•16 October 2014 • Leave a Comment

For as long as I can remember the only kind of sunglasses I’ve worn have been aviators.  My first pair I got at a gas station in Tucson on a road trip to see my family in Phoenix.  I had been complaining about the sun for the past three hours so when we finally stopped for gas my father told me to pick out some sunglasses to shut me up.  I spun the sunglasses stand around until I saw them.  They were gold rimmed and made for men which made them barely fit on my face.  With my mess of shaggy hair that covered my entire forehead I looked like some kind of magnificently stylish bug.  My dad laughed and asked if I was sure.  I was and I shut up for the rest of the trip.

Over the years I had many other pairs.  In high school I would buy three cheap pairs at a time so when I lost one pair I would have two backups.  I went through many, many pairs.  A hazard of living by the beach and attempting to look cool.  When I got to college, I mistakenly decided to treat myself finally to a nice, more expensive pair.  For some reason I thought buying something more expensive would all of a sudden change my careless habits.  They were broken two weeks later while drunken chicken fighting in a pool.  From then on I went back to cheap racks.

A friend the other day, inspecting a backup pair in my truck, asked me where my penchant for aviators came from.  When I thought about it, my first response was that it probably came from looking at the pictures my dad hung up in our garage every day.  As an Electronics Engineer, my dad worked mostly for defense companies doing contract work for the Air Force.  In our garage were pictures of SR-71 Blackbirds, F-16s and Stealth Bombers.  Some of the pictures had pilots standing next to the jets, always clad in bomber jackets and aviators.  Up until almost the end of high school I had even wanted to become a pilot.  Even today I sometimes wish I would have chosen that path.
After I told my friend the answer to his question I had not thought about it again until today.  For the past 10 years I have driven, almost every day, a graphite colored Dodge Dakota.  Over the years it has received its fair share of scrapes and dents.  Regular wear and tear for a truck that is used for its intended purpose.  The interior, however, I keep quite clean.  I’m not a neat freak by any means, I just don’t like to sit in trash.  As I was getting out of the truck after work, I noticed a spot on the felt on the inside door panel.  It was completely bare.  Like someone had cut out a hole in the felt.  I sat there staring at it for a second before realizing that was where my elbow rests when I’m driving with my left hand. I immediately had a flash back to when I was a kid, sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s ’88 white and blue striped Chevy Blazer, watching him drive left handed with his elbow up, rocking a pair of brown tinted aviators.  It was a jarring realization.  Up until today I honestly did not feel like my dad and I had anything at all in common.  And over the years, as we have grown more apart and his health has declined, I had started to accept that we never would.  So I gave him a call.  Today was a good day.


When I Die

•24 March 2014 • Leave a Comment

Let’s get morbid.  I’ve had a recurring dream since I was 16 where I die when I’m 30 years old.  In my dream, I’m sitting at a table at a fast food place.  I don’t know which joint, there are no defining characteristics to the place, but I am with a faceless person and I know, for a fact, that I am 30 years old.  The first part of this dream alarms me, simply for the fact that I am at a fast food restaurant.  I haven’t eaten fast food since I was probably 13 so I’m really hoping future me hasn’t become obese.  No offense to fat people, but I would like to go out while still being in somewhat decent shape.  Unless I’m actually like 100 when I pop off then who really cares?  A fat, 100 year old man would be a giant ‘fuck you’ to everyone who wakes up at 5:00 AM to take their wheatgrass shot and go on a 10 mile run.  But an XXL casket for a 30 year old dude is a depressing thought.  

While not necessarily alarming, the fact that I am with a faceless person intrigues me.  The ambiance at the table we are sitting at suggests intimacy.  Since he/she is faceless, I am assuming this is a person I have yet to meet in my actual life. Perhaps this person is a new best friend or girlfriend?  Perhaps some lucky woman got the opportunity to marry me? One would think this would be a deterrence to meet new people but I find the prospect of meeting the person who will be with me when I die to be exhilerating.  For one, it’s nice to know that I am not alone.  And from the intimacy already iterated, this is clearly a person I care about.  So that sets the scene: McRestaurant with somebody I care for.

