Friday, April 30, 2004
Parrotman
I'm unable to talk to my grandpa, really.
It's not the age gap. It's that he's constantly repeating himself, over and over again, almost immediately after he says anything.
This don't show up all that much when the women are home. They do most of the talkin. Gramps would try more back in the day during dinner, but my mom would just end up yelling at him cause he kept asking the same damn questions every five minutes. So now he never opens his mouth.
He's also not leading the most advernturous life. Agh, every time he tells you about his weeding and watering that morning, the lack of interest you felt at first is multiplied big time by around the fifth repeat.
Yet I still wasn't enthused about my mother and grandmother returning home.
Maybe cause I have to now, too.
Deplane, Deplane
Ate lunch early before I went and fetched them at the airport. Grandpa talkin again about how the heat gives him diarrhea as I do. Tasty.
I was nervous. I've never been responsible for an airport pickup before. And airports are crowded. Crowds make me sick. And crowds can make you crash.
My advice to you though, man, really look for the smaller airports that might be in your area. Long Beach Airport is so much more manageable than LAX. It's still got some girth, but it doesn't feel like its own damn metropolis. Parking is still lovely, but nothing like going to that monstrosity.
I park fine. Early. Listen to the radio awhile before I hike to the terminal.
Baggage claim. Outside. There's a gate that I could look through, see their plane taxi in to a stop near the gate.
Usually I can control my emo-ness in public. It got a little out of hand. Maybe some of it had to do with everything going on, but being at the airport, seeing that plane sitting there... envisioning it in all its hugeness smashing full speed into the World Trade, which would of course made it look like a toy. How loud of an impact that must've been. And how that impact has got us almost three years later into this hellhole mess in Iraq, all those kids there fighting and dying. I can't taking watching it anymore.
I was at the airport, out in this world that I avoid, and here was a shining reminder of why I do that. No regrets.
Long Beach is not LAX, so they don't have those extending hallways that attach to the plane for passengers to walk out. They're old school, get the stairs-on-wheels!
Everyone deplaned. I'm looking through the hole in the gate. No grandma, no mom.
They take the stairs-on-wheels away.
After the stairs were moved, a hydraulic lift was put in their place. The platform extended back up to the plane door.
Grandma waddles out. So slowly. A lot slower than usual, even.
They got a wheelchair for her. She sits. The lift begins to make its way down.
Hadn't seen my mom before, but she was on the ground. She meets up with Grandma when she hits the ground, the airport worker wheels her fairly warp speed as my mom hustles behind.
Christ, she looks so old.
A couple minutes their around and in baggage claim. I had planned to give my grandma a really warm hug, since I hadn't talked to her after her sister died. The wheelchair spoiled that. Kiss. Ask her how she's doin.
She looked really worn out and spent. But her mood, it was excellent...especially considering the funeral was fucking yesterday. Later on that night my mom told me the gory details. After that one good day they had together, her sister had a hemmorage, had to go to the hospital. They basically sent her home to die, in an ambulance. On the way she had diarrhea. Real bloody diarrhea.
"You can go now,mom..." her daughter told her through the ordeal, seeing how massive the suffering was that she was going through. "You can go..."
So she did.
I'm unable to talk to my grandpa, really.
It's not the age gap. It's that he's constantly repeating himself, over and over again, almost immediately after he says anything.
This don't show up all that much when the women are home. They do most of the talkin. Gramps would try more back in the day during dinner, but my mom would just end up yelling at him cause he kept asking the same damn questions every five minutes. So now he never opens his mouth.
He's also not leading the most advernturous life. Agh, every time he tells you about his weeding and watering that morning, the lack of interest you felt at first is multiplied big time by around the fifth repeat.
Yet I still wasn't enthused about my mother and grandmother returning home.
Maybe cause I have to now, too.
Deplane, Deplane
Ate lunch early before I went and fetched them at the airport. Grandpa talkin again about how the heat gives him diarrhea as I do. Tasty.
I was nervous. I've never been responsible for an airport pickup before. And airports are crowded. Crowds make me sick. And crowds can make you crash.
My advice to you though, man, really look for the smaller airports that might be in your area. Long Beach Airport is so much more manageable than LAX. It's still got some girth, but it doesn't feel like its own damn metropolis. Parking is still lovely, but nothing like going to that monstrosity.
I park fine. Early. Listen to the radio awhile before I hike to the terminal.
Baggage claim. Outside. There's a gate that I could look through, see their plane taxi in to a stop near the gate.
Usually I can control my emo-ness in public. It got a little out of hand. Maybe some of it had to do with everything going on, but being at the airport, seeing that plane sitting there... envisioning it in all its hugeness smashing full speed into the World Trade, which would of course made it look like a toy. How loud of an impact that must've been. And how that impact has got us almost three years later into this hellhole mess in Iraq, all those kids there fighting and dying. I can't taking watching it anymore.
I was at the airport, out in this world that I avoid, and here was a shining reminder of why I do that. No regrets.
Long Beach is not LAX, so they don't have those extending hallways that attach to the plane for passengers to walk out. They're old school, get the stairs-on-wheels!
Everyone deplaned. I'm looking through the hole in the gate. No grandma, no mom.
They take the stairs-on-wheels away.
After the stairs were moved, a hydraulic lift was put in their place. The platform extended back up to the plane door.
Grandma waddles out. So slowly. A lot slower than usual, even.
They got a wheelchair for her. She sits. The lift begins to make its way down.
Hadn't seen my mom before, but she was on the ground. She meets up with Grandma when she hits the ground, the airport worker wheels her fairly warp speed as my mom hustles behind.
Christ, she looks so old.
A couple minutes their around and in baggage claim. I had planned to give my grandma a really warm hug, since I hadn't talked to her after her sister died. The wheelchair spoiled that. Kiss. Ask her how she's doin.
She looked really worn out and spent. But her mood, it was excellent...especially considering the funeral was fucking yesterday. Later on that night my mom told me the gory details. After that one good day they had together, her sister had a hemmorage, had to go to the hospital. They basically sent her home to die, in an ambulance. On the way she had diarrhea. Real bloody diarrhea.
"You can go now,mom..." her daughter told her through the ordeal, seeing how massive the suffering was that she was going through. "You can go..."
So she did.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Today's entry has been delayed because the time I usually take to write, I had to use to help my grandmother pay her bills. She came in and had me do them all with her cause she was so confused.
And now I'm off to buy more stamps cause she lost the ones my mom just bought her.
A post will be under this one eventually, hopefully today.
And now I'm off to buy more stamps cause she lost the ones my mom just bought her.
A post will be under this one eventually, hopefully today.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Three Out Of Four
Picking up my grandmother and mother at the airport soon. It looks like the odds are very good that this will finally be a day they return home from a trip without having to go to the emergency room.
The last three times they've went away, that's what has happened.
The first was on the return trip from them meeting up with my grandma's sister and kin in Florida for a week. They asked a skycap for directions to baggage claim or something, he walked them there. Unfortunately he walked too fast. Grandma fell trying to keep up. Broke her ankle.
The second was a return trip from a gambling jaunt with my father. Mom comes home, grandpa's eating dinner, looking like he's gonna die. Mom knows he's a gigantic pussy, but she doesn't want to be wrong no matter what the odds are she isn't. Five hours in the emergency room. Absolutely nothing wrong with him.
The third I wrote you about before. Another gambling jaunt with my dad, they come home, grandpa tells them he's dizzy. Take him to emergency. Eight hours later, he's diagnosed as perfectly fine.
He looks good today. That last time he would never eat dinner with me during that whole week, kept saying he ate. This time I had him sittin down with me every night.
I feel the worst I've felt in awhile this morning. For a gillion reasons. It feels like a new chapter is about to unfold.
Picking up my grandmother and mother at the airport soon. It looks like the odds are very good that this will finally be a day they return home from a trip without having to go to the emergency room.
The last three times they've went away, that's what has happened.
The first was on the return trip from them meeting up with my grandma's sister and kin in Florida for a week. They asked a skycap for directions to baggage claim or something, he walked them there. Unfortunately he walked too fast. Grandma fell trying to keep up. Broke her ankle.
The second was a return trip from a gambling jaunt with my father. Mom comes home, grandpa's eating dinner, looking like he's gonna die. Mom knows he's a gigantic pussy, but she doesn't want to be wrong no matter what the odds are she isn't. Five hours in the emergency room. Absolutely nothing wrong with him.
The third I wrote you about before. Another gambling jaunt with my dad, they come home, grandpa tells them he's dizzy. Take him to emergency. Eight hours later, he's diagnosed as perfectly fine.
He looks good today. That last time he would never eat dinner with me during that whole week, kept saying he ate. This time I had him sittin down with me every night.
I feel the worst I've felt in awhile this morning. For a gillion reasons. It feels like a new chapter is about to unfold.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Chained
See, even if i lived away from home, I'd still be haunted by my father. Most people don't get that. If I don't move out of state, I would still be subject to helping family out. And as you know, damn, he needs a LOT of help.
Some early morning auto grabass yesterday. I pull my car up alongside my bro's car on the driveway after he leaves for work. Dad comes out.
Ah, time to be controlled by the robot. Some of HAL's commands that made me freeze for a second to translate them into human language:
"Open up the engine compartment..."
"You can get out of the cockpit for now..."
What the hell am I behind the wheel of, a Honda Stealth Fighter?
As we tried to jump-start, his technique felt screwy to me. He didn't start up my car when he was trying to get juice from it to bring my bro's back to life. I hadn't been part of a jump for awhile so I wasn't sure if this was standard operating procedure or not. Either way it didn't work.
Called triple-A. Dude comes out, plugs in his battery cables to his plug right on the front of his truck, WHAP, bro's car starts right up.
Funny little thing... the triple-A guy leaves, I get in my car to follow my dad up to Pep Boys to give him a ride back. I sit and wait...he aint moving. I walk back up to him... the gearshit is LOCKED into place, who knows how the hell that happened... it has a keyhole on it, so you can unlock it. The thing is though, if he used HIS key he'd have to kill the engine...ergo losing his jump-start to get to the Pep.
i hand him my key. Goddamn I'm so important to have around.
My Biggest Fan
We get to Pep. I have a special acquaintance waiting for me. My friend that homeless lady. She's freakin following me around, as if she has some sort of homeless sense that helps her seek out people who'll give her money. Last Sunday I went to fetch my mom a gift at the mall for her birthday...guess who was there?
Luckily I avoid her. I wouldn't give her money in front of Daddio. I don't need the draining conversation that would ensue. Giving to anyone much less the homeless is out of his sphere of comprehension.
I have a new respect for Pep Boys. y'all. Turned out it was only a dead battery. Wouldn't you think that they would try and make a big-assed bogus bill out of that, replace all sorts of other shit? They didn't. Man. They're pretty cool.
I sit in the little waitng room off to the side, watch my dad through the glass trying to hand his written report of the situation to the guy workin the counter ["Problem: While I was driving home 125 miles from San Diego last Friday Night..."], the dude trying not to have to take it. Hey, he'd been tutored on it already before that.
All wrapped up. Take him home.
"Why Don't You give me a call every hour or so to check and see if they've contacted me...". Cause I'll be online at the grandfolks', and he won't be able to get through..
Sigh. What a break from him this is turning out to be.
See, even if i lived away from home, I'd still be haunted by my father. Most people don't get that. If I don't move out of state, I would still be subject to helping family out. And as you know, damn, he needs a LOT of help.
Some early morning auto grabass yesterday. I pull my car up alongside my bro's car on the driveway after he leaves for work. Dad comes out.
Ah, time to be controlled by the robot. Some of HAL's commands that made me freeze for a second to translate them into human language:
"Open up the engine compartment..."
"You can get out of the cockpit for now..."
