For some reason, it was New Year’s, but it was day, morning even, and my family had gotten together from the four corners of the Earth, every branch and every wing and every side. There were 9th cousins I had never even heard of, let alone met, whole last names that were brand new to me, hundreds of people all together.
Our party theme was Hawaiian, which I refused to participate in because I felt it was stupid. So there were these hundreds of relatives of mine, the vast majority of which were strangers to me, and they were all dressed up like they were going to the beach. They were in flip-flops and Bermuda shorts and straw hats and leis and, of course, everybody was wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt. But it was New Year’s and freezing out. Snow was a foot high on the ground, the wind howled, and temps hovered around zero.
We were all going up on the mountain to have this party, and, even though it was morning, everybody had set out to it except me. In the town in which I grew up and where this was all taking place, there was a mountain that was a focal point of the whole community. It even had the name of the town in great big illuminated letters on it, a la Hollywood, only it should have read “Nowhere”. Technically, it was a large hill that rose from the valley floor where the actual town was and around which the actual town wrapped. This town in which I grew up was just over 5,000 feet above sea level, so, even more technically, this large hill was a very large mountain. But, you know, perspectives…
I did not want to participate and lollygagged back, staying in my second floor apartment. Because of my refusal to participate in the Hawaiian theme of the party, my mother and I got into a screaming match. My mother is dead, but she was given leave to come back temporarily for this party.
After the fight, I was wracked with guilt. Here, my mother was allowed to come back from the dead briefly for this party and what do I do? Cool, Mike. Real fucking cool.
I lollygagged in my apartment, but I had made up my mind to join the others on the mountain, if only to spend time with my dead mother. I was going to apologize profusely to her and was getting dressed—appropriately, not Hawaiianly—for the mountain in winter. But people kept coming to my door—elderly neighbors wishing me a Happy New Year, a younger neighbor with whom I apparently had some New Year’s tradition. He had a fold-out card table on which sat a big spinner wheel, a la Wheel of Fortune. Apparently, he and I spun this wheel every New Year’s to determine something, even though I didn’t remember him or this wheel-spinning tradition. There were others, but I don’t remember too clearly about them. I dealt politely with them all, nodding and smiling and murmuring pleasantries, and all the while the urge to get up to the mountain grew and grew until it was a pressing need.
It was about this time that I noticed, out my apartment window, the sky. Right above the mountain, was the moon, only it was HUGE. VAST. ENORMOUS. It filled over half the sky…and it was getting bigger and bigger with every passing second. Maybe it wasn’t the moon. It was so big and so close I could easily see its landscape—vast snow-covered mountain ranges and glaciers. It was all white and frozen. It looked like a planet-sized snowball hurtling right at us.
"Um, guys? Guys?" I was saying as I looked out the window. "We have a problem."
All the distractions were there with me now, all at the same time, all talking over each other and, most importantly, me. Little old ladies were trying to give me plates of muffins and cookies, the kid with the fold-out card table and big spinner wheel was there trying to get me to take my turn, an old friend I hadn’t seen in years had just arrived, two thieves wearing Chewbacca costumes were stealing all the beer out of my fridge.
I began holding my hands together, which is something I do when I’m worried or scared—basically, I hold hands with myself. I looked down at them and saw that my right hand had turned completely black, which, for some reason, terrified me more than anything. It wasn’t black like the hand of someone of African descent, but jet, pitch, utter, night black.
I squeezed it and it was cold and numb. I tried to move the fingers, couldn’t. My heart began to pound in my chest, at which point I woke up from my nap, came in here to my office and wrote all this out.
Money doesn’t talk, it swears. — Bob Dylan
Title Needed, Apply Within or Thinner Thighs in 30 Days -
Although he always insisted on, “just call me Tommy”, his real name was Touche LaDoucher. Yes, you read that right. And, no, I’m not kidding.
He was one of those absolutely authentic assholes that life likes to toss in your face once in awhile like some kind of existential joke. You know the…
I could tell just by looking at him he had a small dick. The smaller the dick, the bigger the mouth, the bigger the boast. I watched him sitting at the bar trying to out-do his brother-in-law. His brother-in-law was someone he kissed up to. Eric, his brother-in-law’s name was, and though he had nothing to do with Thirsty’s, Touche thought by kissing his ass and impressing him, he could get in better with his father-in-law, his boss.
After Eric told him anything, Touche would reply with “Oh, yeah? Get this…” and try and out-do whatever Eric had said. If Eric had had a good day on the golf course, Touche had had a much, much better one—“one time”.
"One time, every swing I took resulted in a hole-in-one and the head of the PGA actually came over to my house later and gave me a blowjob to completion, which, as you know, is better than a foreplay blowjob."