The person I am with needs something from the front and being the nice (obese?) person I am, I voolunteer to get it for them.  As I begin walking towards the front, I become aware that Ozzy Osbourne’s See You on the Other Side is playing over the loudspeakers.  So now, not only am I about to die, but I am going to die to kickass music!  I think that in my will I am going to make a playlist to be played at my funeral.  The list will start off fast and furious, something like Guns N’ Roses Welcome to the Jungle.  Add in some humor later with Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust.  Throw in some Skynyrd Simple Man to deliver a good message.  The Heavy’s When I Die for some morbidity. And finally end with Ozzy’s See You on the Other Side for a final, bittersweet note.  I expect the procession to be longer than 12 minutes though so I’ll throw in some Free BirdAmerican Pie and Ride the Lightening for good measure.  I’ll have to make this playlist known, though, so if any friends want to request a song they don’t feel cheated.  Like when Was (Not Was) Walk the Dinosaur doesn’t get played at weddings.  Talk about an immediate buzzkill.

Back to the dream, I’m walking to the front when a man standing at the register pulls out a knife.  Odd.  Who goes to rob a place with a knife?  There is significant counter space between the assailant and the victim.  The victim could grab any number of blunt objects behind them.  I’d go for the fry cooker, personally, solely for the theatricality of seeing french frys go flying as I crack the moron with a knife in the head.  But, like most McRestaurants, the employee is a scared teenager and too frightened to react.  Besides, I’m the hero of this story.  It’d be an odd dream if the fry cook was the victor and I was just an interested onlooker.  Talk about the self esteem issues that’d be at play in that scenario.

So the perp shouts “give me the money!” brandishing his pocket blade at the scared employee.  And then I’m standing next to him, coming from behind like a ghost and placing a hand on his shoulder.  “You should leave now, friend” I say like some kind of badass Sergio Leone character.  Now, I’m not going to lie.  I look really cool.  My only regret is that I don’t have a cigarette in my mouth.  I almost feel like once I hit 29 years old I should start carrying around a pack of Reds, just in case.  Because despite all the DARE ads, smoking does, in fact, make you look cooler.

The man, clearly spooked by my forward advance, lunges at me with the knife.  I parry his thrust, take him down and beat him senseless, calmly telling the onlookers to phone the police.  For any would-be criminals, this is a good reason to not use a knife whilst robbing.  So there I am, standing over the man like Ali when I feel a pain in my side.  I glance down and my shirt is stained red.  When I took the guy down I must have gotten impaled and am bleeding out. I sink to my knees, a fallen hero, and close my eyes to the sound of clapping.

For all intents and purposes, let’s say I have a superiority complex.  I can understand having that dream once, maybe twice, but repeatedly over the course of 10 years?  I am so familiar with the dream by now that I can describe the clothing of every person in the booths.  There is a smell to the dream.  And not of burgers and frys (or tacos?) but of finality.  I know to my core that that is the end for me.  An aroma in a dream may sound insane but there is something so vivid about it that I have found it difficult over the years to doubt its veracity.  To date, I have only told this dream to one person.  She suggested I have a hero complex and will have the dream until I somehow fulfill it.  So should I go out and seek a situation in which to be a hero?  That seems to lack the honor of randomly saving potential lives.  

She asked me if accepting my dream also means I have accepted I am going to die at age 30.  While I have not accepted the age, that seems a useless thing to worry about, I do believe I have accepted the inevitability of death.  I think I did the moment I read Plato’s Apology (stay with me).  When sentenced to death at his trial, Plato explains that he has never shunned knowledge and death is something that you can really only have full knowledge of when you experience it. So rather than lament his sentence, he chooses to embrace it.  I’m going to die, that’s a fact, but I’m not going to curl up and cry or fret about it.  If it happens when I’m 30 then it happens when I’m 30.  That just means I should live these next few years to the fullest.  Sitting here on the couch typing this is probably not the greatest start but there’s always room for improvement.