What the hell am I behind the wheel of, a Honda Stealth Fighter?
As we tried to jump-start, his technique felt screwy to me. He didn't start up my car when he was trying to get juice from it to bring my bro's back to life. I hadn't been part of a jump for awhile so I wasn't sure if this was standard operating procedure or not. Either way it didn't work.
Called triple-A. Dude comes out, plugs in his battery cables to his plug right on the front of his truck, WHAP, bro's car starts right up.
Funny little thing... the triple-A guy leaves, I get in my car to follow my dad up to Pep Boys to give him a ride back. I sit and wait...he aint moving. I walk back up to him... the gearshit is LOCKED into place, who knows how the hell that happened... it has a keyhole on it, so you can unlock it. The thing is though, if he used HIS key he'd have to kill the engine...ergo losing his jump-start to get to the Pep.
i hand him my key. Goddamn I'm so important to have around.
My Biggest Fan
We get to Pep. I have a special acquaintance waiting for me. My friend that homeless lady. She's freakin following me around, as if she has some sort of homeless sense that helps her seek out people who'll give her money. Last Sunday I went to fetch my mom a gift at the mall for her birthday...guess who was there?
Luckily I avoid her. I wouldn't give her money in front of Daddio. I don't need the draining conversation that would ensue. Giving to anyone much less the homeless is out of his sphere of comprehension.
I have a new respect for Pep Boys. y'all. Turned out it was only a dead battery. Wouldn't you think that they would try and make a big-assed bogus bill out of that, replace all sorts of other shit? They didn't. Man. They're pretty cool.
I sit in the little waitng room off to the side, watch my dad through the glass trying to hand his written report of the situation to the guy workin the counter ["Problem: While I was driving home 125 miles from San Diego last Friday Night..."], the dude trying not to have to take it. Hey, he'd been tutored on it already before that.
All wrapped up. Take him home.
"Why Don't You give me a call every hour or so to check and see if they've contacted me...". Cause I'll be online at the grandfolks', and he won't be able to get through..
Sigh. What a break from him this is turning out to be.
Monday, April 26, 2004
Careless Whisper
You ever avoid talking to somebody not knowing just why you do, and then you talk to them... and you figure it out?
My father's been watching basketball with me more these days. Not at my grandma's, at the house. All the playoffs are on cable, and when my mother fixes dinner she likes to watch tv. The only other cable-ready tv we got is in my bro's room, where I'm watchin...so he's been coming in and hanging out.
It isn't so bad. Yet it FEELS much worse than it should.
Why the hell do I have still such a strong disdain for hanging out with him, just a little smidge? He's pretty wack, but there's way worse.
Now I know why.
this weekend he went to gamble in San Diego for the day. Took my bro's car, the car died, got a jump to get back, now he has to take it to get repaired. Wants me to partake in the joy in getting it jump-started again.
Last night I went over and dropped off his dinner for him. As I leave, just to make conversation, I go "Are you still going to Pep Boys tomorrow morning?" Just to make frickin conversation.
He says, yeah. "What time do they open?" he asks. "8," I says. "The shop too?" he asks. "Uh...I'm not sure..." I says.
"Why Don't You drive over to Pep Boys and see what time the shop opens tomorrow..." he tells me.
FUCK!
There was an end to an intense basketball game I wanted to see, man...
You ever avoid talking to somebody not knowing just why you do, and then you talk to them... and you figure it out?
My father's been watching basketball with me more these days. Not at my grandma's, at the house. All the playoffs are on cable, and when my mother fixes dinner she likes to watch tv. The only other cable-ready tv we got is in my bro's room, where I'm watchin...so he's been coming in and hanging out.
It isn't so bad. Yet it FEELS much worse than it should.
Why the hell do I have still such a strong disdain for hanging out with him, just a little smidge? He's pretty wack, but there's way worse.
Now I know why.
this weekend he went to gamble in San Diego for the day. Took my bro's car, the car died, got a jump to get back, now he has to take it to get repaired. Wants me to partake in the joy in getting it jump-started again.
Last night I went over and dropped off his dinner for him. As I leave, just to make conversation, I go "Are you still going to Pep Boys tomorrow morning?" Just to make frickin conversation.
He says, yeah. "What time do they open?" he asks. "8," I says. "The shop too?" he asks. "Uh...I'm not sure..." I says.
"Why Don't You drive over to Pep Boys and see what time the shop opens tomorrow..." he tells me.
FUCK!
There was an end to an intense basketball game I wanted to see, man...
Sunday, April 25, 2004
The news hit me kinda hard, after I hung up. For the first time since I heard she was sick, she wasn't "my grandma's sister". She was my Aunt Mary.
I hadn't seen her in like ten years. Before my grandparents moved out here from Pennsylvania, my mom and bro and I would go visit them in the summer. Lots of relativity there... and we would spend a good amount of time with them at her place.
I can't think of any momentous stories. She was nice. My favorite part of visiting them was seeing her big-assed dog Sage. Sage was old as dirt and not in the mood to move for just about anything. I dig dogs like that. I guess I can relate. It was pretty gross watching him sweat through his tongue on the porch in the middle of those humid summer afternoons.
She would send us all 50 bucks each for Christmas every year. I stopped writing thank-yous cause I didn't want her and the other relatives to keep doing that. Either way, I felt like a booger.
I didn't talk at all to her while she was sick cause, well, it had been ten years since I had said anything to her. I certainly didn't have to now. My grandma and my mom, they still went on trips with them through the years, linking up in Florida to spend time together, etc. They never asked me if I wanted to get on the line and chat.
I'm not torn up about not talking to her. It would've been nice of me, though. But I couldn't. Cause she'd ask me questions I can't answer, like "So what are you doing these days?"
My grandma and her had one good day together at least. They got to spend all of Thursday together. That night she started to really hit the wall.
Made everyone feel better about her checking out.
I should've thanked her for all the $ 50s.
Thank you, Aunt Mary.
My mother had called with the news early. I crawled back in my grandmother's sofabed and got all sensitive by myself. As I did, I could hear my grandfather's hacking smoker's cough of 65+ years of smoking coming from his bedroom.
I had never truly noticed it before.
I hadn't seen her in like ten years. Before my grandparents moved out here from Pennsylvania, my mom and bro and I would go visit them in the summer. Lots of relativity there... and we would spend a good amount of time with them at her place.
I can't think of any momentous stories. She was nice. My favorite part of visiting them was seeing her big-assed dog Sage. Sage was old as dirt and not in the mood to move for just about anything. I dig dogs like that. I guess I can relate. It was pretty gross watching him sweat through his tongue on the porch in the middle of those humid summer afternoons.
She would send us all 50 bucks each for Christmas every year. I stopped writing thank-yous cause I didn't want her and the other relatives to keep doing that. Either way, I felt like a booger.
I didn't talk at all to her while she was sick cause, well, it had been ten years since I had said anything to her. I certainly didn't have to now. My grandma and my mom, they still went on trips with them through the years, linking up in Florida to spend time together, etc. They never asked me if I wanted to get on the line and chat.
I'm not torn up about not talking to her. It would've been nice of me, though. But I couldn't. Cause she'd ask me questions I can't answer, like "So what are you doing these days?"
My grandma and her had one good day together at least. They got to spend all of Thursday together. That night she started to really hit the wall.
Made everyone feel better about her checking out.
I should've thanked her for all the $ 50s.
Thank you, Aunt Mary.
My mother had called with the news early. I crawled back in my grandmother's sofabed and got all sensitive by myself. As I did, I could hear my grandfather's hacking smoker's cough of 65+ years of smoking coming from his bedroom.
I had never truly noticed it before.
Saturday, April 24, 2004
My grandma's sister passed away last night.
Friday, April 23, 2004
I'm staying with my grandpa while my grandma and mom are away.
Partly because I want to avoid the emergency room visit that happens every time they return home from a trip [I'll get to this probably on the day they come back].
Partly because I want to avoid the ugly scenario that I hope never becomes a reality for longer than a week-- me livin with my dad, two hermits all alone, all the livelong day.
The first night here with gramps wasn't like I first envisioned it would be. At first I was nothing but WAHOO about the idea-- it'd be like being out on my own. Well, with a roommate. A really old roommate.
My extreme enthusiasm was seriously, seriously dampened by the realization that my bottle o' medication was still sitting on my bookshelf. When I first started taking it, daddio was superanal about hounding me about it.
Shit...he's going to see I didn't take the bottle... then look at it closer... he's not like my mother, he's detail-oriented, and can still read close up... he'll see that that bottle is from waaay last year......
Oh well. What can you do. If he finds out, he finds out. Still, it didn't exactly make me comfortable and ecstatic, like I thought I would be.
Of course I got away with it.
There are other reasons my stay ain't been so wahoo. Granny's room gets even hotter than mine at night. The temp aint too high yet it feels like summer up in here. Her sofabed isn't the most comfortable deal either...it sucks that she's sleepin on this shit. It's not horrible, but for an old lady who has some back pain she should be on something more comfy.
Another non-wahoo is eating dinner with my grandpa. Yesterday he asked me three times in about five minutes what Dad was having for dinner. [Unlike my grandma, he's been like this since forever-- he had a stroke and I think this was part of the fallout].
It's times like these that I think, should I love to be around my grandparents as much as I do? I imagine anyone who reads this thinks that as well. Geez, they're old and confused. Go get an apartment and start bonin some chicks, for Christ's sakes.
Bah. I realize that them not being mentally on top of everything is a silly reason for people thinking that. They're on top of things much more than most kids that housewives have to look after all the livelong day. Love them kids to hell, don't they? Love is a strange thing.
Last night at dinner, Gramps again related the news "Schwarzenegger's going after Nevada for tax money" for the third time. I think it's one of those same damn grandpa stories I'm going to have to hear for forever. Well, at least until Arnold's out of office.
I hope that's what stops it.
Partly because I want to avoid the emergency room visit that happens every time they return home from a trip [I'll get to this probably on the day they come back].
Partly because I want to avoid the ugly scenario that I hope never becomes a reality for longer than a week-- me livin with my dad, two hermits all alone, all the livelong day.
The first night here with gramps wasn't like I first envisioned it would be. At first I was nothing but WAHOO about the idea-- it'd be like being out on my own. Well, with a roommate. A really old roommate.
My extreme enthusiasm was seriously, seriously dampened by the realization that my bottle o' medication was still sitting on my bookshelf. When I first started taking it, daddio was superanal about hounding me about it.
Shit...he's going to see I didn't take the bottle... then look at it closer... he's not like my mother, he's detail-oriented, and can still read close up... he'll see that that bottle is from waaay last year......
Oh well. What can you do. If he finds out, he finds out. Still, it didn't exactly make me comfortable and ecstatic, like I thought I would be.
Of course I got away with it.
There are other reasons my stay ain't been so wahoo. Granny's room gets even hotter than mine at night. The temp aint too high yet it feels like summer up in here. Her sofabed isn't the most comfortable deal either...it sucks that she's sleepin on this shit. It's not horrible, but for an old lady who has some back pain she should be on something more comfy.
Another non-wahoo is eating dinner with my grandpa. Yesterday he asked me three times in about five minutes what Dad was having for dinner. [Unlike my grandma, he's been like this since forever-- he had a stroke and I think this was part of the fallout].
It's times like these that I think, should I love to be around my grandparents as much as I do? I imagine anyone who reads this thinks that as well. Geez, they're old and confused. Go get an apartment and start bonin some chicks, for Christ's sakes.
Bah. I realize that them not being mentally on top of everything is a silly reason for people thinking that. They're on top of things much more than most kids that housewives have to look after all the livelong day. Love them kids to hell, don't they? Love is a strange thing.
Last night at dinner, Gramps again related the news "Schwarzenegger's going after Nevada for tax money" for the third time. I think it's one of those same damn grandpa stories I'm going to have to hear for forever. Well, at least until Arnold's out of office.
