized that there has to be some give-and-take in the equation.

I can't have everything for the price of nothing. Sacrifice is required. Humility also. Gratitude helps.

A lot of my friends are humble and gracious, but then they get into this mode where they expect the world to hand itself over to them, and when it doesn't work out they get upset. I can understand that, because I am the same way. But I think the main difference that Sascha was alluding to is in regards to our attitudes towards adversity.

My above-mentioned friend (whom I will name "Jonas") considers himself a disciplined person: he studies kung fu, tai chi, and wrestling; he is adept at computer programming; he is smart and funny and resourceful... but he cannot keep a steady job because they are always "beneath him" in some way.

Hey, if a job is beneath him, I agree that he shouldn't have to keep working there. But then he complains about his lot in life, how he hasn't made any progress in years, how he's still in the same boat he was in ten years ago.

It doesn't add up logically. He doesn't see that HE is the problem, not the world.

Telling him as much only makes him defensive. I am know for my passionate arguments, so someone like Jonas writes off my observations as just another attempt on my part to get a rise out of people.

But I know that I have the capacity to work at a job that is beneath me, always keeping my mind on the next step. Granted, maybe I'm not moving along as fast as others would like, but whenever I look back I am proud of my achievements. I have always made progress.

Even when I got laid off in 2003, by the time I was working again (5 months later) I was making the same amount of money I was making before the lay-off, which isn't really progress until you consider that most people take a pay cut after a lay-off, just because they are desperate for work.

If life deals me a blow so hard that I must step backward, I make it a point to make up for that, so that I can catch up.

After three years of moving from apartment to house to home, toiling away in this job without a raise, and dealing with all sorts of dramas, I think I am caught up. And I like that feeling, because it would've been very easy for me to give up and just start living off of my parents.


*/*


I know, not everyone is made out of the same cloth as me or Sascha. In fact, most of my unmotivated friends are probably smarter and more talented than me.

So how to explain their inability to get something going for themselves? Lack of self esteem? No, not these folk-- they may seem like they have no confidence, but when they really want something they'll move mountains to get it. Unfortunately, they only focus on temporary, short-term goals: copping enough money to buy something unnecessary, like drugs or alcohol or the latest Playstation game.

Maybe they had a bad upbringing. Okay, assuming that, shouldn't they be going about bettering their neuroses, through therapy or some sort of process that forces them to take a REAL assessment of their situation? Someone like Jonas thinks that karate is the key, but he's so unbalanced in his personal life that I wonder if it does him any good at all. Maybe his study of martial arts is motivated by rage or anger, instead of the wish for self-improvement-- in that case, he'll simply become a bully, instead of a well-rounded human being.

I think alienation is the reason why these near-geniuses cannot function. They lack a certain social grace that would enable them to navigate their way through society in a deterministic manner.

Jonas, for example, has difficutly communicating with women. A friend of Purple Paulie's told me the story about how Jonas managed to get a date with one of the hottest girls in their circle of friends. No one could figure out what Jonas did, but needless to say the girl was into him, and all he had to do was play his cards right to seal the deal.

What happened? Well, when it came time to "consummate", Jonas instead asked the girl if he could masturbate on her instead of having sex with her. This freaked her out, and she left the room in a hurry. Jonas couldn't understand what was so unreasonable about his request, not realizing how insensitive he was being by reducing her to a mere object by which he could pleasure himself.

It also raises questions about how well he deals with true intimacy. That he'd rather masturbate than engage in the real thing demonstrates a disassociation and a disconnect in his way of thinking.

I am guilty of such disconnects. Sometimes, I say things that are foolish and presumptive, and only until later do I realize what I've done. Usually, the offended party has to spell it out to me. But in my case, I am aware of this disconnect and it makes me ill to think that I am capable of doing it.

Rather than just saying "I'm sorry" I make an effort to understand my behavior. Like I said, I am not the most disciplined person in the world, even though I am probably more disciplined than most people. I still do things to excess, I still break the rules and step on people's toes in order to gratify my appetites.

But you don't hear me complaining about my role in society. I'm very happy and proud of what I've accomplished in my life. And I have the battle scars to prove it.


*/*


"Discipline is derived from a Latin word which meant to learn. Hence also the origin of the English word disciple which meant one who learns. Disciple is used to translate the original Greek word of the New Testament, pronounced math-ay-tes, which means the same, a learner."

--some link I found in a Google search


One last thing to add: the reason why someone like Jonas is the way he is might be due to an unwillingness to learn anything useful.

As stated before, the man is smart. He absorbs information quickly. He applies it properly, and possesses many talents. But he is a Renaissance Man of the dilettante order, Jack of All Trades, Master of None.

He may claim to be a disciple of some sort of philosophy or way of life, but his actions run counter to those claims. He has nothing to show for it at the end of the day.

For me, I have a lot of things to show for what I've devoted my life to: this blog, to name one example; my writings, none of them formally published; my songs, none of them released officially; my art, only one piece of which has been displayed and none of which have been purchased...

It is more important for me to finish my projects and move on to the next thing, rather than keep too many things on the backburner. The larger the project, however, the more time is required. My novel may never be finished in terms of editing, but I have no need to add any more to its content. I have ideas for the next novel, but they are still stewing in my mind.

On this blog, I've tried to start new story ideas, only to leave them stranded. All this tells me is that this blog is a terrible place to try and compose a novel. But, when the bug bites me to do so, I will have at least three unfinished stories to complete, and then I can add them to the pile of completed stories sitting in my personal archives.

Before I deleted my old blog, I printed up my story about Holly Golightly and the band. I found it the other day-- I was proud of it. Yes, it is merely a fraction of the half a million words I invested into that blog, but if the end result was a story such as DEJA VU ALL OVER AGAIN, then it was all worth it.

I can never understand perfectionists. Let me re-phrase that: I've met many true perfectionists, but I have never understood the faux perfectionists, who leave everything open-ended with no resolution in sight. Musicians are the guiltiest parties to this trend: they are afraid to say "The song is finished" or if it is finished they are afraid to let it be stretched and expanded upon by the input of others.

At some point, you have to wrap it all up. If something comes along to add flavor to it, include it... but one shouldn't go overboard.

I'll tell you what I need to work on: my patience. I have no tolerance for people who lack cohesive visions. It's all a bunch of sound and fury to me, if there's no glue to bind everything together.

Maybe I should devote the next month to being patient, and taking it slowly. I don't know if I can adhere to that, but I will try. A part of me feels that I will be successful in this regard.

This concludes my long and drawn-out blog post. Have a nice weekend, people.

the online quizzes never stop, do they?

Your Personality Is

Rational (NT) You are both logical and creative. You are full of ideas. You are so rational that you analyze everything. This drives people a little crazy! Intelligence is important to you. You always like to be around smart people. In fact, you're often a little short with people who don't impress you mentally. You seem distant to some - but it's usually because you're deep in thought. Those who understand you best are fellow Rationals. In love, you tend to approach things with logic. You seek a compatible mate - who is also very intelligent. At work, you tend to gravitate toward idea building careers - like programming, medicine, or academia. With others, you are very honest and direct. People often can't take your criticism well. As far as your looks go, you're coasting on what you were born with. You think fashion is silly. On weekends, you spend most of your time thinking, experimenting with new ideas, or learning new things.

The Three Question Personality Test

absente (calling uncle ralph)

Last night, the four of us-- myself, Eve, Laurie and Daniel --went out to eat at a restaurant called Moulin Rouge for Valentine's Day. Eve had eaten there for lunch recently and recommended it for the atmosphere.