I hope, if you take any message away from this, it’s to avoid fast food.    

Mouth Ulcers

•8 March 2014 • Leave a Comment

So apparently I have mouth ulcers.  That’s a thing.  You know the feeling when you bite the tip of your tongue, and you get the sharp stinging pain that makes it difficult to form words?  I have been persistently experiencing that sensation for the past few days so decided to stop into my good ‘ol general practitioner who lightly told me I had mouth ulcers before skipping off to the next patient.  Mouth ulcers, for the uninformed, are tiny, blister like sores that form on the bottom of your tongue and cause a stinging pain that makes you question if possessing a tongue is really a necessity for life.  The worst part is I have a huge pain theshold.  Broken bones, no problem.  But this is more like unbearably annoying stinging than anything.  It makes my tongue feel swollen – even though it isn’t – and as such, I continuously end up biting my tongue and cheeks.  My mouth probably resembles raw slices of roast beef at the moment.  It’s all rather unpleasant.

But, wait: is this like herpes?  Did I somehow contract this infirmity doing something disgusting and covered in the herp?  Nope.  It is most likely some kind of an allergic reaction, quoth my doctor.  He asked if there was anything new that I introduced into my diet recently.  I finished my girlfriend’s smoothie that had a soy in it, I said.  I don’t really ever drink soy.  That’s probably it then, he said.  It should go away on its own in 1-2 weeks.  I think the idea of contracting mouth ulcers from estrogen laced soy products is more embarrassing than having herpes.  At least herpes comes with a fun story.

OK so bring on the vicodins, I politely suggest.  Oh that won’t be necessary, he explained.  Tylenol will be sufficient if really necessary.  His tone indicated that I should man up.  I briefly considered beating him with his stethoscope and stealing his prescription pad but that would make me an awful person and bring me down to his level.

I just had the thought that in writing this I’m coming off as a martyr.  Please don’t think that.  I’m more venting my indignation at not having herpes.

I’m going to go sulk and eat ice cream.

Happy Friday.

Tales of a Rug Munching Feline

•22 February 2014 • Leave a Comment

Living with two cats has opened me up to saying sentences I never thought would come out of my mouth.  I’ve had other pets before; dogs, fish, tortoises, but none of them has ever made me shout “stop rubbing your ass on the fridge” or “get your tail off my penis, that tickles.”  What’s worse is that I usually have to repeat myself multiple times since cats are apathetic, unresponsive assholes.  And it seems like no matter how much I abuse them they keep coming back to me.  Like they sense that I hate them and have made it their meager life goal to make me as miserable as possible.  The sad thing is the only way to be rid of them is to break up with my girlfriend or have them mysteriously disappear but they are too stupid to wander out an open door into the street.

I think my main problem with cats is that they are, in fact, curious.  For example, having sex when you have a dog is easy.  You can fuck on the bed, couch, etc. and all a dog will do is follow you around and watch from a respectable distance.  A dog is a voyeur.  And that is not a bad thing.  If the ubiquity of porn has proven anything it’s that creatures enjoy watching sex.  At least the dog can’t film it and post it online.  But a cat is different.  A cat wants to investigate why the kicking man is railing mommy.  And a cat accomplishes this by inserting itself right up under my balls, mid thrust, then being surprised when it gets a hard pelvis punch to the face.  Then I have to smack the cat away and shout for it to get its sandpaper tongue off my nuts.  Then my girlfriend gets angry that I hurt her kitty and nobody cums and the day is ruined.

