Those Pesky Pescetarians

Last night I did a wikipedia search on vegetarianism to see where I am exactly on my non-meat eating stance. There are varying categories of being a vegetarian and I knew for sure I wasn't reaching "top-of-the-line" status with my thirst for dairy products. Yes, I would like a glass of milk, thank you.

What did I find in this recent wikipedia raid? As it goes, I am not a vegetarian. Shocker!! Since I eat fish, I am out of the vegetarian club; apparently some of them get testy when salmon lovers everywhere claim to be vegetarians. I wouldn't want to get the stink-eye from someone who doesn't eat meat. The Force is strong with them, I reckon. Full-on vegans are probably Jedi Masters. At a buffet, Sith Lords can be found by the counter where they slice roast beef. Cool.

To sum it all up, I officially recognize my re-classification as a pescetarian. It is pronounced with a distinct "SKuh" sound. I had to look that up. I sure as heck couldn't say it just by looking at it. Just look at Joe Pesci's name. All together, folks, PESK-e-tair-IAN.

[NOTE: my MySpace page has been fixed accordingly to reflect my non-vegetarian status]

Minor Sunday Observations To Get Things Going

I look out the car window and see a woman tending to her child in a blue baby cart. Bent over, her cleavage shows. She has very big breasts. I'm not a "breast man" myself but they're there, so there. Out of nowhere, another woman appears. "Hmmm," I think to myself. They were both brunettes.

An old man on a motorized cart was rolling along with music being blasted from an unseen speaker unit. What was playing? I could've sworn it was the soundtrack from Karate Kid 2. You know, the one with Zamfir on the pan flute.

The moon in the morning sky, sitting across from the bright sun chaser, looked awkward. I look up and see something wrong. I glance at my feet to re-orient myself and look up again, again only to see something wrong. The moon was lopsided! Maybe it had too much to drink, made an inappropriate comment about Pluto no longer considered a planet and got its face kicked in. Anybody else see this?

The Circus Is A Whore

At this point in time I've decided to give up on writing. The circus is a whore with shitty looking clowns and half-assed acts, stumble filled and drunk. There are holes in the tent and the animals are all gimped. All the while, the guy selling the peanuts is kicking you in the balls every few minutes, all to remind you: the internet connection here is no fun at all.

Upon my return we will see where it goes from there.

Full Court St. Michael

It's different, it is. The biggest "whoa" being the full court, hoops on either side with a center line where tip-offs take place but rarely do. I once heard there was a neighborhood league 'round these parts but it is almost certain that there isn't one now. The sun strikes the pavement the way a stranger says hello; unfamiliar but willing. In San Jose over the eastside hills, the shining attack is direct: bombarding the driveway half-court without mercy, save for a very green and very leafy tree. If the leaves were a haircut it would be a Beatles' mop-top hideously mismanaged. Here at the St. Michael Village basketball court, however, the daybringer takes a different approach. It flanks the center line with an angle only the unholy commit to. A most cunning assault . . . if it weren't for the mighty tall green army at guard gracefully standing steadfast. As the day rises over, the court is saved from first morning dayfire by tremendous trees that stand with haircuts proper. Wild grass grows. Gravel strewn about on raw pavement. A small concrete stage sits on one side silent in this sunrise hour, life kept afloat only by the sound of a rubber bounce-bounce. Shoot. Miss. Bounce. Scattered about is a steel playground consisting of slightly rusted swings, slide, see-saws, and a minor jungle gym. It's too early for kids to play. Instead of the stale snails of San Jose leaving trails of ick as they sludge about through their prosaic existence, the St. Michael court is home to black and yellow caterpillars with more meaningful wriggles. Though they walk their usual walk, these eyes catch each step as a funky dance from here to there. By San Jose sandal or St. Michael slipper (no sneakers), from here to there, neither court is better than the other. It's different, it is. And that's all that it is.

Location: Las Pinas, Philippines

No Water

No Power

Hot Day

yeah yeah



Nevermind sweating bullets. I'm sweating mothercrackin' artillery shells here! You'll have to excuse the bloggity blog blog silence folks. I'm still trying to settle with no computer of my own - WOOHOO POWER IS BACK ON - a borrowed laptop and an internet connection slower than a two-legged horse. When you are accustomed to broadband speeds, dial-up is a kick in the balls. Or for you puroresu fans out there: a Busaiku knee kick.