I hope that's what stops it.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Yesterday I had to perform the odious task that, as Seinfeld says, is the cornerstone signifier of all special bonds: drive my mother and grandmother to the airport. At:
3:30 a.m.
Oh, the humanity.
My Friend of 15 Years, he never had me drive him when he would take a plane somewhere. I guess cause he knew how retarded I am with streets and shit. It's something I would offer to do, if it wasn't for all the damn driving.
My bro had me drive him, while I wasn't writing here. I almost got in a car accident. There was an accident in front of us in our lane, a cop was directing us over into the next open lane of traffic. I thought his waving us over meant it was all clear, that the other cars were going to wait.
Nope. Came within inches of some dude smashing into me. And the power steering in my car is shot, so the big turns from a total stop was like being in a wrestling match. As the cars are up my ass from almost crashing into me. My brother cackling all the way.
Bah, this time wasn't bad. So early meant no traffic. And they weren't leaving out of LAX. Long Beach Airport. It was a sweet sight, pulling up to the curb and seeing no one outside.
Drove back home in the empty streets. God I love that. Couldn't get back to sleep though.
Go over to grandpa's that morning. He looks worried. Starts talking about this time they were flying back from a visit from seeing us and their plane had to keep circling, the landing gear wasn't going down. Hmm...I don't remember this story. Sounds like more entertainment concocted from an elderly brain. I'm not sure though.
"That was when the planes had propellers," he informs me.
And dusted crops on the way.
3:30 a.m.
Oh, the humanity.
My Friend of 15 Years, he never had me drive him when he would take a plane somewhere. I guess cause he knew how retarded I am with streets and shit. It's something I would offer to do, if it wasn't for all the damn driving.
My bro had me drive him, while I wasn't writing here. I almost got in a car accident. There was an accident in front of us in our lane, a cop was directing us over into the next open lane of traffic. I thought his waving us over meant it was all clear, that the other cars were going to wait.
Nope. Came within inches of some dude smashing into me. And the power steering in my car is shot, so the big turns from a total stop was like being in a wrestling match. As the cars are up my ass from almost crashing into me. My brother cackling all the way.
Bah, this time wasn't bad. So early meant no traffic. And they weren't leaving out of LAX. Long Beach Airport. It was a sweet sight, pulling up to the curb and seeing no one outside.
Drove back home in the empty streets. God I love that. Couldn't get back to sleep though.
Go over to grandpa's that morning. He looks worried. Starts talking about this time they were flying back from a visit from seeing us and their plane had to keep circling, the landing gear wasn't going down. Hmm...I don't remember this story. Sounds like more entertainment concocted from an elderly brain. I'm not sure though.
"That was when the planes had propellers," he informs me.
And dusted crops on the way.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
Home
Today my grandma went back to Pennsylvania with my mother for a week.
Diary Flashback: While I was away, my mother got a letter from my grandma's sister's daughter back in Pennsylvania. My grandma's sister is in real bad shape. She has a stomach tumor. They aren't operating-- either because it's too far gone or cause she's lost too much weight.
They used to be very close, after my grandfolk retired they left New York City and moved to Pennsylvania, my grandma's homeland.
She still talked to her sister every week after the move. Her sister is mas macho though, so she never told my grandma she was having all the health problems.
The hick doctors know at least not to shoot her up with radiation. Her sister ain't doin great, but she's still alive. Been weak but around for the last three or four months.
Weird, this is almost the exact same scenario that was freaking out my ex back in December when I was being a pain in the ass trying to hang with her. We got the news the same day I nearly got her all fed up with knowin me. Maybe this helped that a little, in an odd little bonding way. Not that I'm glad it happened or anything. I'm worried too.
That night my mom read the letter, she went over to my grandma to tell her in person. She took it very well. That night.
The next day my grandma was supposed to get in touch with her. She had been dillydallying all morning long. Busy, busy, busy. Finally she turned to me as I was eating my lunch and broke down.
"I can't call her..." she whispered as the tears streamed down her face.
My grandma is the older sister.
Today my grandma went back to Pennsylvania with my mother for a week.
Diary Flashback: While I was away, my mother got a letter from my grandma's sister's daughter back in Pennsylvania. My grandma's sister is in real bad shape. She has a stomach tumor. They aren't operating-- either because it's too far gone or cause she's lost too much weight.
They used to be very close, after my grandfolk retired they left New York City and moved to Pennsylvania, my grandma's homeland.
She still talked to her sister every week after the move. Her sister is mas macho though, so she never told my grandma she was having all the health problems.
The hick doctors know at least not to shoot her up with radiation. Her sister ain't doin great, but she's still alive. Been weak but around for the last three or four months.
Weird, this is almost the exact same scenario that was freaking out my ex back in December when I was being a pain in the ass trying to hang with her. We got the news the same day I nearly got her all fed up with knowin me. Maybe this helped that a little, in an odd little bonding way. Not that I'm glad it happened or anything. I'm worried too.
That night my mom read the letter, she went over to my grandma to tell her in person. She took it very well. That night.
The next day my grandma was supposed to get in touch with her. She had been dillydallying all morning long. Busy, busy, busy. Finally she turned to me as I was eating my lunch and broke down.
"I can't call her..." she whispered as the tears streamed down her face.
My grandma is the older sister.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
It's my mother's birthday today. It's also Hitler's. It's also the 5th anniversary of Columbine.
She's really good, I swear.
I want to write one positive anecdote about her, since I've realized for the last two+ years I don't think I've written one damn thing in here in which she comes off good. And that's totally not how I feel about my mother.
Unfortunately I can't think of one positive story about her that would be even mildly interesting at the moment. She's just your typical cool mom. Bah. That first adjective sucks. Even looking at her like a scientist, I tell you, not even using my heart, she's better than 99% of the mothers out there. I'm gonna try to explain that hypothesis further and try to capture its essence (at least a little bit) from now on.
She's not the reason I'm such a fucktard. Ok, maybe partly she is. Sometimes I think I'm a pretty damn beautiful fucktard myself though.
She wasn't perfect when I was growing up. She was always cool, but she turned into the Hulk much, much, much more during that time. Always fighting with my father. Stuck at home, under his thumb and ubercheapskate ways. I got hours of screamin from her back in those days about how wonderful I was. I'm kinda thankful about that too though now.
And these days, since she's out making her own money, she's happier, she's damn near perfect.
No. she's perfect.
Later on today I'll put up a post for yesterday, so look under this one if you're interested. A trip to the cancer office and another bewildering grandma lapse.
She's really good, I swear.
I want to write one positive anecdote about her, since I've realized for the last two+ years I don't think I've written one damn thing in here in which she comes off good. And that's totally not how I feel about my mother.
Unfortunately I can't think of one positive story about her that would be even mildly interesting at the moment. She's just your typical cool mom. Bah. That first adjective sucks. Even looking at her like a scientist, I tell you, not even using my heart, she's better than 99% of the mothers out there. I'm gonna try to explain that hypothesis further and try to capture its essence (at least a little bit) from now on.
She's not the reason I'm such a fucktard. Ok, maybe partly she is. Sometimes I think I'm a pretty damn beautiful fucktard myself though.
She wasn't perfect when I was growing up. She was always cool, but she turned into the Hulk much, much, much more during that time. Always fighting with my father. Stuck at home, under his thumb and ubercheapskate ways. I got hours of screamin from her back in those days about how wonderful I was. I'm kinda thankful about that too though now.
And these days, since she's out making her own money, she's happier, she's damn near perfect.
No. she's perfect.
Later on today I'll put up a post for yesterday, so look under this one if you're interested. A trip to the cancer office and another bewildering grandma lapse.
Monday, April 19, 2004
There are two laundry rooms in my grandparents' apartment complex. One on each side.
Grandma wants me to take her clothes down to the one she uses for her, since my grandpa's still asleep. We go outside, and it's a no-can-do. Tree pruners are there; big ol' stray branches are piled up on the outside walkway.
I go to the other side of the complex, looking for another laundry room, find it. Grandma's so happy. She was a little exasperated. On Wednesday her and my mother are going away for a week (I'll talk about why tomorrow).
So I spend a good couple hours walking with her to that laundry room. We walk back. The landlady and one of granny's friends, her next-door neighbor are watching the pruners cut. Granny joins them. Sits there, watching it too, for most of the half hour her clothes are washin.
Comes in, gets ready to go put the clothes in the dryer. Remarking to grandpa how lucky she was to have me find the laundry room on the other side. She leaves.
I'm eating lunch. I look out the window. Notice she hasn't passed it, which she should. Shit, did she fall?
I go out to look for her.
She's walking the same path to the laundry room she usually uses-- the one barricaded in by branches and tree crap, that the pruners are now beginning to pick up.
Holy shit.
I mean, ok, if she had walked back in her apartment after the whole experience of finding the new laundry room that she found so mind-bending at the time, came out, forgot... this wouldn't have been noteworthy to me. But she SAT there, WATCHING THE PRUNERS CUT THE TREES FOR A HALF HOUR. After she TOLD HER FRIENDS HOW SHE NEEDED SO BAD TO DO LAUNDRY CAUSE SHE'S GOING AWAY, AND COULDN'T. AND LUCKILY FOUND THE OTHER LAUNDRY ROOM.
And ok, scratch those flags even, how about THE FUCKING VISUAL REMINDER OF THE BIG-ASSED PILES OF BRANCHES SHE HAD TO CAREFULLY WEAVE THROUGH AND STEP OVER AS THE PRUNERS STARTED CLEANING UP FOR HER TO GO DOWN THAT PATH???
She's breaking my heart.
Hottie Doctor
In the afternoon, took her to the doc for him to shoot her in the face again.
I hadn't gone in last time, sat in my car listened to the radio. But today's been so jam-packed for her I don't think she even ate lunch, so I'm afraid she'll have another dizzy spell and fall.
I go in, and woo-hah, this aint the normal waiting room experience. Ain't no one over 100 there. A hottie blonde reading a magazine. Another at the desk.
Ah yes, dermatology. I looked at the card funny when I saw that her doctor had a frickin website. Now I see.
Grandma checks in, we sit down to wait. There's this huge tv screen on one side, An ad for friggin Botox is on a loop, you know how these classy docs do. They're talkin about frown lines.
I wanted to turn to my grandma and ask, "You want to see if he'll fix your frown lines too?" You know, as a joke. Cause she's super-shriveled. I doubt she'd be offended, but I'd probably lose points with the hotties for looking like such the wonderful grandson that I appear to be at the moment.
It didn't take too long for my grandma to get lasered. Unfortunately. Have you ever been in a doc's office and you actually find a magazine that you WANT to read? Pure torture, my friends. While she was making another followup appointment I was skimming like a madman trying to finish an article on the Lakers. Damn it!
Maybe that's why all the magazines are always ancient. So docs won't be told to hold on by their patients.
Grandma wants me to take her clothes down to the one she uses for her, since my grandpa's still asleep. We go outside, and it's a no-can-do. Tree pruners are there; big ol' stray branches are piled up on the outside walkway.
I go to the other side of the complex, looking for another laundry room, find it. Grandma's so happy. She was a little exasperated. On Wednesday her and my mother are going away for a week (I'll talk about why tomorrow).
So I spend a good couple hours walking with her to that laundry room. We walk back. The landlady and one of granny's friends, her next-door neighbor are watching the pruners cut. Granny joins them. Sits there, watching it too, for most of the half hour her clothes are washin.
Comes in, gets ready to go put the clothes in the dryer. Remarking to grandpa how lucky she was to have me find the laundry room on the other side. She leaves.
I'm eating lunch. I look out the window. Notice she hasn't passed it, which she should. Shit, did she fall?
I go out to look for her.