The same thing happens when I try and masturbate too.  My girlfriend and I share similar schedules so there is rarely a time when I am at our apartment alone.  So the rare days I do get time to myself become hours of glorious trips to the spank bank.  Or would, if not for the cats.  The rundown is basically the same every time.  I get home from work and realize I have the place to myself whereupon I immediately strip down, hurl myself onto the couch, cover up with a blanket to hide my shame and open my laptop.  I then go to my favorite porn site (I’ll refrain from saying which one because TMI, right?) and begin to prime myself for the show, sifting through the many videos and clips to find just the right one to suit my mood.  And then I get sucked in.  The world becomes dead to me as I transport myself into the video.  I am now the cab driver telling the pretty blonde that her fare is free if she flashes her breasts.  I imagine the collagen pumped lips wrapping around my tumescent cock.  My body shakes and right as I feel like I’m going to explode I feel a tickle and tiny puffs of air inside my ear.  I open my eyes, turn my head to the side to see the one cat staring directly into my eyes, judging me, and poking my face with her wirey whiskers.  WHAM!  The other cat body slams claws first onto my feet from the top of the couch.  It’s a conjoined attack but there is no stopping and I wimpily ejaculate into the sock, receiving no pleasure whatsoever.  Every.  Goddamn.  Time.

For as much as I hate them, though, every now and then they are good for a laugh.  A few days ago I was coming home from work, walking up the steps to my front door, looking forward to my evening of alone time when I heard an awful mewling coming from inside.  Maybe one of them fell off the fridge and broke her neck, I thought hopefully to myself.  Maybe the mewling was the mourning crys from the other cat over the loss of her family.  I opened the door and this was the scene before me: one of the cats had her forepaws on the window sill with her backpaws spread slightly on the table below.  The second cat had her head firmly planted under the other’s tail, licking out her pussy and asshole like a bulldog eating custard.  The cat on the sill was thrusting her hips into the other cat’s face, like a good power bottom, and emitting the wailing which I heard from outside.  “Stop licking your sister’s pussy!” I shouted to the world.  The phrase made me laugh so hard I ignored the cunnilingus and went about my day.  I did not masturbate, however, I could not build up arousal after having witnessed cat porn.  Which, in my opinion, is a good sign.

If there is anything worth taking away from these stories it’s this: cats are horrible creatures but if for some reason you are forced into living with one (or more), make sure it’s a lesbian.

Have a great weekend.


•22 February 2014 • Leave a Comment

My first ex-girlfriend, the one I “fingered” on the trampoline, was, and probably still is, the living imbodiment of crazy.  I had known her for all of three days when she asked me out after Spanish class.  Her being 2 years older than me and me having no experience whatsoever with women, much less older women, was exciting, and despite not knowing anything about her jumped right into my first relationship.

Now, when I say that I had only known her for three days, what I mean is that we exchanged formalities once or twice.  I literally knew nothing about her other than her name; I could barely recognize her face in a crowd.  The first time we were to meet up as a “couple” was during lunch one afternoon.  I attended a school of over 3,000 kids.  The lunch area was packed.  So when faced with trying to find my girlfriend whose face I barely recognized, I failed miserably.  I approached two girls before finding her.  She saw this – clearly she knew what I looked like – and took it as a sign that I was flirting with other girls.  We had been together less than 24 hours and were already in an argument.

It was a month after the “fingering” incident when I found out that she was clinically bi-polar and had just decided to stop taking her medication.  I discovered this when while helping her mother erect a fence in their backyard, she thought I was not paying enough attention to her and hurled a log at my head.  She then told her mother to go die and went back inside the house.  We later found her pinching her hand until it bled and filling a glass with the drops of blood.  I should have broke it off that day but it’s hard to give up free hand-jobs and being allowed to clumsily experiment with a vagina.

After 7 months of misery I realized that I could actually end the relationship on my own terms and proceeded to do so.  She took it seemingly well and I felt like a burden had been lifted off my shoulders.  About a week after the break-up she called, expressed that she wanted to remain my friend and asked if I would accompany her to the grocery store.  I obgliged because I was bored and when we returned to my house proceeded to have sex in her car — it was a trend we had developed since the first time.  After we were done, I told her that I still didn’t want to be with her and she said she understood and felt like she had closure.

