The end of birthday celebrations. You're welcome.

I don't know why I didn't think of this before.

Birthdays are a hassle. To have. To remember. To buy for. To apologize for missing. There's nothing good associated with birthdays. Especially at my age where each birthday is one more toe in the grave. This fall, I will have 33 toes in the grave (my family lived across the river from a pharmaceuticals factory).

So here's my plan: I will offer birthday greetings to everyone I know... but at my leisure. Could I randomly call people in my phone book and sing TGI Friday's-style to my bewildered friends? Sure. Will I send out messages to everyone I know on myspace and facebook in one day and be done with it for a year? It's totally up to me! Meaning, yes. But I also reserve the right to hire a skywriter to write Happy Birfday (the dozen-letter price special) in the sky, and it will be up to all of you to look up at the right time, or I will be offended that you didn't accept my gift to you.

Assholes.

Innards Eaters II: The Eatening

I've had this feeling before. Several times over the last 15 years. But I always knew why before. This time I don't. I imagine it's what pregnancy feels like. Shaking like a wet puppy. Perpetual queasiness. Stomach tied in a sheep-shank knot. Something eating away inside you until you want to rip your belly open with your claws, tear out the offending parasite and throw it against the wall. At least with pregnancy, you know it's a tiny human in a tuxedo singing "Hello My Baby" when you're not looking. But this... I'm pretty sure it's not human. Or even cartoony amphibian.

Teach your children well

Lessons for my daughter if she's approached by a male.
1. Punch the nuts first; ask questions later.
2. Make it clear that daddy owns a wood chipper.
3. Explain that dating is not allowed until a certain maturity is reached. Say... at age 45.
4. Hand him a pamphlet on the symptoms of chlamydia.
5. A follow-up punch to the nuts for good measure is enjoyed by all.

Lessons for my son if he's approached by a female.
1. If you're really my son, it ain't gonna happen. Go watch TV.

Me

My apartment looks like I've rejected the basic tenets of sanitation. Trash everywhere. Dirty clothes on the floor. Clean clothes on the floor. Scraps of food sitting out. Beer bottles shattered into sparkling prisms. Bloody footprints from the recliner to the fridge and back. Empty slime pods from some hatched creatures now thriving in the walls. CDs stuck in the ceiling like Chinese throwing stars. Do I see a pile of bones in the corner? Sure could use a Mexican to clean up this joint. Sure could use a Mexican joint. Wait. I've got Hispanic blood. Damn-near 50%. I'll clean, myself. And then clean myself. I'll pay myself two dollars an hour and steal some jewelry from myself. Myself. My. Self. I don't need anyone. I'm in control.

My finest hour

Person #1: We had the Salvation Army come by today and pick up an entertainment center. We had to schedule it a week in advance and then wait around all day for them to come by.

Person #2: And they don't always take everything. One time they came over and didn't want any of the stuff we were getting rid of.

Person #3: There's a veteran's group that will take anything. And they're great because they'll do it the same day you call them.

Me: They hop in their wheelchairs and zip right over.

(Silence)

Person #1: (pointing to person #2) He's a veteran. Gulf War.

(More silence)

Me: I've been drinking all day.

A new day?

He was lost. He hurt from the inside out. He wanted to sleep it off, but he had nightmares. He tried drinking it off.

She worked in his office. She showed him the best side of humankind. She understood him some. When she didn't, she called him on it. She called his bullshit.

He may have taken her friendship for granted. A year slipped away without much notice. Her life took her elsewhere. To better things. Which was always going to happen. He was blind to reality.

He panicked. He acted shamefully. Embarrassingly. Stupidly. He hurt in a new way. He may have hurt her. He could be petty and spiteful. He was good at it.

He played loud music. He drank. He tried to tear bricks out of his house with his weak hands. He sank into the ground.

He woke up one day. In every way. He remembered everything she had tried to tell him. He could be better. He didn't have to repeat patterns. He mentally slapped himself. For good measure, he physically slapped himself. He cooked breakfast. He went for a walk. He bought a new CD. He danced in his living room. The neighbors could see his silhouette on the blinds, but he didn't care.

She had changed his life.

R.I.P. George Carlin

You'll be missed, sir.

Flying my freak flag

I'm going to San Francisco with nothing but my cowboy boots and a guitar. I hear there's a freaky scene out there with longhairs making love in the streets and chemicals that can make you see God. They say you can touch the music in the air and that Frisco is the first fruit that will spread all over the world and end war forever. Artists make the laws, and hippies and heads rule with a marshmallow fist. I'm going to start a band. I'm going to start a commune. I'm going to become one with the first flower child who'll have me, and we'll create a passel of naked offspring who'll dance among the dandelions and never know the meaning of fear. It will all be a stone groove, man.

Wait. Sorry. I just checked my boarding pass, and it turns out that California is only two hours behind Texas and not 41 years as I read on Wikipedia. Also, I have a return flight on Sunday.