Before we went out, we congregated at the apartment of The Dynamic Duo (our pet name for Laurie and Daniel), where Eve presented me with a special Valentine's Day gift: a bottle of Absente, or "Absinthe Refined".

My eyes bulged wide. "This isn't absinthe absinthe, is it?"

"That stuff you're talking about is illegal," Eve said. "This stuff is perfectly legit."

Laurie said, "There's no wormwood in it." Technically she is correct, but according to the web link there is a bit of what is called "Southern wormwood", a less-bitter cousin to the hallucinogenic agent, in Absente.

"I know where we can get some wormwood," Daniel said, recalling a location in Southern California where it grows wild. But that would have to be for another time.

We left the bottle at their place and drove off to make our dinner reservation.


*/*


I borrowed a jacket from Daniel, in case there was some type of dress code. I've been having to dress up slightly at the job, and since I was coming straight from work I was almost formal. He let me borrow an off-white blazer, and my navy-blue shirt coupled with the mustache I've been sporting lately it made me look like a Latin-American game show host, or perhaps a Bolivian drug lord.

Upon arriving, Eve made a short disclaimer: "I've only eaten here once, for lunch. If the food sucks, it's not my fault."

"Didn't you tell me there's can-can girls here?" I asked.

"Only on the weekends. Tonight, who knows what they'll have."

The first sign of trouble was when we entered the restaurant and found that indeed, there were no can-can girls. Rather, there were two older musicians doing some cheesy lounge act, singing The Police's "Every Breath You Take" in such a manner that I had to remark with a mumble, "Yeah, they're taking the life's breath out of this song!"

We requested to be seated outside, which is always a risk because the waiters often forget to serve you properly. Our table was wobbly and unbalanced, so I offered to go underneath the table and even it out.

My head disappeared beneath the table cloth. Suddenly I felt a crunch as I moved my hand over the main post, and I was quickly back in the upright position, my face as white as a ghost.

Eve asked, "What's the matter?"

I said, "There's a snail down there."

"A snail?" Daniel was curious. Laurie was on the verge of laughing.

"A snail. I can't go back down there."

Eve almost laughed until she read my body language: tense shoulders, serious look on my face, a glint of grave terror in my eyes... I have this irrational fear of snails, slugs and mollusks-- what can I say?

"I'll take care of it," she said, and she grabbed a napkin from a neighboring table, plucked the snail from underneath, wrapped it up and left it back on the table.

"What kind of Bolivian drug lord are you?" Daniel joked.

The conversation turned to neuroses, particularly mine. I am not afraid of anything in this world, but snails make me wince. I don't know why. I think they are disgusting and useless, for sure. They repulse me.

We should've taken that as an omen, because the service was so lousy we ended up leaving after 45 minutes of waiting. We ordered pizzas from D'Amore's and went back to The Dynamic Duo's apartment.


*/*


After we feasted upon pizza, Eve showed me how to prepare the Absente. It tasted like NyQuil. I didn't feel drunk at all, but I knew I was buzzed-- this shit is 110 proof.

We all had a bit to drink from the bottle, and then Laurie busted out with some delicious coffee-flavored ice cream. This would prove to be my downfall later on, when we were back at Eve's apartment.

It seems that the Absente, the pizza, the ice cream AND the rigorous movements of our private Valentine celebration in her bed made for a bad combo in my gullet. I immediately got up, apologized for what I was about to do, then ran into the bathroom and projectile-vomited for what seemed like a short eternity.

It's been a long time since I puked that badly. Because I'm a lightweight with liquor, I am always careful to not go overboard when consuming drink. I can't recall the last time I had to call Uncle Ralph, but I'm sure it was just as humorous as last night.

Vomiting is funny. I can always laugh about it, when it's happening and afterward. My throat is sore, to be sure, but other than that I thought it was pretty amusing, my kneeling before the Porcelain God and wretching intensely, my jawbones about to bend backwards from the pressure of the steady stream of partially-digested junk food gushing out of my mouth...

Not a very romantic end to the evening, but then again it was weird from the get-go. The snail was an omen, like I said.

I still have quite a bit of Absente left. I think I will drink it in moderation next time. I kind of overdid it, but when do I ever NOT overdo it?

Before I leave you for today, here's a list of vomiting euphemisms that I find to be hilarious. Next time you get so shit-faced that you can't help but "read the toilet", just remember this list and you'll have a grand time of your vomiting experience.

Godspeed.

this modern world

v-day

Last year around this time I blogged a Valentine's Day post that was unusual, in that it was about another couple's romance: my grandparents.

This year, my V-Day post is about the romance in my own life.

Weird.

I know I run the risk of jinxing this thing I've got going with Eve, because that's the way it always is with me: I write about love and then I watch it as it disappears, or at the very least I see it spiraling down the drain.

Therefore, I'm not going to talk about how much she means to me or any of that sap that rises to the surface around this time of year.

No, instead I will give thanks-- to God, Allah, Jehovah, Lucifer, Buddah, whoever and whatever --and come to terms with this lucky feeling I have, this gratitude towards the universe, for allowing me to experience something like this, after so many years of not experiencing this...

Okay, I'm already sounding like a dork. Suffice it to say, the notion that she and I are sharing this day together is not lost on me.

Wish me luck.

full moon fever dreams

I had a beautiful weekend, filled with drink, food, and entertainment. I was surrounded by friends and family, and I got a lot of things done.

So why am I feeling so weird today?

Maybe it's because I fell down in my kitchen this morning, when the chair gave way underneath me and sent me crashing to the floor. I knew the chair was faulty but I momentarily forgot about it. The fall was a BIG reminder.

Maybe it's because, despite being told a week in advance and getting a call from my father on the day of, I missed my grandmother's birthday party. It's no biggie: my family is humongous and she probably didn't even miss me, what with her senility kicking in. Plus, her actual birthday is Tuesday, and I can make up for it tomorrow.

I just feel bad because I had no excuse to miss the party. My absent-mindedness is not an alibi, and the fact that my father called me to remind me and it went in one ear and out the other... I feel guilty, because there was no reason why I should've missed it.

Maybe it's the full moon. After all, Eve spaced out on her friend's baby shower, thinking it to be Saturday instead of Sunday. She received a reminder call the day of, just like me, but she made the party... despite not wanting to be surrounded by girly-girls doing girly-girl things.

Maybe it's the fact that things are starting to resemble something close to 'normal', and yet at the same time I am being reminded of things that are slightly askew.


*/*


An example of this arose Saturday, when Eve asked me to drive out to Valencia for her cousin's birthday party.

I showed up, because I knew Eve was having a bad time of it. In her family, she is the 'black sheep', and all eyes are on her. She got sick of family asking her if she was alone or not, so she figured inviting me would shut them up.

I felt out-of-place, but I didn't act like a diva. I mingled as much as I could, and truth be told I get along with many people in her family. They all remember me from the high school days, and I think they are glad that she is no longer dating Dick. Apparently, Dick never endeared himself to the family at all.

I even managed to get a pat on the back from her stoic father. It's very rare that I seek the approval of somebody else, but Eve's father is one of those people whom I wish to one day sit down with and talk about real things. But Eve says that her father is not like that at all. Still, I saw the pat on the back and the occasional comments that he made in my prescence as progress. Yes, he didn't walk up to me and start talking away, but I appreciate the fact that he didn't outright avoid me either.

On the other hand, Eve's stepmom was tipsy and talkative. She made me feel awkward with her insistence on bringing up the past. At one point, she had her arm around me, telling me that she always liked me and that she's glad I am with Eve again. She also declared that she is not a bad person, and hoped that I wasn't feeling awkward by being at their family function.

"See, we're a normal, happy family, aren't we?" she asked me as I smoked a cigarette at the side of the house.