She's walking the same path to the laundry room she usually uses-- the one barricaded in by branches and tree crap, that the pruners are now beginning to pick up.
Holy shit.
I mean, ok, if she had walked back in her apartment after the whole experience of finding the new laundry room that she found so mind-bending at the time, came out, forgot... this wouldn't have been noteworthy to me. But she SAT there, WATCHING THE PRUNERS CUT THE TREES FOR A HALF HOUR. After she TOLD HER FRIENDS HOW SHE NEEDED SO BAD TO DO LAUNDRY CAUSE SHE'S GOING AWAY, AND COULDN'T. AND LUCKILY FOUND THE OTHER LAUNDRY ROOM.
And ok, scratch those flags even, how about THE FUCKING VISUAL REMINDER OF THE BIG-ASSED PILES OF BRANCHES SHE HAD TO CAREFULLY WEAVE THROUGH AND STEP OVER AS THE PRUNERS STARTED CLEANING UP FOR HER TO GO DOWN THAT PATH???
She's breaking my heart.
Hottie Doctor
In the afternoon, took her to the doc for him to shoot her in the face again.
I hadn't gone in last time, sat in my car listened to the radio. But today's been so jam-packed for her I don't think she even ate lunch, so I'm afraid she'll have another dizzy spell and fall.
I go in, and woo-hah, this aint the normal waiting room experience. Ain't no one over 100 there. A hottie blonde reading a magazine. Another at the desk.
Ah yes, dermatology. I looked at the card funny when I saw that her doctor had a frickin website. Now I see.
Grandma checks in, we sit down to wait. There's this huge tv screen on one side, An ad for friggin Botox is on a loop, you know how these classy docs do. They're talkin about frown lines.
I wanted to turn to my grandma and ask, "You want to see if he'll fix your frown lines too?" You know, as a joke. Cause she's super-shriveled. I doubt she'd be offended, but I'd probably lose points with the hotties for looking like such the wonderful grandson that I appear to be at the moment.
It didn't take too long for my grandma to get lasered. Unfortunately. Have you ever been in a doc's office and you actually find a magazine that you WANT to read? Pure torture, my friends. While she was making another followup appointment I was skimming like a madman trying to finish an article on the Lakers. Damn it!
Maybe that's why all the magazines are always ancient. So docs won't be told to hold on by their patients.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
Television Freedom
Yesterday I watched over 11 hours of NBA basketball. It's the start of the playoffs.
Actually it wasn't too huge of a feat, considering how many hours of tv I'm back to mainlining on a typical day. My eyes easily stayed in my head.
Thought my dad was gonna come over for the last game of the night, the Lakers were playing. Nope.
I feel like a dick. I could've invited him over-- I think that's what he's expecting, or waiting for. He hasn't come over a whole lot the past few weeks. Only when he's fresh back from Vegas.
On the other hand, you know, screw him. He chose to take half the cable out. He could be watchin all sorts of sports. I don't think it was cool for him to cancel it and expect to use my grandma for hers. It's not like he's in the poorhouse or anything. He's a well-off dude. The grandfolk don't really like it when he comes over; probably because that's the only time he does.
He calls me as the game is starting.
"Could you record the game for me?" he asks.
Grr. I'm not going over MY tapes of stuff cause you're cheap.
I tell him I'll look for a tape here to record on, but that I doubt there is one. Again he hangs up without an invite.
The other major reason I don't like to hang out with my father (reason 1: he's not very fun to hang out with) is that I like to flip around while I'm watching a game. I got my eye on five different things at times. It's rare I watch an entire game end-to-end--usually I miss most of a quarter or two because I want to see some other stuff.
I find a tape. Maybe a few of you will feel my pain though-- cause what's on tonight? Chappelle's Show. Mmmm. A damn funny piece of entertainment, people. Must-see tv. Highly reccommended.
They do a spoof of the Rosa Parks thing. "The story of the first black man ever to use a white person's toilet...". May sound like a sweet idea, but the execution weren't that great. It was like a bad Stern sketch-- nothing but childish doody jokes stringing most of it together.
I couldn't record it and flip to that for my dad to see. So I didn't record.
The tape didn't have a whole lotta room, it was only an hour wide, so I just taped the fourth quarter. Stopping the tape at time-outs to watch other things.
An old Man Show. Jimmy and Adam saying how it's about time they give back, so they show a commercial for a cause they can get behind-- the CCFL. The Cam Corders For Lesbians Fund.
Almost flipped back to it as the game started back up.
Yesterday I watched over 11 hours of NBA basketball. It's the start of the playoffs.
Actually it wasn't too huge of a feat, considering how many hours of tv I'm back to mainlining on a typical day. My eyes easily stayed in my head.
Thought my dad was gonna come over for the last game of the night, the Lakers were playing. Nope.
I feel like a dick. I could've invited him over-- I think that's what he's expecting, or waiting for. He hasn't come over a whole lot the past few weeks. Only when he's fresh back from Vegas.
On the other hand, you know, screw him. He chose to take half the cable out. He could be watchin all sorts of sports. I don't think it was cool for him to cancel it and expect to use my grandma for hers. It's not like he's in the poorhouse or anything. He's a well-off dude. The grandfolk don't really like it when he comes over; probably because that's the only time he does.
He calls me as the game is starting.
"Could you record the game for me?" he asks.
Grr. I'm not going over MY tapes of stuff cause you're cheap.
I tell him I'll look for a tape here to record on, but that I doubt there is one. Again he hangs up without an invite.
The other major reason I don't like to hang out with my father (reason 1: he's not very fun to hang out with) is that I like to flip around while I'm watching a game. I got my eye on five different things at times. It's rare I watch an entire game end-to-end--usually I miss most of a quarter or two because I want to see some other stuff.
I find a tape. Maybe a few of you will feel my pain though-- cause what's on tonight? Chappelle's Show. Mmmm. A damn funny piece of entertainment, people. Must-see tv. Highly reccommended.
They do a spoof of the Rosa Parks thing. "The story of the first black man ever to use a white person's toilet...". May sound like a sweet idea, but the execution weren't that great. It was like a bad Stern sketch-- nothing but childish doody jokes stringing most of it together.
I couldn't record it and flip to that for my dad to see. So I didn't record.
The tape didn't have a whole lotta room, it was only an hour wide, so I just taped the fourth quarter. Stopping the tape at time-outs to watch other things.
An old Man Show. Jimmy and Adam saying how it's about time they give back, so they show a commercial for a cause they can get behind-- the CCFL. The Cam Corders For Lesbians Fund.
Almost flipped back to it as the game started back up.
Friday, April 16, 2004
Strangers In The Night
A couple nights ago I was chatting with my ex. It was almost the first online murder ever.
I asked her about how she's doin with the lack of sex. She said "The urges I can take care of myself...it's the intimacy that I miss. I haven't had that in a really long time."
My mind immediately blows a gasket.
"Really long time" sounds like, smells like, before me.
"Intimacy?" I try to hold out, to clarify.
"Yeah. Do you know what that is?"
Hmm, that smells even fucking better. I feel my brain coming apart real good then. What we had wasn't considered "intimate" to her???? I waited six freakin months before I banged her. We talked online six months before that. She had told me at times when we were together it felt "amazing"... now she's telling me that it wasn't intimate??
I've cried naked in front of this person.
As is my new tact to take now though ever since I came within a bee's dickhair close to chasing her completely out of my life [while I wasn't writing this-- it's a catchup story for another day, maybe], now I either swallow the stuff that I feel is shit whole or I ask for a clarification instead of going apeshit. This is the first time I've had to ask for a clarification.
Turns out it was all a big misunderstanding. She was talkin about her ex-chick.
We talked good for awhile after.
Months ago I had faith that we could have a relationship where we weren't always so frickin pissed off with each other. It's pretty cool to see that come true. Whodathunk it, harmony again.
It's a beautiful thing.
Deeper
Last night I talked with her again. She told me a sad secret.
When she was 14, she was sexually assaulted.
Before she had told me that her first time was when she was 17, 18...and that too wasn't some peppy tale. Her boyfriend had been trying like hell to get in her pants. One day, her grandfather died. On this day he still made an attempt. She didn't have the strength to fight him off.
This was still a true story. But at 14, she had been set up on a date with a senior. He took her someplace far and away, and told her he wouldn't take her home, would leave her stranded if she didn't give him oral. I think the date might've not been sanctioned by her parents-- either way, she didn't want to call them and tell them what happened.
So she did it.
Before we got into this we were talking about other sexual stuff. It was fun. I get to at least fantasize about being with her, or her doin sexy stuff. It's nice.
Hearing that made my penis shrivel up into my throat.
She says it's not that big of deal now. She doesn't think it was tremendously scarring.
I tell her I'm a little nauseous.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to traumatize you." A backhanded slap at me being a hypersensitive emo flower, probably.
"Heh. Yeah. You better call some sort of friends-of-victims-who-can't-take-hearing their-story hotline or something," I retort.
I recall something curious. She has forced fantasies...sexual fantasies of just being taken and forced into having sex. I wonder if it had anything to do with this incident. I've known a few chicks who've been forced or raped-- and many of them get off on that kind of thing.
I explain my theory. "Maybe it's a way of trying to feel in control. Like if you play out that kind of thing, it won't happen again, cause in a way you hold the reins."
She says nah. She thinks she likes that kind of thing cause her dad was such a controlling bastard.
A few minutes later of talking about it, I was fantasizing about being with her again. As if I wanted to be with that 14 year old girl inside her.
And it felt entirely appropriate.
A couple nights ago I was chatting with my ex. It was almost the first online murder ever.
I asked her about how she's doin with the lack of sex. She said "The urges I can take care of myself...it's the intimacy that I miss. I haven't had that in a really long time."
My mind immediately blows a gasket.
"Really long time" sounds like, smells like, before me.
"Intimacy?" I try to hold out, to clarify.
"Yeah. Do you know what that is?"
Hmm, that smells even fucking better. I feel my brain coming apart real good then. What we had wasn't considered "intimate" to her???? I waited six freakin months before I banged her. We talked online six months before that. She had told me at times when we were together it felt "amazing"... now she's telling me that it wasn't intimate??
I've cried naked in front of this person.
As is my new tact to take now though ever since I came within a bee's dickhair close to chasing her completely out of my life [while I wasn't writing this-- it's a catchup story for another day, maybe], now I either swallow the stuff that I feel is shit whole or I ask for a clarification instead of going apeshit. This is the first time I've had to ask for a clarification.
Turns out it was all a big misunderstanding. She was talkin about her ex-chick.
We talked good for awhile after.
Months ago I had faith that we could have a relationship where we weren't always so frickin pissed off with each other. It's pretty cool to see that come true. Whodathunk it, harmony again.
It's a beautiful thing.
Deeper
Last night I talked with her again. She told me a sad secret.
When she was 14, she was sexually assaulted.
Before she had told me that her first time was when she was 17, 18...and that too wasn't some peppy tale. Her boyfriend had been trying like hell to get in her pants. One day, her grandfather died. On this day he still made an attempt. She didn't have the strength to fight him off.
This was still a true story. But at 14, she had been set up on a date with a senior. He took her someplace far and away, and told her he wouldn't take her home, would leave her stranded if she didn't give him oral. I think the date might've not been sanctioned by her parents-- either way, she didn't want to call them and tell them what happened.
So she did it.
Before we got into this we were talking about other sexual stuff. It was fun. I get to at least fantasize about being with her, or her doin sexy stuff. It's nice.
Hearing that made my penis shrivel up into my throat.
She says it's not that big of deal now. She doesn't think it was tremendously scarring.
I tell her I'm a little nauseous.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to traumatize you." A backhanded slap at me being a hypersensitive emo flower, probably.