Um. Yeah. Ouch.

My routine of writing, drawing and strumming the guitar is out of the loop. I'm still chasing them with a slight itch on me fingers to phrase, pen, and KRUNG! Yes, hah, can't say I play the guitar. Although I do strum the stringed bastard. One entry I had hoped to conjure up was the peculiarites between my guitar back in the U.S. and the one here in the Philippines. I even already have a title for it. You'll see it if it ever goes through along with the written fragments I have now and what I hope to write in these next couple of months. Expect heat, sweat and contemplative complaining. The contemplative part exists only because I have access to tea. Without that it'd just be complaining a.k.a. bitching. As much as I'd like to continue with writing a steady stream of absolute nonsense, there are variables keeping me from staying up to date with my little piece of the web. So for now who knows what lurks around that shady bend?

As of this writing there still is no running water.

yeah yeah

A Question of Being In The Hunt

On the eve of my departure, the search continues. These eyes have no blinds to shut away obvious elegance. When they twirl, when they mingle, when they are who they are, I can't play priest and stonewall the maiden marvel. It's there and it's beautiful. On the eve of my departure, however, emerges a newfound "gear" in my glimpse tendencies. It's probably a lot like putting a car into "Park."

I was out today looking for the last few items to bring to the Philippines. I was at Eastridge Mall (the mind goes: mall mall NOOOO!! mall) where J. Norman reckons theres exists a greater number of frenetic teenagers. He prefers Great Mall. The crowds there overwhelm me and the unchecked energy of the youth can be asphyxiating, My last visit there was many full moons ago so maybe it isn't that way anymore. The multi-tiered design of Eastridge is something I find comfort in, the more open space there is, the better.

With purpose, being at Eastridge was not a chore. If you're looking for something and you are unyielding in finding said something, then other matters take a backseat. This is where the gear kicked in. I'll appreciate beauty when it exists. Let us not make the mistake of totally disregarding that fact. However, on this day I discovered that my esteem for la femme does not always have to be at the forefront. Let the soldiers rest and put 'em in the back of the line. War is hell, boys, and the angels out there don't make it any easier.

For me to finally see that I don't always have be on guard is a wonderful find. It isn't completely turned off. The sucker's just on standby. Or is it? Perhaps the reason why the radar was running at a very low level is because there really wasn't much to take notice of at Eastridge. This kind of reminds me of the chicken and the egg. What came first? The look or the pretty face? See, the veracity of ogling on silent running really needs to be tested in more shark-infested waters where every girl has got visual yum yum. Although at that point my head would probably explode. Kablooey!

Yeah. Yet another entry with a heavy focus on girls. Sue me.

Tracy Pancakes

[NOTE: The people mentioned in this post are referred to by their real names except for two: "Marcus" and "Buddy." These are aliases since I haven't gotten proper permission from each person they represent. Tedd was originally to go under the alias "Raimund" until his permission was recently cleared.]


SUNDAY AUGUST 17, 2008

This day has been planned for weeks and I don't know what will happen. It might go well or it might be awful. I'm rooting for the former but I can't see anything beyond the hills out my bedroom window. We leave sometime before 2:00 p.m.. Upon my entry into the vehicle, Madison (Debra's dog), rushes towards me and licks the bejeesus out of my face. My eyeglasses get smacked wet while I simultaneously try to to hang onto my fedora and get into the vehicle: a red Mistsubishi Montero. As soon as I get settled, Madison nonchalantly makes her way to the other end of the backseat. This must be the canine equivalent of a formal introduction. The trip begins.