I exaggerate, but you get the idea.
Anyway, I eyed him as I washed the dishes. I was the only one who could speak English in the kitchen, so I was alone with my thoughts. I decided to, what the hell, fucking kill him.
Now, a bit of background. I have never killed anybody before, never even really thought serious about it. But this guy. There was just something about this guy.
They are having “Thunder Alley”, which I guess is where you bowl in dim light with Joan Jett blasting. The whole place is dark, except for the pins and my laptop screen.
I LOVE ROCKNROLL! PUT ANOTHER DIME IN THE JUKEBOX BABY!
Pretty damn Good Friday night, if you ask me.
Hope all is well on your ends, too :)
Red Green is gonna be here on Thursday and I have no one, no one at all to go with!
People are out of town, people have to work, people’s parents are in town, people think it’s too expensive: $48.50.
But it goes to a good cause! It goes to Steve Smith, creator of Red Green!
How sad is it to go to a comedy show by yourself? I’m thinking about asking acquaintances…
So, if I ask a dude out and it’s strictly platonic, do I have to buy him dinner and pay for his ticket?
This is uncharted social territory for me…
I don’t wanna catch Alzheimer’s and someone told me that doing crossword puzzles prevents Alzheimer’s and it sounded as reasonable as anything else I hear come out of people’s mouths, so, yeah, I’m all about crossword puzzles now.
I just had a birthday and, well, you see how this all started…
Did you know that the pretentious, hoity-toity way of saying that you like to do crossword puzzles is by telling people you’re a cruciverbalist?
I AM A CRUCIVERBALIST!
Crossword puzzles are fun. Turns out, I’m even kind of good at them, except for the pop culture shit. I use the pop culture shit as a way to determine if a particular crossword puzzle sucks total and utter ass or not. If there’s a lot of questions about actors and actresses or movies or tv or producers or Emmy award winning roles, I skip it because, who gives a shit? Some pop culture questions are unavoidable and if there ain’t too many, I’ll dive in. Maybe, I figure, I can work the answer out by getting the words around it. The only pop culture shit I stand any chance at is music, but, you know, these are crossword puzzles, so it’s safe music. I have done three puzzles now that wanted to know Sarah MacLachlan hits. Three!
Who the hell is Sarah McLachlan and why are crossword puzzle creators so obsessed with her?
One time, though, there was a question about Ozzy. The clue was “Manchester metal man”—four letters. I was aghast—six letters.
I use a pencil, erase constantly, and cheat willy-nilly with dictionaries and atlases, but I never look at the key until I give up, which takes days. I considered using the internet to find out a pop culture answer one time, but decided against it. I am a man of principles or scruples or ethics and do not care one whit or iota or dollop who the producer of X-men is. I don’t even know what an X-man is or why he needs producing. What is an X-man? Is it like a member of a club of divorced guys or something?
Anywho, I’m real happy I’m not gonna catch Alzheimer’s now and I would like to extend a great big thank-you to all you Sarah McLachlan-loving, crossword puzzle-creating sunsabitches out there for preventing this terrible tragedy from descending upon me and my family like a squadron of rabid baboons or a gaggle of gangrene-y geese.
The plural of moose is meese, did you know that? You have one moose, but two, count ‘em, two meese. Speaking of Alzheimer’s, Ronald Reagan had a guy in his administration named Edwin Meese. I don’t know what he did, some political shit. Lying, probably, since that’s what you do in politics.
Edwin Meese, the plural of Edwin Moose :D
I better go now. I’m not supposed to be anywhere near the nurses’ station and I hear the soft shoes of swiftly approaching orderlies.
Until next time, America!
I almost want tv again.
Like many Playboy centerfolds, I, too, dislike selfishness, animal cruelty, and guys who come on too strong.
I also say that I like intelligent guys with a sense of humor who volunteer in their communities, but what I actually mean are tall, hot guys.
It’s a plus, though, if they are intelligent, have a sense of humor, and volunteer in their communities.
It makes clubbing funner!
Now, if I met a brilliant guy who was hilarious and donated his kidneys to the homeless, but who was short and/or pudgy, I couldn’t go out with him because my artificially inflated boobs would be wasted—and those bitches cost like five grand each!
I don’t mean fucked up as in alcohol or meth or oxycontin or glue or gold spray paint. Not that kind of fucked up. But Fucked-Up Bowling, where you put the bumpers up so you can’t get gutter balls and try to score the lowest possible score.
Lowest score wins!
I was in a Fucked-Up Bowling league shortly after I went into college. We’d go in there, four dudes with too much time on our hands and no girlfriends (obviously) and request the bumpers. The guy behind the counter who stands in front of the wall of shoes would peer over his linoleum-covered barrier for small children, see none, and be confused.