"Heh. Yeah. You better call some sort of friends-of-victims-who-can't-take-hearing their-story hotline or something," I retort.
I recall something curious. She has forced fantasies...sexual fantasies of just being taken and forced into having sex. I wonder if it had anything to do with this incident. I've known a few chicks who've been forced or raped-- and many of them get off on that kind of thing.
I explain my theory. "Maybe it's a way of trying to feel in control. Like if you play out that kind of thing, it won't happen again, cause in a way you hold the reins."
She says nah. She thinks she likes that kind of thing cause her dad was such a controlling bastard.
A few minutes later of talking about it, I was fantasizing about being with her again. As if I wanted to be with that 14 year old girl inside her.
And it felt entirely appropriate.
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Slippin
My grandmother's slow mental slide continues. Or hopefully yesterday was just a really bad day.
Because my father takes my bro's car to Vegas, and bro in turn then uses my car...I am without transportation this week. Granny had an appointment with the doc to go get her face shot at again with the laser-- they want to clear out more cancer if there's still some more on her cheek.
We call to reschedule for next week. I still make her do it-- I ain't into talkin to people, and it's good for her--keep her in the game, you know. I sit beside her and clear up the errors she makes.
We reschedule the appointment all fine and dandy. A few minutes later they call back, wanting to bump it back 15 minutes.
Right after talking to them... she still thinks we're going this week.
I had to figure out in my head, how is this worse than what I had seen coming from her before? I realized what it was. After I explained that we were not going this week but next week AGAIN after the doc called back...it still hit her as brand new news, not a reminder that triggers an "Oh yeah..." of recognition.
She called the doctor AGAIN by herself in the afternoon.
Buy Some Rags
During that time, my grandma had sent my grandpa out to the store for something. He leaves. I ask her what he was picking up.
"Uh...um...whatdoyoucalit...tags," she tells me.
Tags? What the heck do you need tags for?, I ask. Tags for what?
She's stammering...all confused. Trying to think of what it is exactly. Stamps? Uh, address stickers?? She finally gives up at my questioning, annoyed and frustrated. "You'll see when he comes back!"
I stick around cause I'm interested.
Gramps comes back...with trash BAGS. With a B.
Is it me, or that a weird way for her to miss the target? With something that RHYMES with what she sent him to the store for? Sayin you need some jerky, when what you really want is turkey?
I didn't mishear her or anything. She said freaking "TAGS" three or four times.
My grandmother's slow mental slide continues. Or hopefully yesterday was just a really bad day.
Because my father takes my bro's car to Vegas, and bro in turn then uses my car...I am without transportation this week. Granny had an appointment with the doc to go get her face shot at again with the laser-- they want to clear out more cancer if there's still some more on her cheek.
We call to reschedule for next week. I still make her do it-- I ain't into talkin to people, and it's good for her--keep her in the game, you know. I sit beside her and clear up the errors she makes.
We reschedule the appointment all fine and dandy. A few minutes later they call back, wanting to bump it back 15 minutes.
Right after talking to them... she still thinks we're going this week.
I had to figure out in my head, how is this worse than what I had seen coming from her before? I realized what it was. After I explained that we were not going this week but next week AGAIN after the doc called back...it still hit her as brand new news, not a reminder that triggers an "Oh yeah..." of recognition.
She called the doctor AGAIN by herself in the afternoon.
Buy Some Rags
During that time, my grandma had sent my grandpa out to the store for something. He leaves. I ask her what he was picking up.
"Uh...um...whatdoyoucalit...tags," she tells me.
Tags? What the heck do you need tags for?, I ask. Tags for what?
She's stammering...all confused. Trying to think of what it is exactly. Stamps? Uh, address stickers?? She finally gives up at my questioning, annoyed and frustrated. "You'll see when he comes back!"
I stick around cause I'm interested.
Gramps comes back...with trash BAGS. With a B.
Is it me, or that a weird way for her to miss the target? With something that RHYMES with what she sent him to the store for? Sayin you need some jerky, when what you really want is turkey?
I didn't mishear her or anything. She said freaking "TAGS" three or four times.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Here are a couple leftover father anecdotes from this weekend. Enjoy.
Before I stopped diarying for awhile I was irritated that he was such a dominating presence in what I wrote-- I almost felt like it was a diary concerned with only HIM. Recently I've been very glad that he's receded into the backround a bit.
Maybe I should rethink that.
Early Saturday Afternoon
I'm in my bro's room, watchin tv. He charges in.
"Where's Hank's [my bro's] underwear?" he asks angrily.
"Why?" I laugh as I ask. He's in no mood-- he's still wearing that same look that I described him having on Friday. And it's obvious he NEEDS my brother's underwear.
Sigh. I think this is the last boundary he can break. What's he need them for, taxes? Gonna try and write em off? Like I said before, audits would be way less personal.
No, dad's lookin for a pair of his own underwear. A gray pair of Jockeys.
Bro didn't have them. He had me tear my room apart looking for them, even though I only wear whities.
Mom found them in the hamper.
He then accused me of wearing them.
Late Saturday Afternoon
Father got my taxes done, wanted me to run them to the post office. Of course, like usual, this is at 5:20. The last pickup of the day is at 5:30.
I didn't mind much this time around, with the HURRY UP AND MAIL! deal, obviously, cause I was in the clear. Hey, dad's cool.
It also clears up the notion that it's NECESSARY that I have to always race for the final pickup of the day. Saturday was what, April 10th? Taxes aren't due for days.
I burn rubber and come back.
Here come the questions.
"Did you make it in time?" he asks. I tell him I think so, according to the clock in my bro's car, it said 5:28. "Is his clock a little fast?" he asks. I have no friggin idea.
"Why Don't You take a look at the time out on the kitchen clock and go back out to his car and compare the two..." he commands.
That day it wasn't nothin but funny. Well, about 95 percent.
Before I stopped diarying for awhile I was irritated that he was such a dominating presence in what I wrote-- I almost felt like it was a diary concerned with only HIM. Recently I've been very glad that he's receded into the backround a bit.
Maybe I should rethink that.
Early Saturday Afternoon
I'm in my bro's room, watchin tv. He charges in.
"Where's Hank's [my bro's] underwear?" he asks angrily.
"Why?" I laugh as I ask. He's in no mood-- he's still wearing that same look that I described him having on Friday. And it's obvious he NEEDS my brother's underwear.
Sigh. I think this is the last boundary he can break. What's he need them for, taxes? Gonna try and write em off? Like I said before, audits would be way less personal.
No, dad's lookin for a pair of his own underwear. A gray pair of Jockeys.
Bro didn't have them. He had me tear my room apart looking for them, even though I only wear whities.
Mom found them in the hamper.
He then accused me of wearing them.
Late Saturday Afternoon
Father got my taxes done, wanted me to run them to the post office. Of course, like usual, this is at 5:20. The last pickup of the day is at 5:30.
I didn't mind much this time around, with the HURRY UP AND MAIL! deal, obviously, cause I was in the clear. Hey, dad's cool.
It also clears up the notion that it's NECESSARY that I have to always race for the final pickup of the day. Saturday was what, April 10th? Taxes aren't due for days.
I burn rubber and come back.
Here come the questions.
"Did you make it in time?" he asks. I tell him I think so, according to the clock in my bro's car, it said 5:28. "Is his clock a little fast?" he asks. I have no friggin idea.
"Why Don't You take a look at the time out on the kitchen clock and go back out to his car and compare the two..." he commands.
That day it wasn't nothin but funny. Well, about 95 percent.
Monday, April 12, 2004
Tax Evasion
Well, it's finally over.
It became known to me on Saturday that my father, Mr. Church Enforcer, was leaving on Easter for Vegas. Which meant that Saturday was definitely going to be Armageddon, if it was indeed going to take place-- cause he'd have to get the taxes all done before he left.
Once again...it didn't happen.
I got away scott-free.
Wow.
No inquiries were even made about how much I earned as an independent writer. Nothing but pure acceptance that I wasn't going to declare any income at all. Which is pretty fuckin odd. When I was playing in a band, we made like a 150 bucks a couple times this one year. He was all INSANE about declaring that. So why is he cool as ice now?
He knows I'm lying? Maybe. You'd think. It's still hard to believe he wouldn't just start choking me if that's what he thought was going on.
I'll tell you, when my bro told me he was leaving on Easter, it sure made Saturday pure stress. The suspense could've poured into this week-- in fact, odds are it would've-- my taxes are the ones my dad usually does last, since they're so easy [all it consists of are a couple of stocks he has in my name, and that's it]. The timebomb was ticking into its final lap, and I had no power at all to deactivate it. The only thing I could do so that it wouldn't blow is not say anything.
It's a debasing experience either way. Father, being so anal, makes me sign a piece of paper for the I.R.S. stating that "During calendar year 2003, I had no earned income." It's more anal than that. I have to copy a thing he writes out for me in my own scrawl.
What made it more of a pressure cooker was my mother was fixing dinner right across from us in the kitchen. Last year, she FLIPPED OUT when she passed by my tax documents on the table and saw that I wasn't declaring any income yet. And my father, being part robot and all, he always reads out loud that statement before he makes me print out and sign my own copy.
I hoped he would do my taxes during the week, when she'd be at work this time around-- thusly not seeing my profit statement. Odds are that's when it would've happened, if it weren't for his damn Vegas trip. There she was.
No flippin out this year.
I'm fuckin Houdini.
Jesus, I swear...it must be some sort of fucking sign. I keep strolling through these battlefields where I should finally be shot down again...and every goddamn bullet and explosion hurled my way misses. The beginning of YET ANOTHER YEAR; turning fucking THIRTY; the PERFECT time to discuss concern about finances circa April 15... and I don't have a scratch on me.
Before this blog over 2 years ago, do you know how many goddamn horrific battles there used to be to try and make me change??? Ever since I started this it's been quiiiiiet. Too damn quiet.
Maybe I am The One.
Well, it's finally over.
It became known to me on Saturday that my father, Mr. Church Enforcer, was leaving on Easter for Vegas. Which meant that Saturday was definitely going to be Armageddon, if it was indeed going to take place-- cause he'd have to get the taxes all done before he left.
Once again...it didn't happen.
I got away scott-free.
Wow.
No inquiries were even made about how much I earned as an independent writer. Nothing but pure acceptance that I wasn't going to declare any income at all. Which is pretty fuckin odd. When I was playing in a band, we made like a 150 bucks a couple times this one year. He was all INSANE about declaring that. So why is he cool as ice now?
He knows I'm lying? Maybe. You'd think. It's still hard to believe he wouldn't just start choking me if that's what he thought was going on.
I'll tell you, when my bro told me he was leaving on Easter, it sure made Saturday pure stress. The suspense could've poured into this week-- in fact, odds are it would've-- my taxes are the ones my dad usually does last, since they're so easy [all it consists of are a couple of stocks he has in my name, and that's it]. The timebomb was ticking into its final lap, and I had no power at all to deactivate it. The only thing I could do so that it wouldn't blow is not say anything.
It's a debasing experience either way. Father, being so anal, makes me sign a piece of paper for the I.R.S. stating that "During calendar year 2003, I had no earned income." It's more anal than that. I have to copy a thing he writes out for me in my own scrawl.
What made it more of a pressure cooker was my mother was fixing dinner right across from us in the kitchen. Last year, she FLIPPED OUT when she passed by my tax documents on the table and saw that I wasn't declaring any income yet. And my father, being part robot and all, he always reads out loud that statement before he makes me print out and sign my own copy.
I hoped he would do my taxes during the week, when she'd be at work this time around-- thusly not seeing my profit statement. Odds are that's when it would've happened, if it weren't for his damn Vegas trip. There she was.
No flippin out this year.
I'm fuckin Houdini.