"Yes, no doubt, " I said, feeling uncomfortable.

The jarring thing about her stepmom is her instability: because I wasn't all smiles and accepting of her declarations, it could all backfire at any moment. She might see my reluctance to engage her in conversation as an opportunity to turn on me again.

"I hope you don't feel awkward or out of place, given all the history between us..."

I lied and said, "No, I feel fine." Then I added, "Don't bring up stuff that happened so long ago. Everything is different now."

"You know," she said, as she looked around the backyard, "if you want to marry Eve, we're all for it."

"Okay, NOW I feel awkward," I said to her.


*/*


Eve was so tense because of the party that when we arrived at her place we fell asleep immediately. It was only 9pm, and we were supposed to go over to Purple Paulie's house later on and work on the animation. But we were so exhausted... the expectations of the party really took a toll on us.

Ironically, things with Eve are really nice. The 'honeymoon phase' is leveling off a bit, and she and I are not ensnared in any petty personal dramas. She and I are on the same page. Occasionally, one of us is grouchy, due to lack of sleep or lack of eating or stress at work, but we know each other so well that those types of things get glossed over easily, as they should be.

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. We haven't made official plans, but Eve and I will probably go out to dinner with The Dynamic Duo. I am looking forward to having some low-key fun with people I care about. Then, on Wednesday, one of my bands is playing a private party at Universal Citywalk, and Eve will be there with a friend of hers.

For the first time in a long time, things between Eve and I are more than kosher. I don't want to jinx it-- I just want to continue having a good time with her, having deep conversations and sharing big laughs. Even with all the weirdness going on in other parts of our lives, right now the both of us are finding some sort of center with each other. It's really a good thing.

Yes it is.

'the simpsons'

You Are Homer Simpson

You're just an ordinary, all-American working Joe... With a special fondness for pork rinds and donuts. You will be remembered for: your little "isms" and philosophies on life Your life philosophy: "Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It's what separates us from the animals ... except the weasel."

The Simpsons Personality Test

billiards

When I was a kid, my family had a pool table. I was too small to shoot pool, though, and by the time I grew tall enough to make shots, the table was gone-- it took up too much space.

Over the years, I have switched back and forth between vast indifference towards playing pool and intense fascination with the game. In 1993, shortly after I took LSD for the first time, I suddenly "got" the game and went on a six-month bender where all I wanted to do was shoot pool. I instantaneously understood the geometry of the game and chalked it up to my acid trip.

However, the effects of the trip died down, and after a while I was back to not knowing what to do with a cue stick. And ever since then, my attitude towards playing pool resembles my attitude towards life: grab a stick, hit some balls, and hope that some of them sink.

Oh, and be careful not to scratch on the 8 ball...


*/*


I got off of work and drove over to Eve's apartment. When I arrived, she was ready to go out and shoot some pool. Seems that over the weekend, while I was playing a set with one of my bands, Eve and Daniel (Laurie's husband) occupied their time on the other side of the club by shooting some pool.

Daniel, a Brit, is very good at pool. Eve is no slouch herself. They played against a couple from out of town-- the guy was great and I don't know how good the girl was, but it evidently sparked a reaction in Eve.

Before I left from work, she asked me if I was down to go out and play pool. I liken this to the break, the beginning of any pool game. Eve likes to be the catalyst, the one who starts things off. It is in line with her cardinal view of the universe, her pioneering spirit regarding everything.

She is often the one in any group of friends who fires off the opening salvo.

From her break, I landed the first ball in a pocket, designating who was "stripes" and who was "solids" in this metaphorical pool game: I had to meet Purple Paulie at the Garage in order to try and get my friend Dotty a job at his pet wash, and so it made sense to visit House Of Billiards on Ventura Blvd, which is not very far from the Garage. By doing this, it would also enable us to pick up the Dynamic Duo a.k.a. Laurie and Daniel, while en route to the pool hall.

Everything worked out great: we stayed at the Garage for short time, then went on our merry way.


*/*


The conversation in the car resembled the intersecting paths of a game of doubles.

"Hope you all like gangsta rap," I said, as I played Ice Cube's Amerikka's Most Wanted in the stereo..

"Lovely," Daniel said, tongue-in-cheek.

"Gansgta rap?" Laurie inquired.

"Yes. You know, because I'm such a thug." I was joking, obviously.

"Oh really?" Eve asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, remember all those drive-bys I did? All the cops I was shooting at when I was a kid?"

"I'm more of a gangsta than you," Eve retorted, smiling.

"When did you ever shoot a cop?" Daniel asked, playing along.

"I never shot a cop, but..." Eve was thinking of something funny to say.

"Girl Scouts," Laurie replied. "We were in Girl Scouts. That's a gang, of sorts."

"Yeah, we got kicked out of the Northridge Mall once," Eve said.

"Really? That was you?" I seemed to recall, a long time ago, reading a news item about a troop of Girl scouts who were kicked out of the Northridge Mall for being disorderly.

"That was us," Laurie said.

As Daniel cracked up, I said, "Dan, can you believe this? We're in the presence of some bona fide gangsta bitches!"

"Oh, how scary," he dryly intoned.

"Seriously, though," Eve said. "It is scary. We were some crazy kids... shoplifting, being obnoxious..."

"I still can't believe you two were in the troop that got kicked out. That's so G!" I was on the verge of going into a hysterical fit of laughter.

Daniel asked aloud, "How did we get from gangsta rap to Girl Scouts in the span of five minutes?"

We kept on taking turns, all four of us, knocking imaginary balls into conversational pockets. No one scratched.


*/*


Daniel and Eve have one thing in common: both of them are extremely competitive.

Laurie and I have one thing in common: we don't like to compete.

As the ladies went across the street to grab money from a bank ATM, Daniel and I started a warm-up game. I broke, and instantly scratched the cue ball-- normally that signals the end of the game, but it was merely a warm-up so we continued.

I thought that Daniel was being nice, missing shots on purpose. He's that good. But no, it seems that he was really having a rough time of it. He blamed it on the table; then he blamed it on my break, claiming I "cursed" the table by sinking the cue ball.

I laughed at the notion. But when the ladies returned, we were still trying to make the balls sink. After a spell, even the ladies got impatient.

"Finish it off, Daniel!" they kept shouting. But Daniel was flustered, and it didn't make his game any better to be so flummoxed over this one-off game. Meanwhile, I kept expecting for him to find his stride and clean me up efficiently.

Daniel did manage to sink all of his balls but was having trouble knocking in the 8 ball. Imagine the irony when I stepped up to the table (with three balls left) and, in less than a minute, cleared the table and won the game. The girls were laughing, and Daniel couldn't quite believe what he'd just witnessed.

I had to laugh and say, "Dude, seriously-- this is not a hustle. I don't know how that happened. Seriously."

Daniel eyed me and said, with his accent in full effect, "We're not letting you break anymore. You're a jinx."

I started pouring myself a glass of Newcastle from the pitcher, smiling and shaking my head the whole time.


*/*


The next game was strictly for the ladies, to make up for our notoriously long warm-up game.

I don't remember a whole lot after that, because I was drinking my weight in brown ale. But I think Laurie won that game too, which would be utterly in line with our respective philosophies towards the game of pool. Eve was anxious to get a game going while Daniel and I were fumbling about, and if it's true that Laurie won the ladies only game, then it was probably due to Eve's competitive nature getting the best of her.

That same competitive nature came in handy, though, later on in the evening. We played boys against girls, mostly because it wouldn't be fair to have Eve and Daniel on the same team because they are both so good. Also, playing couples might lead to a fight, either between Laurie and Daniel or between me and Eve.