And then came the storm.

The following day at school I began to notice a significant change in atttitude toward me from all who knew me.  My friends were jerks to me all day long without explanation and it wasn’t until wrestling practice later that day I found out why.  One of my good friends, a kid I had known for years, calmly walked up to me before practice, called me a fucking backstabber, and proceeded to punch me to near knock out.  As I soon found out, he and my ex had began a relationship two days after I had ended it with her.  After our daliance the night before, my ex had logged into my AOL Instant Messenger account (I had not thought to change my password – rookie mistake) and while pretending to be me, said awful things to everyone in my friends list and told my friend, the puncher, what had just occurred in her car.  He never trusted me again and we stopped being friends; luckily I smoothed things over with everyone else.

A few weeks after the AIM incident, I was at my friends house hitting kumquats in the street with a tennis racket (a game my friend and I played when bored) when my ex came driving by, expecting me to be there as I usually was. The car came hurtling towards me at probably 40 mph and I dove into the bushes; the car missing me by inches as she swerved to keep from hitting a tree.  She was sure to issue a loud ‘fuck you’ out her window as she sped off.  At that point I called her mother and threatened a restraining order should her daughter’s antics continue.

They stopped.  Everyone moved on (probably) and I forever became attracted to insane women with daddy-issues. Heres hoping that one of these days I’ll have some semblance of a functional relationship.


Much Ado About Nothing

•20 February 2014 • Leave a Comment

The first time I “fingered” a girl was on a trampoline.

I was 13, she was 16, and we had been dating for a month.  Obviously it was pretty serious by that point, the one month milestone and all, so we decided to celebrate by exploring each others’ body.  We waited until it was dark out then proceeded outside to do some night jumping on the trampoline, an act her mother evidently found nothing wrong with.  The stage was set, the stars were out, there was a warm breeze and we were ready to do some heavy petting.  When we got onto the trampoline we decided to put up a show in case her mother was watching so we began to carefully jump around near the center.  As is inevitable with all use of a trampoline, she accidentally double bounced me — a process by which one person jumps down at the precise moment the other is falling to launch the jumper higher into the air — and being unable to see where I was landing, I panicked, did not stick my landing and bounced off the edge.

I should note that before we made our foray outside, we decided to make things as easy as possible and were both only wearing shorts with no underwear.  This was foremost in my mind as I toppled off and down a set of stone steps that ran adjacent to the trampoline leading down to a flower garden a tier below.  I ended up skinning my knees and shins pretty bad but it was dark so I didn’t notice the blood running down my legs and probably wouldn’t have cared if I had, I was too excited for what was about to happen.  I pretended to be fine and hopped back onto the trampoline where she was now lying in the center.

It started as most encounters do, with a kiss, which lead to a French kiss which lead to her allowing me to touch her breast.  My first breast!  I was so excited I almost came right there.  Being a gentleman, I politely asked if I could now stick my fingers in her.  She acquiesced, so I slowly slid my hand from her breast, down her stomach and under her shorts.  Now is an appropriate time to point out some differences between teenagers with a 3 year age gap.  Until I was probably 18 and had a growth spurt I was always just below average for my heigth.  My girlfriend at the time was tall for her age, a volleyball player and maybe 4 inches taller than I.  Now, as my hand crept down farther towards my goal, I realized that my arm was simply too short to reach if I wanted to continue to kiss her, and thus came to a halt in the area pubic hair should be.  I had to think quick and realized that if I went a little lower I could kiss her neck and gain the few inches I was desperately reaching for.  I made the break from her mouth and slid my own to her neck where I sloppily sucked and licked away thinking I was giving her the best hickey of her life, but that didn’t matter because I was finally able to reach my goal.