Jesus, I swear...it must be some sort of fucking sign. I keep strolling through these battlefields where I should finally be shot down again...and every goddamn bullet and explosion hurled my way misses. The beginning of YET ANOTHER YEAR; turning fucking THIRTY; the PERFECT time to discuss concern about finances circa April 15... and I don't have a scratch on me.
Before this blog over 2 years ago, do you know how many goddamn horrific battles there used to be to try and make me change??? Ever since I started this it's been quiiiiiet. Too damn quiet.
Maybe I am The One.
Saturday, April 10, 2004
Yesterday after I went and got the pizza for dinner, I snuck a glance at my father at the dining room table. I got a sense he was pissed off and/or disturbed.
The glance I snuck was of him sneaking one right back at me.
This is the final weekend of taxes. Oh boy. It might be a wild ride.
Hmm. It was weird. When my dad was checking the interest in my account that I posted a couple weeks ago, the phone rang while we were in the middle of it. He actually answered the phone.
He never answers the phone.
Guess we both are nervous.
The glance I snuck was of him sneaking one right back at me.
This is the final weekend of taxes. Oh boy. It might be a wild ride.
Hmm. It was weird. When my dad was checking the interest in my account that I posted a couple weeks ago, the phone rang while we were in the middle of it. He actually answered the phone.
He never answers the phone.
Guess we both are nervous.
The Perils Of Being Pony Boy
Watched basketball over at the grandfolks last night. Went to leave. Grandpa usually walks out with me to the porch, to "lock up" their wooden swinging gate door (not really a lock--there's a bent metal bar that you fit through a hole on the thingie where the door latches shut--you probably know what I'm talkin about.
My ponytail got caught on the thingie as I walked out.
OWWWWWWW!
Not the first time this kind of thing has happened. My tail gets caught on all sorts of stuff, damn it.
Grandpa didn't say anything. Or maybe he was too ashamed at his grandson the homo. Maybe he didn't even notice. I took the pain and kept walkin.
Watched basketball over at the grandfolks last night. Went to leave. Grandpa usually walks out with me to the porch, to "lock up" their wooden swinging gate door (not really a lock--there's a bent metal bar that you fit through a hole on the thingie where the door latches shut--you probably know what I'm talkin about.
My ponytail got caught on the thingie as I walked out.
OWWWWWWW!
Not the first time this kind of thing has happened. My tail gets caught on all sorts of stuff, damn it.
Grandpa didn't say anything. Or maybe he was too ashamed at his grandson the homo. Maybe he didn't even notice. I took the pain and kept walkin.
Friday, April 09, 2004
Very Polite Burgulars
There was a loud knocking on my window in the middle of the night.
At first I didn't think it could be. Who the hell would be knockin on my window at 2am? All my friends are too old to come around here askin me to sneak me out to go to the drive-in.
Sometimes the neighbors dogs, they make knocking sounds on the wooden fence, trying to get out.
The hard knocking began again. Yeah, it's definitely on my window.
Ok, here we go...
I answer the window. It was my bro. He had locked his keys in his car. Needed me to let him in.
What he did before them was pretty smart and on top of things, though. Everybody Loves Raymond did a show on the subject, but since I'm the only person under 80 who watches that I will relate to you the wisdom garnered. It may even be advice that some pro-drinkers haven't heard.
My bro got good n' drunk drunk at this bar and grill. Too drunk to drive. So he decided to sleep it off a little in his car before he went home.
Like a real drinking pro, he made sure he slept in the PASSENGER seat. And threw his car keys in the back seat. Why?
Cause if you're even NAPPING in the driver's seat, and the cops come and find you-- they can arrest you for drunk driving.
Bro got out of his car, forgot he threw his keys in the back seat. Door was locked.
Guess who had to drive him back in the morning to let him back in?
I told him next time don't be such a pussy.
There was a loud knocking on my window in the middle of the night.
At first I didn't think it could be. Who the hell would be knockin on my window at 2am? All my friends are too old to come around here askin me to sneak me out to go to the drive-in.
Sometimes the neighbors dogs, they make knocking sounds on the wooden fence, trying to get out.
The hard knocking began again. Yeah, it's definitely on my window.
Ok, here we go...
I answer the window. It was my bro. He had locked his keys in his car. Needed me to let him in.
What he did before them was pretty smart and on top of things, though. Everybody Loves Raymond did a show on the subject, but since I'm the only person under 80 who watches that I will relate to you the wisdom garnered. It may even be advice that some pro-drinkers haven't heard.
My bro got good n' drunk drunk at this bar and grill. Too drunk to drive. So he decided to sleep it off a little in his car before he went home.
Like a real drinking pro, he made sure he slept in the PASSENGER seat. And threw his car keys in the back seat. Why?
Cause if you're even NAPPING in the driver's seat, and the cops come and find you-- they can arrest you for drunk driving.
Bro got out of his car, forgot he threw his keys in the back seat. Door was locked.
Guess who had to drive him back in the morning to let him back in?
I told him next time don't be such a pussy.
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Doctor called late this afternoon. My grandmother has cancer.
What's the biggest downside to getting old? Probably all that rat shit that starts to grow on your skin (I'm trying to think like America here). My grandma has a whole bunch growing on hers already...have you seen those centanarians they interview on tv? I wonder what she's going to look like if she makes it that far.
Awhile back we shot off one of them rat turds cause it was on her eye lid and looked real nasty.
A couple weeks back though...she had a white one growing on her cheek. I took her to the doctor to get that one shot off too.
The doctor called today. They analyzed it and it was a cancerous growth. They want her to come back in again to shoot her cheek a little deeper.
She's had these before. Grandpa too. So it's too early to panic, not yet too big of a deal. She's not worried yet either.
Before that, I got a letter from my First that made me think she had cervical cancer. Luckily the first test was a false positive. The next paragraph said that the second test she had she passed.
Her live in boyfriend of like three years completely forgot she was getting the results Monday.
Was that wrong?
What's the biggest downside to getting old? Probably all that rat shit that starts to grow on your skin (I'm trying to think like America here). My grandma has a whole bunch growing on hers already...have you seen those centanarians they interview on tv? I wonder what she's going to look like if she makes it that far.
Awhile back we shot off one of them rat turds cause it was on her eye lid and looked real nasty.
A couple weeks back though...she had a white one growing on her cheek. I took her to the doctor to get that one shot off too.
The doctor called today. They analyzed it and it was a cancerous growth. They want her to come back in again to shoot her cheek a little deeper.
She's had these before. Grandpa too. So it's too early to panic, not yet too big of a deal. She's not worried yet either.
Before that, I got a letter from my First that made me think she had cervical cancer. Luckily the first test was a false positive. The next paragraph said that the second test she had she passed.
Her live in boyfriend of like three years completely forgot she was getting the results Monday.
Was that wrong?
Smells Like Thirtysomething Spirit
It was the 10th anniversary of Kurt Cobain's death a couple days ago, April 5th.
I always celebrated it on today, the 8th, when they found him. Guess that was wrong.
I don't even want to write about it. I did a couple years ago. My idols for some reason are embarrassing to me now. Even though I still love them.
There's a new book out this week that fleshes out the theory that Courtney Love killed him. I doubt it, but the case against her is a little curious. The writers say when his body was found he was doped up with a heroin dosage 3 times what would've killed somebody. While the cops say Kurty probably developed an extreme tolerance to heroin-- the writers say they resarched it and no case in U.S. history was there ever a suicide [maybe even a homicide--I forget] where someone had ingested that much dope and had been able to commit the crime. So how did the trigger get pulled?
Apparently there was a pre-nuptial agreement, and a divorce in the works. Courtney would've gotten nothing if he lived and divorced, everything if he died.
Tapes of officers interviewing her afterward are apparently very self-centered. She talked about her own career through a lot of em.
I don't know. It's something to consider. Funny how so many high-profile cases are doused in mystery. Like the Chosen People who make it to that big stage of fame, it's as if their epic life stories also need a final curtain/climax to end them that is as equally dramatic as the heights that they rose to.
I wonder if Kurty would want to be my friend, if he knew me? Yeah, he hated everyone, but we're kinda alike in an important ways. We're both manly gigantic pussies. I aint never did heroin though, so I guess he's got me there. Or done a lot of crazy punk rock stunts. I was never much for that kind of thing.
Nah. I'm way too surburban for him to think I was cool. Enjoying hanging out with your grandparents all day, that ain't very punk rock.
In a way, maybe it is.
It was the 10th anniversary of Kurt Cobain's death a couple days ago, April 5th.
I always celebrated it on today, the 8th, when they found him. Guess that was wrong.
I don't even want to write about it. I did a couple years ago. My idols for some reason are embarrassing to me now. Even though I still love them.
There's a new book out this week that fleshes out the theory that Courtney Love killed him. I doubt it, but the case against her is a little curious. The writers say when his body was found he was doped up with a heroin dosage 3 times what would've killed somebody. While the cops say Kurty probably developed an extreme tolerance to heroin-- the writers say they resarched it and no case in U.S. history was there ever a suicide [maybe even a homicide--I forget] where someone had ingested that much dope and had been able to commit the crime. So how did the trigger get pulled?
Apparently there was a pre-nuptial agreement, and a divorce in the works. Courtney would've gotten nothing if he lived and divorced, everything if he died.
Tapes of officers interviewing her afterward are apparently very self-centered. She talked about her own career through a lot of em.
I don't know. It's something to consider. Funny how so many high-profile cases are doused in mystery. Like the Chosen People who make it to that big stage of fame, it's as if their epic life stories also need a final curtain/climax to end them that is as equally dramatic as the heights that they rose to.
I wonder if Kurty would want to be my friend, if he knew me? Yeah, he hated everyone, but we're kinda alike in an important ways. We're both manly gigantic pussies. I aint never did heroin though, so I guess he's got me there. Or done a lot of crazy punk rock stunts. I was never much for that kind of thing.
Nah. I'm way too surburban for him to think I was cool. Enjoying hanging out with your grandparents all day, that ain't very punk rock.
In a way, maybe it is.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
When God's Gorilla Comes For Thee
Yesterday I was watchin Mad Tv. They were doing a spoof of that movie out a few years back starring Brad Pitt as Death [dressed to the 9s in a dapper tux], Mighty Joe Black.
The spoof was called "Meet Jo' Black Momma".
Heh. It made me recall something my brother said every time he saw the ad for that movie when we were watching tv together. At the same time there was a zany gorilla movie out as well in theaters titled Mighty Joe Young.
My bro would call the Pitt movie "Mighty Joe Black".
I liked the spoof that would always spring into my head much better.
Yesterday I was watchin Mad Tv. They were doing a spoof of that movie out a few years back starring Brad Pitt as Death [dressed to the 9s in a dapper tux], Mighty Joe Black.
The spoof was called "Meet Jo' Black Momma".
Heh. It made me recall something my brother said every time he saw the ad for that movie when we were watching tv together. At the same time there was a zany gorilla movie out as well in theaters titled Mighty Joe Young.
My bro would call the Pitt movie "Mighty Joe Black".
I liked the spoof that would always spring into my head much better.
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
Not Exactly The McLaughlin Group
The grandparents and me stayed and ate dinner over at their apartment last night. The news was on in the backround. Talkin bout some Indian tribe members who want a share of the profits from the casinos on their land.
"Yeah!" my grandma roots them on as she passes the tv on her way back from her hallway pantry.
"What's that?" my grandpa asks.
This should be interesting, I thinks.
"They're making the Indians pay taxes!" my grandma explains. Grandpa woots too. Nothing they like more than seein them Indians finally stop gettin that free ride. "Why do we have to pay and they don't?" Grandma continues to wail. Grandpa woots some more.
"You know who else Schwarzenegger is going after, Nevada," my grandpa says. "You know they don't pay any taxes either?"
Now THAT'S a plan most Calfornians could get behind.