Daniel carried the majority of the game for us, while Eve did the same for her alliance with Laurie. We weren't exactly dead weight, though: I made a few shots here and there and blocked their chances at making shots as best as I could; likewise, Laurie actually won a game for her team by sinking the 8 ball when none of us thought she could do it.

We all agreed that the pool table was out of wack, because everyone had a strange game that night. And we all agreed that Laurie sinking that 8 ball was probably the highlight of all the games.


*/*


It was almost midnight when we played our last game and called it a night. On a weeknight, Eve had to be home within a reasonable hour because she has to wake up so early to go to work.

I was completely shitfaced by the end of the night, but somehow I summoned the courage and clarity to drive to Laurie and Daniel's place. On the way, I was searching for music on the radio but came up empty.

Eve looked over at me and said, "Play that gangsta shit you were playing earlier. I was feelin' that!"

Surprised, I said, "You bet." And I turned up my Ice Cube CD real loud. Eve bobbed her head, feeling the power of Cube's dangerous flow.

The DJ scratched to his heart's content on the album, but none of us scratched on the metaphorical 8 ball, and we were happy for that.

I woke up this morning with a really bad hangover. Eve was out the door, ready for work, and I was barely able to see. If this had been a pool game, I would've needed to use the rest stick (also known as a "snooker") in order to get a shot off.

I got home and tried to sleep, but I only managed to get one hour. My alarm clock went off, and soon I was racking up the balls, getting ready to break open a new game for a new day.

I applied some blue chalk to the edge of my mental cue stick and stumbled my way into my car, driving slowly, wearing my shades to avoid the direct sunlight... a small price to pay for such an eventful night, but well worth it all.

perceptions

I found out about my work situation: the station has been bought by the owner of a prominent local baseball franchise.

Baseball in L.A.? you might be asking yourself.

Yes. We are not owned by the franchise itself-- we are owned by the man who owns the franchise. It's a limited partnership. I will leave it at that.

So we've all been rehired, and that means I have a job for now. Who knows how the next quarter will go? Maybe I'll be out of here in three months. Maybe I'll get a call-back from the other gig I was trying to land.

At least the pressure is off. I have been playing it safe, showing up to work on time and dressing nicer. I still do nothing all day, but I make it look like I'm busy, and everyone knows the true secret to making it in the business world is to appear busy at all times.

I don't have a problem appearing busy-- even when I'm relaxing, my mind is racing a mile a second, trying to figure out what needs to get done next.


*/*


Last night we sat around and talked and watched DVDs as usual, and it doesn't get boring, it doesn't get repetitive, it doesn't lose its appeal... I don't think I could ever fully express the dimensions and size of this thing we have between us. It defies the laws of physics and occupies an area of invisible matter that refuses to be transformed or broken down into smaller compounds.

It cannot be dissected without destroying the vital tissues that hold everything together. It cannot be scanned or given an X-ray-- it is impenetrable and impervious to inspection, hermetically sealed, perfectly formed, completely inexplicable...

She and I are mere vehicles transporting the mass of this undetectable bond, possibly bearing the burden on our backs. We soldier on and march side-by-side, cracking jokes and singing songs and stopping to enjoy long meals and relaxing sojourns in various sanctuaries.

We drink spirits and invoke the gods of smoke. We scribble out cave-wall sketches with pastel charcoals while lying in bed. We drive through this beautiful city on sun-soaked days where the panoramic vistas steal away our breath like benevolent asthma attacks.

We spend our days living in successive moments, marveling at the artists who have learned how to capture their own moments for posterity, through the arts, through entertainment, through the sheer joy of living...


*/*


As a person who draws caricatures and cartoons, I am deeply troubled by the violent reaction to the Danish political cartoons depicting the prophet Mohammed. I was also disturbed by the reaction of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to an American cartoon that lampooned Rummy's indifference to the battle scars of soldiers returning from Iraq.

It just goes to show that the pen, in many respects, is mightier than the sword. The pen doesn't take a man's life or maim him physically, but instead it lacerates the conscience, if used properly.

From Conrad to Michael Ramirez (both former cartoonists for the Los Angeles Times' Op-Ed pages), I admire both the skill and the power that political cartoonists possess. Conrad and Ramirez are on completely different sides of the spectrum and yet both manage to move me to anger or tears or outrage or sheer laughter. I recognize the impact of their propaganda.

I have often wondered if sitting Presidents ever get miffed at their caricatures in the daily press. George W. gets drawn looking like a cross between a bushy-eyebrowed giraffe and a chimp; Clinton used to get drawn with a bulbous red nose and a chubby satyr's leer; Bush Sr. saw his facial features stretched and distorted into grotesques reminiscent of Tim Burton; and for Reagan all one needed to do was draw that thick head of blackened hair standing tall above his petrified scalp...

Caricatures are a great way of puncturing an oversized ego. Although I don't know for sure, I think it'd be safe to assume that certain cartoonists made Nixon's "enemies list", because he was one of the most savagely caricatured Presidents of all time. Maybe it was because his ego seemed to be larger than life.

There must be a formula then, about the size of a politician's ego being conversely proportionate to the cruelty involved in their public effigy.

I will go back to the lab and see if I can be the first to figure out such a formula...

super bowl sunday

I almost backed out of it, but I'm glad I went to her parents' house for Super Bowl Sunday.

Her dad said one word to me ("Hi") and shook my hand. Then he watched the entire game from a chair in the dining room. He didn't talk to me again until it was time to go: he shook my hand again and said "Nice to see you" and this time he made eye contact.

Her stepmom made a slight fool of herself because she was tipsy. She seemed like she was trying to make amends for years of keeping us apart.

The game was fixed, the food was good, and her younger siblings engaged me in conversation so that I wouldn't feel so awkward.

Afterwards, we went to our friend's house in Chatsworth to "decompress" with some homemade margaritas.

She was glad that I came with her.

the honeymoon phase

A cursory Google search* of the phrase "honeymoon phase" yields a surprising array of links. Most of them are related to abusive relationships and refer to the make-up period before the abuse begins again.

I don't think I'm in an abusive relationship. We aren't fighting and in fact we are pretty civil to each other, even when we are upset. But I do get warnings from concerned friends who see me going backwards and not forwards. Their intentions are true, and I love them for it, but I think things are going to be OK.

More Google results show that "honeymoon phase" also refers to the time frame immediately after a couple is happily wed. This should be the number one result in any search, because this is the way the phrase was first defined, to me and to scores of others.

The fact that "honeymoon phase" now yields more online results in regards to abusive relationships is a telling sign of the times, don't you think? Or is it just business as usual, another cultural dirty secret that gets swept under the rug by people living in denial?

I Googled the phrase because it popped into my mind today. I feel like I'm in a honeymoon phase with Eve. I know this is not the way it will always be, but at the same time it is also a good omen for the future.

Simply put, it is everything I've been seeking.

Normally, this part of the deal scares me. It sends me running with my arms flailing as I scream frantically. But now that Eve and I have been honest with each other about how we feel, I see it in a different light.

She came to my show the other night. Does she dig the music? I don't think that makes a difference. She supports it, and that's what matters. She didn't have to be there, but she was, and I recognize how fortunate I am to have her on my side.

I hope she knows that I'm on her side too.

I'm in such a good mood that I don't even care about the $40 parking ticket I got this morning. It's Thursday, and they do street sweeping on her block from 8am to noon.

We have already made plans to see her parents on Super Bowl Sunday. She asked me last night, and I told her I'd sleep on it. Today, I said I would show up. It will be weird, to be sure, because these are the people who effectively kept us apart when we were teens. But my motives for going are different: Eve's brother and his partner are going also, and they need all the support they can get. Their parents are still a little weirded out at their son being gay.