Debra drives while another cousin of mine, Tedd, rides shotgun. Debra says we must first drop off Madison at her boyfriend's mother's place. I assume Madison already knows everyone there; no formal introductions via sloppy dog kisses will be necessary. We arrive and Debra's significant other, Marcus, makes his way out the front door, down the front yard and up to the Montero. Debra asks, "Are there any pancakes?" I am stupefied. I don't know why anybody would want to eat big floppy pancakes in a car. This very feeling is shown on my face but nobody notices. Marcus takes Madison inside the house and returns with a small Tupperware container filled with what looks like little cookies. Tedd grabs a few, as does Debra. When it's my turn I grab 2, absolutely baffled. Although they vary in size, they are about the size of a child's palm. Convenient. Neither hesitant nor ardent, I bite into one. The texture is fluffy with a slight but satisfying crunch approaching the outer edges. The flavor sweet and delightful. I should have grabbed more. I should have hid the entire container under my hat.

With no determined place to go, the vehicle approaches the Milpitas Art & Wine Festival. It is known that TJ is to perform there and we crack jokes about being there by coincidence. The festival is set on one long street with a less fulfilled branch to the west, The day is warm. There are many people but it isn't crowded. They couldn't even form a legitimate lynch mob. Tedd (with his war mage idiosyncrasies) would easily take them all out with a "Tempest of Raistlin" spell and maybe a summon or two. The "8-toed Ogre Savage of Vindabona" could crush this feeble tea party. But for now the situation doesn't call for it. We continue down on the line and pass an empty stage. The booths themselves are heavy on the crafts and light on the wine. The oddest sight there are local agents trying to peddle property and vacations. What this has to do with art or wine, I do not know. Maybe they took the angle of gluing together popsicle stick sculptures at your new home and getting wasted on vintage 91's in the Caribbean. Damn peddlers.

At the end of the street sings a bluesman on another stage. The guy's got his stuff down pat and I'm jiving with everything he says. Having no woman to lose or have lost, I can't relate but the intent and the delivery of each word is good. Damn good. If "The Krystle Song" was this hip then I'd be up on stage too, wailing woes of what was never mine. But nobody would want to hear that. The bluesman's got more soul than I have in my left foot. Christy Brown could get spastic to this stuff too.

On our way back up the other side of the street and after winning a free pasta dinner, I keep an eye out for TJ the brother younger. Debra and Tedd check out another free spin at an Adventist Church's booth. The banner alone keeps my feet pointed in the other direction; religion isn't my bag, man. It is faith that carries worth. The multitude of idealogies in how to get to god/God/a god is a marathon of running in a circle. I think I'll go my own way, thank you. Screw the middleman! This dude's going direct. As the cross-stamped banner bends in the heat of the sun, I keep my ears open. I think I hear something . . . horns. That's TJ. I walk away from the never-ending foot race behind me and head towards the "bah-rah! bah-rah! bah-rah!" coming from the street to the west.

It's a lively sound, these musicians on stage. Four female vocalists whirl their bodies with the words they sing. It's not something I usually listen to but it's nice. I am a bit disappointed that the mix has the horns at a lower lever. They are overpowered, almost drowned out by the voices, and the power of the brass does not come through. The set is over. One singer is a relative of someone that Debra knows and they trade hellos. Soon after, we leave the Art & Wine Festival.

Tedd needed to pick up an aloe vera plant. The location? At Buddy's house, yet another cousin. We hang out for awhile. I take a quick stop at the bathroom to rinse my face of this warm day. It is decided that we drive to Sonic at Tracy; a place far, far away from San Jose. Why there? Because there isn't a Sonic fast food joint around where we live. We must go out and elsewhere to partake of a rumored better burger. Buddy is along for the ride and we head out with the aloe vera plant at the back of the Montero. After dropping that off at Tedd's place we pick up Marcus from where Madison and fine pancakes reside. On to Tracy.

It's all-natural so it's not the death scythe that Big Tobacco sells in millions, billions, trillions. The three men take their turn. I pass, having given up the stuff many a month ago. I am amused at the jokes that fly. Occasionally, Marcus and Buddy take the wise-cracking to a more "queer" affair. They are the best of friends, these two. Even so, the homosexually charged ribbing is something I am not comfortable with. I am not distressed but it sure is pretty darn awkward to be in a cramped vehicle where two dudes comment freely on who goes to the front and who stays at the back. It is a bit silly and I do give a few restrained "hah hahs" but I can't find myself casually throwing out jokes about who's the one to take it up the brownie. See, that's just plain [your word of choice].