I wonder when we're invading?
The grandparents and me stayed and ate dinner over at their apartment last night. The news was on in the backround. Talkin bout some Indian tribe members who want a share of the profits from the casinos on their land.
"Yeah!" my grandma roots them on as she passes the tv on her way back from her hallway pantry.
"What's that?" my grandpa asks.
This should be interesting, I thinks.
"They're making the Indians pay taxes!" my grandma explains. Grandpa woots too. Nothing they like more than seein them Indians finally stop gettin that free ride. "Why do we have to pay and they don't?" Grandma continues to wail. Grandpa woots some more.
"You know who else Schwarzenegger is going after, Nevada," my grandpa says. "You know they don't pay any taxes either?"
Now THAT'S a plan most Calfornians could get behind.
I wonder when we're invading?
Monday, April 05, 2004
A Meaningless Confession
I have something that I haven't told you in the past 2+ years you may have been reading this. Some would call it a secret. I wouldn't.
My ex, she's what one would delicately call a big beautiful woman.
It's not like I was really HIDING it from you or something. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a big fan of description. Sure. sometimes it can create a vivid picture. Quite often it hits me as a long boring exercise in superficiality.
Who the fuck cares what she looked like? Who the fuck cares what my grandma is wearing, unless it's germane to whatever I'm talking about?
When we started goin out, I have to admit. I had a few problems with it. But when we met, we hit it off good, she was a nice person. And still cute too. And we had hit it off real good before that.
I had written that "Fatass" story. It was time to put my money where my mouth is. Even though that protagonist was pretty anti-fat, the message of the story definitely wasn't.
To make a long story short, I got fine with it. Hey, I'm always up for shattering any type of mind control the media/society creates. I'm a free man.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Last night I came home, saw her online, said hi. She tells me she's looking into getting gastric bypass surgery.
She wasn't surprised that I wasn't very gung ho about that. More like the opposite.
I had heard 1 in 100 die during the procedure. She said it's 1 in 500. If her figures are correct, I'd feel better. A little.
I'm totally against cosmetic surgeries. She reminded me this isn't entirely cosmetic. She says she's not doing this to attract a better class of man than hermit losers.
I argued mightily. And yeah, I was cheesy. "You're beautiful just the way you are" and crap. Blame it on the malt liquor I drunk with my bro again over at granny's watchin the game [shit, what do they put in that stuff? this time there was NO WAY I'd drive home that short distance even].
Not that what I was saying was crap.
I don't even think I would be as attracted to her if she was skinny now. Honest.
While she would gladly give me a haircut and a good shave, I wouldn't change her now. To me, it wouldn't be her.
Health risks though.
The surgery doesn't solve the psychological issues. It just forces you to deal with them.
I saw Roseanne on a talk show. I forget her term for what I dubbed Alternative Syndrome, but apparently she has it too. When her doctor told her she still could get fat even though she had the surgery, she had to ask how and eventually do it. She's on a practically all-donut and chocolate milk diet. Heh, Roseanne rocks.
My ex thinks I don't want her to do it cause I don't want other men lookin at her. There's a shred of truth in that I think.
I'd like to think I'd still be supportive.
Wouldn't it be nice to find somebody who loved you DESPITE your faults?
Maybe fat could be a gift.
I have something that I haven't told you in the past 2+ years you may have been reading this. Some would call it a secret. I wouldn't.
My ex, she's what one would delicately call a big beautiful woman.
It's not like I was really HIDING it from you or something. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a big fan of description. Sure. sometimes it can create a vivid picture. Quite often it hits me as a long boring exercise in superficiality.
Who the fuck cares what she looked like? Who the fuck cares what my grandma is wearing, unless it's germane to whatever I'm talking about?
When we started goin out, I have to admit. I had a few problems with it. But when we met, we hit it off good, she was a nice person. And still cute too. And we had hit it off real good before that.
I had written that "Fatass" story. It was time to put my money where my mouth is. Even though that protagonist was pretty anti-fat, the message of the story definitely wasn't.
To make a long story short, I got fine with it. Hey, I'm always up for shattering any type of mind control the media/society creates. I'm a free man.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Last night I came home, saw her online, said hi. She tells me she's looking into getting gastric bypass surgery.
She wasn't surprised that I wasn't very gung ho about that. More like the opposite.
I had heard 1 in 100 die during the procedure. She said it's 1 in 500. If her figures are correct, I'd feel better. A little.
I'm totally against cosmetic surgeries. She reminded me this isn't entirely cosmetic. She says she's not doing this to attract a better class of man than hermit losers.
I argued mightily. And yeah, I was cheesy. "You're beautiful just the way you are" and crap. Blame it on the malt liquor I drunk with my bro again over at granny's watchin the game [shit, what do they put in that stuff? this time there was NO WAY I'd drive home that short distance even].
Not that what I was saying was crap.
I don't even think I would be as attracted to her if she was skinny now. Honest.
While she would gladly give me a haircut and a good shave, I wouldn't change her now. To me, it wouldn't be her.
Health risks though.
The surgery doesn't solve the psychological issues. It just forces you to deal with them.
I saw Roseanne on a talk show. I forget her term for what I dubbed Alternative Syndrome, but apparently she has it too. When her doctor told her she still could get fat even though she had the surgery, she had to ask how and eventually do it. She's on a practically all-donut and chocolate milk diet. Heh, Roseanne rocks.
My ex thinks I don't want her to do it cause I don't want other men lookin at her. There's a shred of truth in that I think.
I'd like to think I'd still be supportive.
Wouldn't it be nice to find somebody who loved you DESPITE your faults?
Maybe fat could be a gift.
Sunday, April 04, 2004
Amen
Every Sunday morning I have to fake like I'm going to church. Call it another benefit of living with your parents.
My mother the holyroller doesn't care if I go. Father does. Even though he doesn't go at all himself. He just orders everyone around him too. One time when my grandparents were living in Pennsylvania and they flew out to see us, they landed on a holy day. Father insisted they go to church. Nevermind the 3,000 miles the old people had journeyed. He dropped them off and picked them up. Welcome.
Anyway, so today I'm sitting out in a parking lot next to the post office in my car listening to the radio with the window down. A homeless lady comes up to me. Asks me for some change. I give her a dollar.
I always give the homeless money. Not much--always a buck, since I'm not a rich man myself. I don't see them that often. I'd like to think I'm nice. Maybe it's just cause I could've been where they are if my family wasn't so kind.
She was quite appreciative. She stood/sat outside my car window talking to me for the next 25 minutes. I was a little annoyed at first, but she was damn interesting, and lonely, and sad, so I didn't shush her away or drive someplace else.
A lot of funny things were said. Unfortunately so many I can't remember and relate them cause they just kept coming. I do recall at one point she told me she was part French and part Chinese, when it was clear she was mostly Mexican or Spanish, or something of that variety.
And then she broke down and started crying.
And then she insisted that I take one of two of those paper napkins from McDonald's she had in her purse. The other one she had used to dab her tears.
She drank some beer in front of me...but I wondered if it was more than that, alcohol and drugs, the reasons behind all the nonsensical stuff she uttered. Pretty sure it was. I think this was somebody who was from all those mental hospitals the government has to keep closing down due to budget constraints. It was pretty clear she wasn't right in the head.
I waited for her to get a hold of herself again. I was about to leave, but she left first. As you know, I'm pretty boring. And she had to get back to trying to scrounge up some more money for herself by harrassing every car coming into the lot.
Every Sunday morning I have to fake like I'm going to church. Call it another benefit of living with your parents.
My mother the holyroller doesn't care if I go. Father does. Even though he doesn't go at all himself. He just orders everyone around him too. One time when my grandparents were living in Pennsylvania and they flew out to see us, they landed on a holy day. Father insisted they go to church. Nevermind the 3,000 miles the old people had journeyed. He dropped them off and picked them up. Welcome.
Anyway, so today I'm sitting out in a parking lot next to the post office in my car listening to the radio with the window down. A homeless lady comes up to me. Asks me for some change. I give her a dollar.
I always give the homeless money. Not much--always a buck, since I'm not a rich man myself. I don't see them that often. I'd like to think I'm nice. Maybe it's just cause I could've been where they are if my family wasn't so kind.
She was quite appreciative. She stood/sat outside my car window talking to me for the next 25 minutes. I was a little annoyed at first, but she was damn interesting, and lonely, and sad, so I didn't shush her away or drive someplace else.
A lot of funny things were said. Unfortunately so many I can't remember and relate them cause they just kept coming. I do recall at one point she told me she was part French and part Chinese, when it was clear she was mostly Mexican or Spanish, or something of that variety.
And then she broke down and started crying.
And then she insisted that I take one of two of those paper napkins from McDonald's she had in her purse. The other one she had used to dab her tears.
She drank some beer in front of me...but I wondered if it was more than that, alcohol and drugs, the reasons behind all the nonsensical stuff she uttered. Pretty sure it was. I think this was somebody who was from all those mental hospitals the government has to keep closing down due to budget constraints. It was pretty clear she wasn't right in the head.
I waited for her to get a hold of herself again. I was about to leave, but she left first. As you know, I'm pretty boring. And she had to get back to trying to scrounge up some more money for herself by harrassing every car coming into the lot.
Saturday, April 03, 2004
God Isn't Moved
My brother has made a sacrifice for Lent. He always does, which is odd, because I don't think he even goes to church on a semi-regular basis.
In the past two years he's cut out: Sweets. Alcohol. Solid stuff. This year though, I think his offering is straight up weak sauce. It is this:
For every day during Lent, my brother isn't eating after 6 o'clock.
Sound tough? Well, drinking liquids is still acceptable in his world after 6. Hell, I practically do that myself a lot of the time, I aint on Lent. Juice is tasty. And since he's an alcohol pro, it frees up more stomach room for that.
I try to be supportive. "What the fuck are you, some sort of religious Gremlin?" I says.
He's real tired of all the Gremlin jokes by now. "Better eat quick yo, or you're going to turn into Stripe..." "Jesus..." I hiss all demonically when he's rushing to eat before his curfew, in a very decent Stripe impersonation.
His friend came up with this Lental sacrifice last year. No wonder it's so brilliant.
Hey, how about you just stop wearing your "DUCK MY SICK" hat for like, forever? Jesus would probably appreciate that more. And probably not because of that hat's crudeness even.
Like me, he's probably more offended by its stupidity.
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So yeah, Friday's a no meat day around here. Mother calls, says we're gonna have pizza, but she has to work late. I gotta go get it.
Grr. Fridays I like to stay over at the grandfolks' and watch basketball. I watch the pre-game before I go fetchin, cause I like that more than the actual game.
Grandma calls from over at the house. "Your brother is here and says he'll eat with us, but it has to be soon..." Again, with his 6 o' clock Mogwai deadline.
Heh, who exactly is the one suffering here?
I call in the order. I fetch it. I bring it over to the house. I take a couple pieces over with me back to my grandparents to watch the game.
Here's a riddle for you: What do you put pizza slices in when you want to transport them someplace, and you can't use the cardboard box from whence is came? Tupperware? I wasn't going to try and stuff slices into a bowl. Aluminum foil? I didn't want to sit there wrapping the shit up for minutes only to unwrap it a few minutes later.
I picked a plastic bag and threw my slices in there. Grease melted through onto the seat of my car.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Bro calls. "Yo, I'm coming over," he tells me. And he says he's bringing gifts. A.k.a. beer.
The games were ok. Caught Al Franken on Conan doing that In The Year 2000 sketch where they make them funny futuristic predictions. "A mad scientist will switch the brains of Bill O' Reilly and Al Franken," Al says. "Bill O' Reilly will begin to espouse liberal views... and I will continually masturbate to old John Wayne movies."