It's an opportunity to set the record straight in many respects. I never hated her parents, but I couldn't understand their bias towards me. They were schizophrenic about it: one day they'd invite me over for dinner, and then the next day they'd ban her from seeing me. Was it something I said? Something she said? Or were they just vindictive meanies? Maybe they thought they were protecting their daughter from the forces of brown-skinned evil. Or perhaps they were afraid that they might like and respect me...

Either way, it's water under the bridge now. Nothing they can do or say will get in the way of us being together now, and they know it. It feels like a strange kind of victory, but I know that it's more complex than that.

Anyway, let's hope that when the "honeymoon phase" comes to its inevitable end, the ensuing reality will not overwhelm us.

After all, it's only reality.

There's nothing to be afraid of, is there?














*=Are you checking this, Mr. President?

logic

I love all conspiracy theories, no matter how ridiculous they are. But I do have one iron-clad rule:

If a conspiracy theory (or CT) can easily be disproved using science and and the laws of physics, then it's a very low-grade strain of CT.

I mean, I'll admit that there are irrational and unexplainable things out there, things that science cannot account for... but if science CAN account for some sort of anomaly, then the ensuing CT is about as useful to me as a cancerous tumor.

Here is a link to a great CT I found out about today. It's probably one of the most far-fetched CTs I've ever had the pleasure of hearing. Luckily, the person who posted it goes out of their way to use science and logic to de-bunk the ludicrous claims contained within the CT.

Enjoy.

the boy and the girl

Let me tell you a real quick story about a boy and a girl.

The boy got off of work last Friday and drove to a building in the industrial part of North Hollywood. He pulled out an instrument case from his car and entered the building, playing music with some people he met for a few hours.

When that was done, he decided to drive over to a friend's house, on the other side of the city. He could've gone home, but then he'd be alone and it would remind him that the girl was out on the town with her friends that night. She was having fun most likely.

So the boy drove out to his friend's house and stayed until midnight. Even though it was Friday and he wasn't the least bit tired, he bid his friends farewell and drove home.

When he arrived, there was a message on his phone, from the girl. He knew instantly because the Caller ID box showed her number. He called her back without even bothering to listen to the message-- she had just called ten minutes before he got home.

She was fresh from a night out with the girls, and she said that it didn't take very long for her to get bored. She explained that her phone message was an invitation to the boy, for him to stop by on the way home from his rehearsal. He asked her if the invitation still stood or if it was too late, and she told him that it wasn't too late.

The boy showed up with orange juice, breakfast eggs and artificial bacon, or "veggie bacon". The bacon really belonged to the girl but had been left in the boy's refrigerator a week earlier. The girl didn't eat meat-- she was a vegetarian.

The girl made breakfast at one in the morning for the boy, who hadn't eaten all day. Then, after they ate the two of them sat down on her bed and watched a horror movie. And the boy laughed to himself, realizing how funny it all seemed: the two of them trying to go out and do other things, only to end up wanting to be with each other, sitting on the bed, watching a DVD-- any DVD, it doesn't matter which --smoking cigarettes and not saying a word because even beautiful words would spoil the sanctity of a moment like that...

...and the next morning they woke up and fumbled around in the bed for a few hours, lazily gauging the day's respective plans, kissing and caressing and dressing and undressing and dressing again, this boy and this girl, the best of friends.

So the boy and the girl decided to get up, get some errands done together, and spend the rest of the weekend eating food and smoking out of pipes and laying around being lazy, sometimes alone, sometimes with good friends in nice settings while drinking wine with feasts spread out on dining tables.

And the boy and the girl were happy, but the reason why they were happy had nothing to do with the usual reasons why people get happy. The boy and the girl were happy because there was no need to spell it out, no necessity to make a big production about it.

It was enough that they wanted to spend their time together. Neither of them felt like they were obligated to be there with the other.

There was a palatable balance.

And that's the end of the story, but it's not the end of their story, and it's certainly not the end of the boy and the girl. In fact, you could say that it is a beginning of sorts, but not the usual type of beginning. There is no name, word or label for the type of beginning this boy and this girl are experiencing.

It almost seems pointless to try. But the boy knew that he could at least give other people a small impression of what it felt like. Then, they could decide for themselves what the boy and the girl felt, and whether it was a good or bad ending to this story.

The boy and the girl don't want their story to end. One day it will, but not now, and hopefully not any time soon. But if it should ever end, then it will be due to the passage of time, and nothing else. Because once a story is set into motion, nothing short of an act of God can derail its momentum, and that's assuming that God exists.

There is no question that there exists, however, a story about a boy and a girl. And that's all that matters to them right now.

Will they live happily ever after?

Sure. Why not?

burnout genius

Ever since I first picked out notes on a Casio keyboard when I was 12, I have had this vision of what I think music is about, based upon my own experiences listening to various genres, bands, performers and songs.

The uniting theme among nearly all of it was the hypnotic quality of music, the way a song can tranquilize your soul or ignite a passionate fire in your mind. Either way, I always felt that it was important to mezmerize people with your words, your rhythms, your sounds...

So it strikes me as odd that Don Van Vliet would do these interviews where he'd talk about making music that broke up the hypnotic patterns.

Don Van Vliet, for those who don't know, is also known as Captain Beefheart, my latest musical obsession.

The Captain is one of those performers who burned out and stopped performing, content to be a recluse, living in the desert in a trailer with his wife, his artwork (Vliet is also an established painter and poet in his own right) and all sorts of desert animals for neighbors.

What fascinates me about Vliet is his logic, the way his mind works. The word "genius" gets tossed around and applied to anybody and anything nowadays, but Vliet actually fits the mold-- he was an accomplished sculptor at the age of five.

But he had a beef in his heart against the world (hence his stage name) because his parents wouldn't allow him to be tutored and schooled in Europe, where he could've become a master sculptor, working in marble.

As sad as that is, I'm glad it happened to him, because otherwise the world would be robbed of his unique contributions to music, art, and literature.


*/*


Vliet's words are carefully chosen, in every interview I've read or watched online, and pardon me for making the connection but it reminds me of Native American speech, or at least stereotypical notions of what English-speaking Native Americans sound like:


INTERVIEWER: Does it bother you that the majority of the rock audience would probably find you very, very difficult to listen to?

VLIET: It pleases me, because of that momma heartbeat, that bom, bom, bom, it’s so boring, it’s so banal. I mean it’s so hypnotic, I don’t want to hypnotise anybody, I just want to play. I mean I want things to change like the patterns and shadows that fall from the sun.

INTERVIEWER: So you want to confront people with your music, rather than try and seduce them with it?

VLIET: Sure, I’m not a vamp - I don’t want to beat you over the head with this momma heartbeat, remind you of your mother… Who wants to be reminded of that life support system - you know, when they support it like that? I do my own music, I don’t need that bom, bom, bom. Who wants to be - that’s so stupid!

INTERVIEWER: So you’re talking about disco, really...

VLIET: All of it! Rock and roll, disco - anything where they think the drummer is an imbecile who sits there and goes bom, bom, bom. I mean who needs that, why do they need that?


In case that wasn't enough to give you an idea of how the Captain's mind works, here's some quotables... and quotable they are!


"I was like an egg rolling through time until I was 24. Then the egg cracked and I popped out."

"Why would [anyone] want to label themselves? I say, 'Lick My Decals Off, Baby!' I'm not interested in making any new mustard or ketchup. I make very good mustard."

"It makes me itch to think of myself as Captain Beefheart....I don't even have a boat."

"Be kind, man - don't be mankind."