The first thing I remember was how dry and sticky it was, like how your skin feels after it gets licked by a dog and slightly drys out.  I was so excited at that point that I ejaculated but was so nervous about how I was making her feel that I didn’t even notice.  Having no idea what I was doing but being pretty confident in my knowledge of female anatomy I prodded around for what seemed like an hour.  In reality it was only about 5 minutes.  The lights in the backyard flared on like a helicopter spotlight and we both quickly sat up, shielded our eyes, and gazed at her mother standing in the doorway.  She asked what we were doing and we replied stargazing.  She said it was a good night for it but suggested we come back inside.

Before going back inside I asked my girlfriend how it felt since all men need an ego boost from time to time.  She said it was OK.  I asked what I could have done better.  She said I could have actually entered her.  Not understanding and her not explaining, it took until I got home and looked up female anatomy on Encarta before I realized that I had just been poking my finger in and out of her labia majora for five minutes.

Had my 13 year old self had more wisdom he would have seen the writing on the wall and just broke it off with her the next day rather than pass off the humiliation as a success.  We ended up dating for 7 months total.  Lost my virginity to her in her Ford Explorer at 1:00 PM while parked in front of my house.  I don’t think I pleased her then either.  It was probably sexual frustration that led her to try and run me over with her car – but that’s a story for another time.

Youth is rarely subtle and that’s OK because it makes for fun stories later in life.  I hate everything about that girl but, if anything, she did give me a pretty great opening line.

What is ‘it’?

•9 December 2013 • Leave a Comment

What is it, you ask?  It’s really hard to say.  Some are born with it and some work to attain it.  People who don’t have it want it and those who do have it usually find it difficult to explain.  It is the stuff that makes up genius.  The stuff that births creativity and lends exception to the mundane.

I first learned about it when I was a freshman in high school.  It had been a particularly difficult wrestling practice and many wanted to quit; obvious from looking into their crying faces wracked with exhaustion.  A senior wrestler, ranked best in his weight class in the nation at the time, approached where our group was sitting and surveyed how pathetic we all looked.  “I don’t know what it is, but only a few of you have it,” he said standing over us, “if you don’t already have it, odds are you never will, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t work your ass off to get it, because let me tell you, I have it, and it is the greatest feeling you will ever know.”

After that talk, I began to become aware of exactly what my teammate was referring to.  The best example I have seen of this is in the movie Good Will Hunting.  Minnie Driver asks Matt Damon’s character how he is able to retain the information in his head and do what he is able to do.  He replies by asking how Mozart played piano, the answer being he just understood.  Mozart could sit down at a piano and just play.  Simply put, he just has it.

I have thought back and reflected on that moment in the gym many times growing up.  I have thought about what having it actually means.  I think that the construct of it isn’t comprised of just one thing but many qualities that some people are just instilled with.  Drive, passion, ambition, endurance, fortitude, creativity, flexibility, determination, strength, prowess: success.  These are all traits possessed by people with it.  What’s more, is that on those days when you are feeling just a little off, things aren’t going your way, you are being unproductive and unsuccessful, the common response is “well, I’m just not feeling it today.”  But that’s not a bad thing.  Having it 24/7 can make you go a little crazy.  Sometimes your brain needs to shut down and rest.  Take a break from displaying it to the world.  But the difference is that people with it can take that break to re-charge and still come out ahead.

I’m unsure of whether or not I possess it.  I think it is something that other people recognize in you, not something you recognize in yourself.  Mostly because those who have it aren’t concerned with it.  They are concerned with achieving and using it to make themselves the best they can be.  I’d like to hope that one day when I’m older I can look at my accomplishments and see that I really did have it all along.  Maybe passed it along to my children.  What I do know is that whether you are born with it or not, you can still achieve it, and should strive to, it just may require a bit of extra hard work.  But others will notice.  Be an example, the world can stand some more good ones.