A little while later our grandparents come home from our house. Grandma didn't know my brother was there until he went out to her refrigerator for more beers. "Call your mother and tell her you're here..." she says to him. "I told her you weren't..." Mom had just called for some reason minutes before.
Heh. No, mom doesn't need him. She just wanted him to make sure his mommy knew where he was. Of course, he flatly refused to call. Ha... so she did for him. Bro asked her what Mom said. "I don't care..." You could probably imagine the inflection in her voice too.
Her sweet innocent grandson polished off fucking 11 1/2 cans of Miller Lite [he got it free, and we agree, it kinda sucks]. I did 3 1/2 and still felt like a bloated hog. Not even a serious buzz this time either. Nor the relief it gave last. I guess cause I was drunk in an environment that was stress free, not in one that could stress me out big-time at any moment.
Bro comes back from running yet again to grandma's refrigerator for more brewskis. "Grandpa's watching The Kurt Cobain Story..." he laughs. Tells me not to get excited, he was desperately looking through his tv guide for something else.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
We stayed late after the game. His favorite standup and probably mine was on Comedy Central. Greg Giraldo. How many of the standups have done two of those deals? I don't think many. He's definitely funny enough to be the first.
And after him was Patrice O' Neal, another one of my big favorites. Bro saw him once on Colin Quinn's show, didn't think he was funny. I fixed him good.
Great night of nothin, I gotta tell you.
My brother has made a sacrifice for Lent. He always does, which is odd, because I don't think he even goes to church on a semi-regular basis.
In the past two years he's cut out: Sweets. Alcohol. Solid stuff. This year though, I think his offering is straight up weak sauce. It is this:
For every day during Lent, my brother isn't eating after 6 o'clock.
Sound tough? Well, drinking liquids is still acceptable in his world after 6. Hell, I practically do that myself a lot of the time, I aint on Lent. Juice is tasty. And since he's an alcohol pro, it frees up more stomach room for that.
I try to be supportive. "What the fuck are you, some sort of religious Gremlin?" I says.
He's real tired of all the Gremlin jokes by now. "Better eat quick yo, or you're going to turn into Stripe..." "Jesus..." I hiss all demonically when he's rushing to eat before his curfew, in a very decent Stripe impersonation.
His friend came up with this Lental sacrifice last year. No wonder it's so brilliant.
Hey, how about you just stop wearing your "DUCK MY SICK" hat for like, forever? Jesus would probably appreciate that more. And probably not because of that hat's crudeness even.
Like me, he's probably more offended by its stupidity.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
So yeah, Friday's a no meat day around here. Mother calls, says we're gonna have pizza, but she has to work late. I gotta go get it.
Grr. Fridays I like to stay over at the grandfolks' and watch basketball. I watch the pre-game before I go fetchin, cause I like that more than the actual game.
Grandma calls from over at the house. "Your brother is here and says he'll eat with us, but it has to be soon..." Again, with his 6 o' clock Mogwai deadline.
Heh, who exactly is the one suffering here?
I call in the order. I fetch it. I bring it over to the house. I take a couple pieces over with me back to my grandparents to watch the game.
Here's a riddle for you: What do you put pizza slices in when you want to transport them someplace, and you can't use the cardboard box from whence is came? Tupperware? I wasn't going to try and stuff slices into a bowl. Aluminum foil? I didn't want to sit there wrapping the shit up for minutes only to unwrap it a few minutes later.
I picked a plastic bag and threw my slices in there. Grease melted through onto the seat of my car.
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Bro calls. "Yo, I'm coming over," he tells me. And he says he's bringing gifts. A.k.a. beer.
The games were ok. Caught Al Franken on Conan doing that In The Year 2000 sketch where they make them funny futuristic predictions. "A mad scientist will switch the brains of Bill O' Reilly and Al Franken," Al says. "Bill O' Reilly will begin to espouse liberal views... and I will continually masturbate to old John Wayne movies."
A little while later our grandparents come home from our house. Grandma didn't know my brother was there until he went out to her refrigerator for more beers. "Call your mother and tell her you're here..." she says to him. "I told her you weren't..." Mom had just called for some reason minutes before.
Heh. No, mom doesn't need him. She just wanted him to make sure his mommy knew where he was. Of course, he flatly refused to call. Ha... so she did for him. Bro asked her what Mom said. "I don't care..." You could probably imagine the inflection in her voice too.
Her sweet innocent grandson polished off fucking 11 1/2 cans of Miller Lite [he got it free, and we agree, it kinda sucks]. I did 3 1/2 and still felt like a bloated hog. Not even a serious buzz this time either. Nor the relief it gave last. I guess cause I was drunk in an environment that was stress free, not in one that could stress me out big-time at any moment.
Bro comes back from running yet again to grandma's refrigerator for more brewskis. "Grandpa's watching The Kurt Cobain Story..." he laughs. Tells me not to get excited, he was desperately looking through his tv guide for something else.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
We stayed late after the game. His favorite standup and probably mine was on Comedy Central. Greg Giraldo. How many of the standups have done two of those deals? I don't think many. He's definitely funny enough to be the first.
And after him was Patrice O' Neal, another one of my big favorites. Bro saw him once on Colin Quinn's show, didn't think he was funny. I fixed him good.
Great night of nothin, I gotta tell you.
Friday, April 02, 2004
I finally saw the landlord's wife and offered my condolences about her husband's death. It was a stupid thing to do.
I was walking in the apartment complex, she was outside sweeping. Like usual, I said hi. And I stopped.
"How are you doing?" I asked softly. This is the first conversation we've had.
"Ok," she said. She smiled dull.
"I'm sorry..." I told her even softer.
"Thank you..." she said as she turned away. And immediately started walking away from me, before I could say anything else.
I felt like a dumbass. Here she was out, out here sweeping the walk, probably doing everything she could to keep her damn mind off what happened, and here I come up to her going, "Uh, REMINDER! Did you forget already?"
It was a selfish thing to do. It made me feel good about MYself. What the hell does she need me apologizing for his death for? Don't you feel all wonderful and appropriate John, for showing her you give half a damn?
Her head would be better served to be filled with thoughts that I'm such a horse's ass for not saying anything.
I was walking in the apartment complex, she was outside sweeping. Like usual, I said hi. And I stopped.
"How are you doing?" I asked softly. This is the first conversation we've had.
"Ok," she said. She smiled dull.
"I'm sorry..." I told her even softer.
"Thank you..." she said as she turned away. And immediately started walking away from me, before I could say anything else.
I felt like a dumbass. Here she was out, out here sweeping the walk, probably doing everything she could to keep her damn mind off what happened, and here I come up to her going, "Uh, REMINDER! Did you forget already?"
It was a selfish thing to do. It made me feel good about MYself. What the hell does she need me apologizing for his death for? Don't you feel all wonderful and appropriate John, for showing her you give half a damn?
Her head would be better served to be filled with thoughts that I'm such a horse's ass for not saying anything.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
I, Weather Shaman
This morning I walked to the store to get my grandma some band aids.
The sky was blanketed in black clouds. Hmm. It still didn't feel like it was going to rain to me. Yet so much black...hmm... perhaps later on.
I get to my grandma's, put on the Weather Channel. My grandma walks to her hair appointment today, I was checking to see if she needed a ride.
The forecast for today said: mostly sunny. High 74. No mention of a possible rain.
"I'm sorry, I know you're the one with the meteorology degree, but I'm going to have to politely disagree," I says. I don't know about the rain, but it just didn't look like the typical California day when the cloud cover was going to burn off.
Who was right?
John 2, Weather Channel 0.
Jesus Christ the Weather Channel sucks. Then in the early evening, the rain starts to pour down... I flips to them to see what they're saying. The forecast: cloudy! NO MENTION OF POURING RAIN!
The fucking NEWS handles more than just the weather, weatherfucks. And yet they're more accurate than you. Hell, I just stick my head out the window and I'm better than you.
A competing channel should rise up, and have me do that. It'd probably get bigger ratings. I'd dress sexy.
This morning I walked to the store to get my grandma some band aids.
The sky was blanketed in black clouds. Hmm. It still didn't feel like it was going to rain to me. Yet so much black...hmm... perhaps later on.
I get to my grandma's, put on the Weather Channel. My grandma walks to her hair appointment today, I was checking to see if she needed a ride.
The forecast for today said: mostly sunny. High 74. No mention of a possible rain.
"I'm sorry, I know you're the one with the meteorology degree, but I'm going to have to politely disagree," I says. I don't know about the rain, but it just didn't look like the typical California day when the cloud cover was going to burn off.
Who was right?
John 2, Weather Channel 0.
Jesus Christ the Weather Channel sucks. Then in the early evening, the rain starts to pour down... I flips to them to see what they're saying. The forecast: cloudy! NO MENTION OF POURING RAIN!
The fucking NEWS handles more than just the weather, weatherfucks. And yet they're more accurate than you. Hell, I just stick my head out the window and I'm better than you.
A competing channel should rise up, and have me do that. It'd probably get bigger ratings. I'd dress sexy.
Howard Stern is gone.
Every morning I wake up at 6:30 to listen. I used to get out of bed around 7. With all the morning depression I've been dealin with the past few months, now I listen till 7:30, the latest I can stay without some serious questioning.
Today he was replaced by two Ryan Seacrap-esque sounding tools, Cross and Lopez.
Oh, the fucking humanity. For about a half hour I knew what it was like to be dead. Listening to these phony, synthetic radio voices. Talking the blandest talk a person could talk. As it was broken up every five or ten minutes by the musical artistry of Clay Aiken. Jessica Simpson. Nickelback. Train.
Christ, it was Satanic. I had never listened to an easy listening, top 40 airbrushed morning show for more than ten seconds since I was what, ten? It felt so 1984.
The book I mean, not that actual moment in time.
A few minutes in, you could tell it was a hoax. The new morning team's slogan was "Fun Without The Filth". Hmm. I still wasn't entirely convinced. Maybe this is just what the Stern show was going to do if Viacom told them it's over, put on this ridiculous spoof instead. This ridiculous spoof that was so realistic.
I still broke down.
The pigs will always win, in the end.
At any rate it was brilliant. For months now he's been preaching that he'll be thrown off the air. Him talking about it every morning for an hour didn't ram home that point like today did. All the talk in the world couldn't profoundly illustrate what it would be like. And who his silencing would be a victory for.
Yeah, turns out it was an April Fools joke. No, he's not off the air.
Yet.
Every morning I wake up at 6:30 to listen. I used to get out of bed around 7. With all the morning depression I've been dealin with the past few months, now I listen till 7:30, the latest I can stay without some serious questioning.
Today he was replaced by two Ryan Seacrap-esque sounding tools, Cross and Lopez.
Oh, the fucking humanity. For about a half hour I knew what it was like to be dead. Listening to these phony, synthetic radio voices. Talking the blandest talk a person could talk. As it was broken up every five or ten minutes by the musical artistry of Clay Aiken. Jessica Simpson. Nickelback. Train.
Christ, it was Satanic. I had never listened to an easy listening, top 40 airbrushed morning show for more than ten seconds since I was what, ten? It felt so 1984.
The book I mean, not that actual moment in time.
A few minutes in, you could tell it was a hoax. The new morning team's slogan was "Fun Without The Filth". Hmm. I still wasn't entirely convinced. Maybe this is just what the Stern show was going to do if Viacom told them it's over, put on this ridiculous spoof instead. This ridiculous spoof that was so realistic.
I still broke down.
The pigs will always win, in the end.
At any rate it was brilliant. For months now he's been preaching that he'll be thrown off the air. Him talking about it every morning for an hour didn't ram home that point like today did. All the talk in the world couldn't profoundly illustrate what it would be like. And who his silencing would be a victory for.
Yeah, turns out it was an April Fools joke. No, he's not off the air.
Yet.