"I don't want to sell my music. I'd like to give it away because where I got it, you didn't have to pay for it."


I have this thing for the burnout genius. Whether it's Syd Barrett or Arthur Lee or Roky Erikson or Jim Gordon or Nick Drake, I have an affinity for the crazy underdog rockers who influenced everyone and yet never made any money. I'm not talking about 'tortured artists'-- that's a whole different school of fish, and although I have my moments I can also safely say that I am not tortured, nor are my demons any worse than yours.

Don Van Vliet seems happy most of the time, even when he's angry. And like Arthur Lee of the '60s garage band Love, Vliet has created his own whimsical vocabulary. Their use of everyday language is unorthodox, poetic when it should be communicative. Wordplay figures largely into their legend.

And both men are eccentric legends, to be sure. I recently read an anecdote from Morris Tepper, who keeps in contact with Vliet on a regular basis. Tepper explained that a Beefheart song titled "Ricochet Man" was inspired by Tepper's account of Arthur Lee's gun conviction, the one that landed him in jail under the California Three Strikes Law.

When Tepper told Vliet that Lee got busted for shooting a gun in the air when nobody was around, Vliet said to him, "Man, ricochet, man."

Of course, no one else in the free world was thrilled to hear about that, save for me. And maybe that's why I savor the romantic vision of the burnout genius: I think there's a narcissistic well deep inside of me that draws from those types of waters.


*/*


Vliet claims to not be a drug user. I find it hard to believe, but then again the man is so strange that I DO believe it.

The truth is stranger than fiction, always.

Then again, what can you say about a man who prefers to sing in the studio without headphones on while imitating Howlin' Wolf and flexing his five-to-seven octave range so fiercely that he has shorted out microphones using only his voice?

There are lots of embellishments to the Beefheart legend: he wrote the entire Trout Mask Replica album-- all 28 songs' worth -- on a piano in eight hours; he taught his band how to play their avant-garde parts over the course of a year while living with them in a house in Woodland Hills; he molded the musicians like sculptor's clay, to the point where they were practically brainwashed members of the Cult of Beefheart; he stuck his record label with a bill for a tree surgeon after a nasty rainy season threatened the well-being of some eucalyptus trees on his property; he dropped out of school after half a day of kindergarten...

Some of these myths are perpetruated by the Captain himself, and some of them are just the kind of exaggerations that surround a forceful personality such as Vliet. And let's not forget the late Frank Zappa's part in the whole shebang: the two men went to school together in Antelope Valley, and it was Frank who produced the Trout Mask Replica album which saw the transformation of The Magic Band from a bunch of L.A. bluesmen into a free-jazz/Delta-blues/acid-rock combo.

The bit about the band being brainwashed by Vliet is intriguing, especially since I started this post wondering about his claim (repeated often) that he wasn't trying to hypnotize people with his music, that he was trying to do the opposite.

I find it ironic because I was hypnotized by the album Doc At The Radar Station, the first Beefheart purchase I ever made. As a childhood fan of Dr. Demento, I had heard of Beefheart for years and just wrote him off as another weirdo, but it wasn't until last year that I decided to buy one of his albums. And that one purchase led to another, and another, and another, and now here I am writing about this 20th century noble savage, a man out of time with his present environment if there ever was one...

I was hypnotized because I kept trying to find the skeleton key, the theme or motif that would suddenly render the rest of it accessible. And as I sat there trying to break it all down, I realized what it was about the music of Captain Beefheart that was making me go nuts.

It wasn't hypnotic; it was thought-provoking. I confused it for hypnosis because I was concentrating very intently on what was going on, and contrary to popular belief that's just one of many postulations as to what hypnosis is thought to be: intensified concentration, a singular focus stripped of all distraction.

Then again, what do fruitcakes like me, or Captain Beefheart, or anyone creative for that matter... what do we know anyway?

We're just nutjobs, according to all those 'normal' people out there who work in cubicles and wear suits but cannot even draw a stick figure or hum a melody in their heads...

And I prefer it that way. Only time will tell if I'm a genius on the level of a Don Van Vliet, but what's stopping me from pursuing things in a likewise manner?

Answer: nothing.

closet space

Normally I don't post after I've wished everyone a nice weekend, but I had to give props to Big J in NYC for her birthday gift via Amazon.com: R. Kelly's Trapped In The Closet Chapters 1-12.

Sex scandal aside (and let's admit it, Dave Chappelle's merciless lampooning of Kelly on his show to the tune of "Piss On You" is punishment enough), I've never been a fan of R. Kelly. His music always struck me as the kind of R&B that hardcore hip-hoppers used to be against, because it was nothing more than "Rap & Bullshit". Other than introducing the late Aaliyah to the world, I've never given much of R. Kelly's output any thought.

The sex scandal did nothing for my appreciation of him, other than amaze me that (1) the charges didn't stick, and (2) his fans didn't care. However, shortly afterward I made it a point to keep the channel on any Kelly music videos that popped up in my normal TV browsing mode. Whereas in the past I would simply change the channel, now I found myself actively watching Kelly's every move, out of morbid curiosity.

Maybe a part of me wanted to know what the appeal was... I mean, it's easy to defend Michael Jackson based solely upon his work with The Jackson 5, but who could justify peeing on underage groupies?

(btw: If Jimmy Page had ever been accused of peeing on underage girls, would the scandal make the papers? Keep in mind, this man and his former band have been responsible for some of the most wretched groupie legends ever concocted, and people barely bat an eye)

Even Chappelle-- obviously a huge R. Kelly fan --had to have a laugh at his expense. But as Chappelle put it, "the music is scandal-proof".

Now, bearing all that in mind...

Nothing on God's green earth could have prepared me for Trapped In The Closet.

Nothing.

And I'm a Prince fan, who stayed loyal even when his name was a symbol and he was putting together half-baked concept suites as albums.

Simply put, Trapped In The Closet is incomprehensible. The storyline is a rambling, tangent-hopping shim-sham. It makes no sense at all.

None.

And yet, I can't stop laughing over it.

You really must see it for yourself to believe it.

I wrote a really long post about it, but the computer inexplicably crashed. Luckily, Blogger now has the "recover post" function, which helped me to get back at least half of what I originally wrote.

And it's just as well, because I still have to watch it a few hundred thousand times before I can start a post-modern deconstruction of it. I also want to screen it to as many people as possible, to gauge their reactions.

You'll either love it or hate it.


PS: Last night Eve and I spent a nice evening at her place, cleaning up and watching DVDs. It was nice. Tonight she is going out with her girlfriends, and I think it's grand. She needs to do more of that. Yes, I'd be jealous if she met some guy at a club and got down with him, but let's worry about something that when or if it happens.

One day at a time.

jealousy

"Living well is the best revenge."

--George Herbert, English clergyman & metaphysical poet (1593 - 1633)


I just took an online quiz about jealousy. Unfortunately, it didn't give me any cool HTML code so that I could post it here and brag about my score, but trust me when I say that I scored a 20 out of 100-- that means that I am relatively not jealous.

Of course, those online quizzes have all the scientific validity of a loaf of bread. But at the same time I've always known that, when it comes to being jealous, I am very good about containing it.

I do feel jealous often, but mostly about irrational things. And if something should ever happen that confirms my worst fears, I deal with it by saying that I saw it coming.

My theory on jealousy is this: if you have ever cheated on someone, it increases the likelihood of you feeling jealous over someone you care about. Cheaters can't tolerate their own jealousy because it reminds them of their own actions in the past.

Eve never cheated on me when we were dating. But her tryst with Sharky broke an explicit trust between us for a long time. The reason is that, before I got to know Eve, I sensed a sexual tension between them. Sharky knew Eve way before I did, and I think I may have even once told the both of them that the worst thing they could ever do to me would be to get together.