"That’s right, mister," we’d say "Give us a lane with bumpers. We’re not children, well, not physically anyway….bumpers nonetheless!"
And what you do is roll the ball down reeeeeal slow and try to knock the fewest pins over. If your ball stopped on the way down the lane and you had to go get the guy, it was counted as a strike, which, in Fucked-Up Bowling is the worse possible thing.
Jesus, we had fun. We’d drink beers and talk about life and politics and music and how we weren’t getting laid, all the while trying to bowl as shittily as possible. This was in the days before most white males in their 20s were libertarians.
What do you call a Republican who smokes pot?
Anyway, the 90s were some pretty liberal times, even for white males in their 20s. I’d contend that the 90s were just the 60s standing on its head, but I’m probably wrong.
Man, I miss those days. I miss those guys. One’s an English teacher now, one went to Alaska to live in the woods, one works at a plant installing those little plastic tips on the ends of shoelaces, and one’s me.
Who says life makes more sense the older you get?
REBLOGGING BECAUSE 20 YEARS AGO NOW
On this day 18 years ago, Kurt Cobain blew his brains out.
I was a freshman in college and worked as a—get this—MAID. Yessir, I was Maid Mike, scrubbing jizz off motel room walls. My boss loved me because I was the only employee he had who could speak English.
Anyway, the girl I was seeing at the time was not really a Nirvana fan. She was mostly into rap. Obviously, our relationship was doomed. In fact, we pretty much hated each other by the time Cobain killed himself and broke up shortly after.
I heard about it at work, from her. I remember she drove all the way down to the motel to tell me. She went up and down the sidewalks until she found me.
“Guess what?” she said.
“Cobain killed himself.”
I stood there holding my pubic hair covered toilet brush, shocked. “Bullshit,” I said.
“I just saw it on MTV News. Kurt Loder was practically in tears.”
Later on, I was drinking. The news had actually torn me apart. I remember being surprised by that, by how hard it hit me. I was enraged, depressed, slamming beers, blasting Nirvana. She was there with her friend Erin and they were mocking him, saying in whiny tones, “Oooh my name’s Kurt Cobain and my tummy hurts! Oooh my name’s Kurt Cobain and I’m a millionaire rock star that no one understands!” So on.
The bitches. Eventually, I snapped and I threw them out of my apartment. My angry response had scared Erin and she left right away, but my girlfriend was resistant, telling me to “lighten up.”
“If you don’t get the fuck away from me, I am going to pick you up by your neck and throw you out the fucking window.” I lived on the second floor and was dead serious.
That got her to go. She called me an asshole and slammed the door behind her.
We sort of made up a day or two later, but like I said, our relationship was doomed.
A few years later, long after we had broken up, Tupac was gunned down. She was a big fan of his and I actually thought about calling her up and going, “Oooh, my name’s Tupac and even though I’m a talented and successful recording artist, I’m still all ‘rapped’ up in this trifling gangsta shit! Oooh and look how it got me killed!”
I didn’t, though. Too much class.
At the bar drinking screwdrivers because I am a genius.
echo5charlie asked: Tough to find some no-bullshit-not-just-pretty-imagery-and-metaphors-that-make-no-sense writing around here. Good stuff, man. So, and this is important, why ARE you a vegetarian?
For a number of reasons: I don’t trust the American meat supply. It is swimming in hormones, antibiotics, genetic engineering and god knows what else. I think factory farms are cruel. I think a diet high in meat is bad for you. Eating lots of meat feels gluttonous to me. The factory farm system is horrible for the environment. I never have especially liked meat. Meat: it’s been done to death.
It was a pleasant evening together, comfortable and familiar, like an old shoe.
"Care for some tv, my dear?" I asked.
"I wouldn’t mind."
Taking the remote from the coffee table, I fired the beast up. Television: chewing gum for the mind.
"Did I mention," I said to her, "that I added Cinemax to our viewing package?"
"No, you didn’t mention it. What, indeed, is Cinemax?"
"Apparently, it’s some sort of movie channel."
"Oh, how delightful," said she. "Let us peruse it."
I clicked over to Cinemax and there before us, for all the world to see, were two beautiful people fucking. They were doing it in the position known, in the parlance of our times, as ‘doggy style’. The buff, tattooed stud gripped the cinnamon-skinned maiden by her wonderfully ample hips while generic jazz saxophone honked in the background.
Well… I don’t mind telling you we pushed our beds together that night!
I have a vagina. You’re a guy. You’re supposed to wanna fuck me. — is not a sexy attitude at all.