A healthy drinking regimen

The drinking week starts on Thursday. Thursday has been a going-out night since college, and if you stop going out on Thursdays, you forfeit your right to college night. If you take a few years off and then come back, you're the creepy old guy who hits on college girls. But if you maintain your membership to college night with regular fees (bar tabs), you're accepted with open arms. Open, silky, cool-to-the-touch, college arms.

The rest of the week occurs thusly:

Friday
End of the work week. Got to celebrate another 40 hours in the tank and do damage control from Thursday night.

Saturday
C'mon, it's Saturday. Who doesn't go out on Saturday?

Sunday
The best day to start drinking in the a.m. You have a hangover, Bloody Marys are the cure, and you need to get with your peeps and exchange stories from Saturday night. You'll each remember something the others did that they forgot. Sunday can be an all-day-longer. My sister calls it Sunday Funday.

Monday
You slogged through Monday, and you need a few to unwind and prepare for the rest of the week.

Tuesday
You know people working at the bar and regulars who will be out. This is a good night to hang out with everyone and have good conversation before the onslaught of Thursday rolls around.

Wednesday
Tuesday was so much fun that you do it again.


Which brings us back to Thursday.

Down with the fatness

I'm sicking of being tubby. A few years ago I was just carrying a few extra pounds. And I told myself that all I needed to do was cut out 50-60% of my beer intake. Try to keep the drinking down to three days a week instead of eight, I said, because it's affecting your ability to count for one thing and the mayor's office keeps asking you to be in the city parade sporting a giant top hat and your belly button painted as a whistling mouth. But I didn't listen to myself.

Then over the last few months, I convinced myself that beer and midnight pizza were not the cause of my ever-increasing weight. It must be the high-calorie water in Texas. You know how we like to chicken-fry everything. I drink a lot of water each day. Therefore, I said to me, don't blame yourself for getting fired from your dancing gig at La Bare. Your days of getting happy-hour hoes wet are over. Life goes on.

But then the downside of all this started to hit. First, I couldn't fit into my high school letter jacket (for theater) and go down to the mall. Then, the cannibal family next door started inviting and then threatening me to use their hot tub. However, what really took the cake was when I started taking cakes from bakeries and grocery stores and little girls' birthday parties. They say that's how you know you've hit rock bottom.

So now I'm trying to reverse course. But I don't want to change my diet. And I don't want to exercise. And I don't want to staple my stomach. And I don't want to wire my jaw shut for anything other than a bad-ass punch to my face. You can see the bind I'm in.

You can't be happy AND intelligent

I realize that I write superficially about politics, but that's how I write about everything. Generally, when you scratch the surface of any issue, be it elections, sex, religion, or sexy religions, you find that things are very complex and much less enjoyable. The key to happiness is talking about things in a childish, dimwitted manner. That's why we always see President Bush dancing. He's a happy motherfucker.








And only some of that can be explained by his severe case of douchebagism.

My election-year idealism is right on schedule

Look, things have got to change.

I just sat through the movie World Trade Center and cried for two hours straight while reliving the horrible dread and sorrow I felt nearly seven years ago. I cried for what happened on September 11, 2001. I cried for the people who died, the fighters who lived, and the heroes who never gave up on digging out survivors. But I also cried for what this country has become.

We, the United States, had a chance to change the world. And we did. As badly as can be imagined. I felt that President Bush, a moderate and bipartisan governor less than a year before, would heed the call and lead this country into a golden age of evil-shattering enlightenment, education and global unity. Instead he and his people pissed it away with no real concern for anything but proving their bullshit, fantastical theories and earning a place in history books.

After finishing the movie, I sat down at this computer to find that several news organizations are calling the Democratic nomination for Obama (finally). My hope is that Hillary hasn't done so much damage to the party that Old Man McCain marches into office with his creaky, antiquated ideas and silly pigheadedness.

I believe that Obama will immediately begin steering America back on course, simply by what his election will represent: healing. But in addition to that, I believe he has the thoughtfulness and equanimity to make the decisions that will encourage others to make similarly sound choices. As in, the cleansing of Congress could be in order. Voters could send the greedheads packing, and corruption as policy would end. And then the seeds we plant here on our soil could sprout into some better metaphor than where I just went and affect the entire world.

Do I really believe that will happen? Well, not exactly. But do I believe it can happen? Yes, of course. Over time. It has to at some point, or we're destined for the post-apocalyptic days of Cormac McCarthy's The Road, all eating people and whatnot. So the question is, should we give in and wait for the world to rot? Or should we strive for something better?

Momentarily imaginationally wealthy

Growing up in a small-town Baptist church, I frequently heard my Sunday school teacher say, "Don't cock a gift-whore in the mouth," which, looking back, seems to be exactly what you should do.

So I was immediately torn on what to do when I came home after work and found a basket at my doorstep with something wrapped in swaddling cloths. Naturally, it was money. Lots of money. Lots and lots of money! Oh jesus, look at all this money!!! I've never seen so much money in one place!!! Holy shit, what will I do with all this money???!!!

And then I looked closer. It was just fake money with my name and death threats written on each bill. Fucking useless! But I guess I can use the basket to hold baguettes or something.