So, in other words, I set myself up for that one.

Maybe that's why it never really bothered me. I knew they got together even as they denied it, and I can't really blame them for their curiosity. But please, don't treat me like a little kid who needs his eyes covered every time a nude scene appears on a movie screen. Don't lie to me.

In a way, it was the best thing that could've happened, because now Sharky and Eve have no relationship whatsoever, and it wasn't my fault. I have no fears that they will ever reconcile fully. There's too much baggage between them now. Sharky and Eve's little affair brought reality crashing down on the both of them, and neither of them can get past that.

But I can get past it. And it helps that, since I didn't do anything wrong, I hold the upper hand in my relationships with the both of them.

One thing you all should know about me: never let me have the upper hand. You will regret it if you do.


*/*


Granted, I'm not rubbing salt into their wounds. The passage of time does that job quite nicely, with little effort on my part.

In the case of Sharky, karma was a real bitch. You see, Sharky was dating Nona, the younger sister of my friend Nina, for a long time. In fact, when he got together with Eve, he had been officially seeing Nona.

Sharky would confide in me all of his other dalliances, and because we were friends I kept them secret. But it pained me to be around Nona, knowing that all I had to do was open my mouth and she would know what a dishonest person Sharky was being.

However, I kept my mouth shut, because otherwise I would become directly involved, and I didn't want that.

Anyway, to cut to the chase... After Sharky hurt Nona for the umpteenth time, she found a way to get back at him: she began a romance with my friend and then-roommate Purple Paulie.

Nona and Paulie have been a couple for almost a decade now.

And recently, Sharky told me that he now realizes what an idiot he was in treating Nona the way he did. He was on the verge of tears as he told me.

His admission was instigated by a simple incident-- he showed up at one of my shows. And it just so happened that Paulie and Nona were at the same show. Now, mind you, anyone who knows Paulie and Nona can tell you that it is extremely RARE that they ever leave their insulated bubble to come see a show. Well, they chose one hell of a night to come out on the town, because as soon as Sharky saw them, the reality hit him in the gut.

And I was on the stage, a witness to it all. I didn't orchestrate this event-- who could organize something so perfect and balanced? Still, it felt like I was getting some sort of revenge anyway.

Or at least a form of justice...


*/*


Eve's jealousy is rooted in a different sort of karma.

She has always been jealous of other women concerning me. The main reason we broke up so many years ago was because I said something stupid, something about how my friends would cover up any affairs I could've had because they were so loyal.

God, was I wrong!

But I never cheated on her, and even though she technically didn't cheat on me, the Sharky thing and the subsequent cover-up only fueled my already-paranoid insecurities.

And so now, to know that she is jealous of my relationship with a girl whom I am merely good friends with is only mildly annoying.

The annoyance stems from my dislike of being blamed for something I didn't do. If I really was carrying on with other girls while seeing Eve, then I would feel bad, guilty, even ashamed. But I also feel that, if I am to be punished for something, it may as well be for something that I actually did, not something that she thinks I did.

After all, until someone came forward and told me the absolute truth about Sharky and Eve, I could only speculate and suspect that something had happened... and I never brought it up past the initial confrontation. I gave them the benefit of the doubt, because they were my closest friends.

She owes it to me to give me the benefit of the doubt, doesn't she?

So yes, it annoys me that she won't give me that benefit. But I know in my heart that I have done nothing wrong. I have been as honest as I possibly can be.

And, I have forgiven her for her past deeds. I am not relishing the way the tables have been turned, despite the years I spent vowing to one day get her back for her perceived treachery. The reason why is because the only way to move on with one's life is to forgive and forget.

I must admit, it makes it easier to forgive and forget if karma has somehow arranged it so that now she has to deal with the very insecurities that ruined our relationship over a decade ago. But it doesn't make me feel good to know that she is hurting, or that she thinks she is not worthy of me. In fact, it pains me to the bone.

After all, she has paid her dues. She has suffered enough, through no fault of mine. Why add insult to injury, especially when all I want is to be with her?


*/*


And yet, I wonder how long it will take before she is comfortable with me. Will I have to jettison all of my female friends just because she has issues? Will I have to change the way I deal with platonic friends of the opposite sex? Will I be forced to temper my social graces out of fear of triggering another episode where she is pushing me away?

And what about the complete opposite of this-- what would have happened had I been all over Eve at that birthday party? What if I'd had my arms around her, or kissed her in full view of everyone else? Wouldn't that be insensitive to my other female friends? Or better yet-- wouldn't that make Eve recoil and run away from me, out of fear that I am the one who is "too attached"?

It's her problem, not mine. But I know that if I want to have anything with her, I'm going to have to be patient. As I've noted before, that's all I ever do. I am the one who must be patient, even though I am not the one with the problem.

That's okay-- my life is good right now. I might be starting a new job soon, if things go well. This year looks like it's going to be better than the last, and already I have been blessed by the gifts and kind gestures of my friends and family.

Have a nice weekend, people...

ladybug

I left an emotional voice mail on Eve's phone yesterday morning. I felt bad afterwards, for being such a bitch about it. I guess I was on my "man-rag"... Once a month, I get really irritable and depressed. This time, it was forced into being by Eve's personal crisis-- I was feeling good about my birthday until all of this.

Not that Eve's breakdown tripped me up. But it did confuse me, that's for sure.

Any other girl doing this to me would have me looking at the front door, as Large Prof once put it. But it's always been different with Eve. You have to understand: compared to most other girls, Eve isn't the type to be crying. Getting mad? Sure. Angry? You bet. Livid? A commonplace occurrence. Sad? Occasionally, but she doesn't solicit pity. I, on the other hand, beg for pity at every bipolar opportunity.

For some reason, even though she makes me sad or mad sometimes... I can take it.

I've always been able to take it from her. Yeah, it hurts-- sometimes too much --but I often forget about how much I hurt her unintentionally in return. I can be real insensitive, and she has called me on it more times than I can count.

The only thing that ever cut me deep was the tryst with Sharky, and that was primarily because of the cover-up. I don't bring it up to her anymore-- it's water under the bridge.

We're both massively insecure people. But maybe the reason why people say we're suited for each other is because we're never flipping out on each other at the same time. I flip out on her, she flips out on me... there's a balance.

Who else would tolerate us except for each other?

I was contemplating these thoughts and others when I got home from Purple Paulie's house last night. I thought about my crybaby VM, and her brief e-mail response to the VM ("Don't go assuming it's over," she wrote), and I felt that maybe I've been a little selfish. All she was tripping on was her attachment to me, and maybe she had a point-- I am getting attached as well.

And speaking of attached, when I fumbled for my keys as I stood on my porch I noticed something in the dark. There was a piece of paper stuck to my metal screen door. I thought it may have been a Chinese take-out menu, or perhaps a pizza joint advert.

No, it was something else altogether. It was a drawing of a huge ladybug. And underneath the picture was one word:

"BUG"

I smiled. I knew she left it. And what's more, I instantly grasped the significance of this gesture.


*/*


Let's take a trip in the Wayback Machine, shall we?

1992: My senior year of high school. I was scrambling to get out from under the shadows of past loves, as usual. I hated my friends-- a bunch of hypercritical know-it-alls who knew nothing about real life. They saw me as a rambunctious clown, an uncontrollable force that made them feel uncomfortable because my business was all about jarring people out of their doldrums. They lived vicariously through my self-destructive shenanigans, but snickered behind my back in contempt.

I joined the Theatre Arts class and met some genuinely funny, talented people. They made me laugh and smile. Their sense of humor was just as twisted and warped as mine, if not more. Everything seemed like a game, and around them I felt like a kid instead of a precocious adolescent.

I met Eve in that class, and after she broke up with her boyfriend I started getting to know her. I didn't ask her out or make any moves. I already knew about her parents' insane scheme to keep her from having any friends, so I knew traditional dates were out of the question.

Instead, I talked to her. I listened to her. She had beautiful ideas, a fertile brain, ridiculous talent. She was highly intelligent underneath the exquisite physical layers. In her eyes there was a hunted, searching quality-- she was checking me out, to see if she could predict when the obligatory lewd proposal would emerge.

I made every excuse to be around when she was around. But then when she was near, I would play it cool and act like I didn't care. I would pretend that my heart wasn't beating so quickly, or that making eye contact with her was a natural thing. Inside, I was panicking-- I really really liked her.

One day, the two of us were talking, and one of us-- I can't remember who but it was most likely her --picked up a ladybug off the ground.

We started talking about how cool ladybugs are. We named this particular ladybug, but the name escapes me now. I think it may have been "Rodney" or something like that... a male name for a ladybug? For some reason, "Rodney" sticks out in my mind.

Anyway, that was when we first met. We'd joke about the ladybug every time we saw each other. It was an excuse for the both of us, a means for us to initiate conversation without feeling weird.

Shortly after that, we fell madly in love.

The ladybug is a symbol of that time for us. I haven't thought about Rodney, or whatever its name was, for years. Not even in those moments when I missed her so much and I would think over and over about the things we used to share, I never managed to remember the ladybug. It never came into my mind once in the 14 years since.

But as soon as I saw the picture left on my screen door, I knew immediately what it meant and where it came from.

I think that's why I take her shit-- she knows me very well.


*/*


When I entered my apartment, the first thing I did was go to my closet and pull out a manila folder. Inside the folder were the remnants of our high school courtship: some drawings (including a portrait she drew of me), a few watercolors, a poem, and the only letter of hers that I kept, a 14-page hand-written account of her Fourth of July family vacation.

I leafed through the letter, wondering if she had made any mention of the ladybug's name. And, of course, I started reading it.

Certain parts stood out for me...


"The warm breeze is carrying a comfortable feeling through my hair. The silhouetted trees, all aligned and leaning to the left, sway so gently my eyes strain to spy the slightest sign of life. Having crashed by now the clouds took on an incredible similarity to the sea's waves. Tonight's sky embodies the phrase "dusk". An array of colours begins with the dark navy and scattered pearls. It blends then from azure to teal, aquamarine, misty ivory and finishes a dusty, pale sienna. It's killing me to know you're so close but so out of reach..."


She quoted from a book titled Knots, by RD Laing:


Narcissus fell in love w/ his image, taking it to be another.

Jack falls in love with Jill's image of Jack, taking it to be himself.
She must not die because then he would lose himself.

He is jealous in case anyone else's image is reflected in her mirror.

Jill is a disturbing mirror to herself.
Jill has to distort herself to appear undistorted to herself.

To undistort herself, she finds Jack to distort her distorted image in his distorting mirror.
She hopes that his distortion of her distortion may undistort her image without her having to distort herself.


She made mention of our "telepathy thing" and quoted more RD Laing and jotted down hilarious details from her family vacation, but no mention of the ladybug's name.

No matter, I thought. The picture of the ladybug did its job.


*/*


I might have to keep a copy of this letter with me at all times, to remind me of how deep our bond has always been. For although she and I are different people and have grown and experienced much respectively since that year we met, at the same time she and I remain unchanged in many ways.

The both of us still view the world through the eyes of wounded intelligence. We both feel like we are cursed, or that we jinx those around us. Even as people approach us and beg to bask in our glow, we are reluctant to accept their praise, because she and I both feel like we could die tomorrow and the world would not stop for us.

When we found each other, there was an immediate attraction. Neither of us could believe we'd found a kindred spirit. Personally, I was wary of labeling anyone else after Amy Coates as my "soul mate". But Eve made me reconsider that notion, because she and I just click. I have joked to her that, if we were to switch sexes, she would be me and I would be her. She doesn't quite see it that way, but she knows what I mean by it.

Something she added in her e-mail yesterday gave me hope:


"We'll always be friends. After all these years, I'm still here."


Yes, but it took a lot to get this far. And for much of the time we were not friends. But she was always in my mind, and she has admitted as much to me. She even told me that once she accidentally called Dick by my name, and he never got over that. I think that explains why he hates me so much, even though we don't know each other at all.

She doesn't play the victim, but if anyone ever had the right to play one, it's Eve. I think what I need to do is just have faith, and stay patient, and try to be strong for the both of us when she is feeling weak. When I feel bad, she does it for me, so how much will it hurt me to carry the burden for a bit while she gets her head together?

No one said it would be easy, that's for sure. And I don't want anyone else. I can't take the demands of other women. Eve makes demands too, but like I said-- I can take it. They don't seem so much like demands as they are expectations. I do the same thing, and I guess it's disconcerting to see someone else doing to me the things that I do to others.


*/*


I took the picture of the ladybug and hung it on the wall next to my front door. I looked at it and laughed. There's a bad pun there, one that she deliberately placed there because she knows how much I love bad puns. Just the one word, "BUG"-- you know, as in "I just wanted to bug you"?

You had to be there, I guess. But it's exactly the type of joke that she knew I would get.

9 million times

I was at her house, half-asleep, on Sunday night, spent from driving all around L.A., accepting gifts and salutations.

It was time for me to get going. I saddled up next to her sleepily, and as I was gathering my strength to arise and put my shoes on, I noticed she was weeping.

Of course, I couldn't leave her like that.

She finally broke down and said that she saw one of my friends at my birthday party and got jealous. And it triggered a flood of trust issues, all of them relating to Dick, her ex, the guy who broke her heart by leaving her when she thought he never would.

She started saying all this shit that no longer has any effect on me because I've heard it, like, 9 million times. You know the spiel: I'm toxic... you could do so much better than me... I'm not good enough for you... you're better off with someone else... I hope you and so-and-so get together and are happy...

That kind of talk, ladies, is a cop-out. Any guy who falls for it at this point in the game is a sucker. You mean to tell me that I don't know what's best for me? You mean to tell me that you are an authority on how I feel and that I'm clueless as to what makes me happy?

Please...

So I dropped it on her: when she told me I should "start shopping", I told her, "I already tried that-- after we had our falling out, around this time last year."

I told her about Monique, how I fell into a two-week love spree that had me wondering if I was supposed to move on or re-evaluate my existence or Lord knows what... I didn't get too specific.

"I tried shopping around...and it didn't work," I told her.

Right now, we're taking some time to be apart. She has deep-seated issues, and no one ever said this would be easy.

What's interesting is: the girl that made her feel jealous has been jealous of her for much longer. The irony is mind-boggling.

I don't know what what the future holds for us, but I can only be patient. That's all I can do.

That's all I ever do.

so...

We started drinking around 3pm.

By 4pm I knew that I wasn't going anywhere later on in the evening.

By 5pm the chicken had been barbecued and the yams were ready to eat.

By 6pm the weed arrived, much too late by my clock.

By 7pm the cake was lit and everybody sang to me.

By 8pm I was blasting loud music and people were congregating outside the door.

By 9pm plans were made to continue the party at a karaoke bar. I declined.

By 10pm a large portion of the party left for karaoke. The rest of us stayed back and got really stoned.

By 11pm we were all tossed considerably. We watched Saturday Night Live.

By 12am there was no more alcohol.

By 1am the rest of the party got up and left.

By 2am I was asleep.