The drive itself is pleasant. Or at the least the view is. The Montero must've been made in the bumpy end of the factory. The passengers pay with each dip on the freeway. I look outside the window. Summer makes the grass cry in a shade not far from the trickling reach of a burning flame. These rolling hills are a permanent sea of yellow. They swing upwards and sway downwards in a dance of many miles. The backdrop of a clear blue day accentuates the dervish scrolling by my window. I want to play. I want to be out there and be a part of the divine freedom that only untouched earth can provide. Except these lands are not free. The dance is kept in check by fences of wood and wire. They punch upwards and kick downwards as a shackle of many miles. This piece of earth outside my window is not as flawless as it seems and I don't feel like being somebody's cow just to be there. I'd rather stay on this bumpy Montero ride.

We make it to Tracy. Ophelia. Sonic is the kind of place where you can park your car and a waitress will roll up to your car and ask, "What will you be having for today?" The Montero being as constrained as it is, we opt to dine in the outdoors area of Sonic under a big roof and away from the failing heat of the sun. The menu is a wealth of choices. I jump between "fries, onion rings, fries, onion rings, fri . . ." until I go with the onion rings. I usually make a point of trying out the french fries where ever they are served but today I change it up. Before I even sit, I scope out all the people within the vicinity. Why? Well you know why, don't ya? I'll give you a second. Okay, another. It rhymes with "pearls." Bingo! A table across from where I am sits a girl in pink skirt-shirt thingy. (You female readers will have to help me with the proper terminology on that one.) She reminds me of a nice girl (hard one to find, that) I knew in my senior year of high school: "Kat with a K" Kathleen Volk. Except with black hair. She sits with a bunch of manly men in muscle shirts; me, myself, and I couldn't be more contrary to this. I look at the Sonic building. There are two doors where the waitresses roll out with the food and go back in again. In between the swings of one of these doors something, or rather, someone, catches my eye. I can only hope she takes a trip to a parked car before I go. My wish is answered and on her skates she glides to wherever. It doesn't matter where she goes, really, as long as I get my one look. And I do. Maybe a few more?

This raven-haired beauty is something I've not seen before. Splendid. Had I not gone on this trip I would not have seen her in this lifetime. Perhaps any lifetime. The view is mighty fine but is interrupted with the inevitable. I would like to avoid it but with this crude mug of mine it can't be prevented and I don't have a mask at hand. Eye-contact. Straight off the bat she is disinterested and why wouldn't she be? (I'll spare you the self-deprecation for now. You all know the routine.) It doesn't keep me from looking, though. She rolls away. I look back across to the girl in pink and her eyes are looking at mine. I hope I'm not scaring her. If she was ugly this would be a different story and my eyes wouldn't have to look her way. But there they are. There she looks. I break away not wanting to play the monster in this horror flick. Somehow, someway, Raven ends up at our table bringing the other half of what we ordered. (A different waitress brought the first.) She stands 2 'o clock from where I sit. Being the complete ponce that I am, I dare not look at her as she towers over my onion rings. This sucks. So does this eraser.

Back to the girl in pink. She now wears sunglasses with a huge white frame. It suits her. I find it funny that the sun is behind her, so why bother? If she wears them maybe she'll be invisible to the frightening man in the fedora. Maybe it would be better if I was blind? That way, the splendor of female beauty wouldn't stun me so and the all the pretty ones could go about their day without a look coming from my way. It works out for everybody, doesn't it? Raven stops by the table again and this time she is to the left of me, just over my shoulder. Onion rings. Two of them left. Yup, Just two o . . . I look up at her. She really does look nice. The moments are few and she rolls away. I am lost in thoughts of things that could have been done, should have been avoided. As we get ready to leave Sonic, I take one last look at her. The expression is something I won't soon forget. Slight anger. Totally annoyed. "Way to to go, Casanova." I shouldn't have looked at her at all.

The sun is going down as we make our way back to San Jose. The feast of burgers, fries, onion rings, shakes and a sundae play enjoyable in our bellies. Back in San Jose we make one last stop. We go to the hills overlooking the valley and see the city drawn in streetlights. The sky, once blue, now a canvas of oranges and grapes. Debra, Marcus, and Tedd share stories on nights previous about the trees behind us.

"Someone was screaming." Debra says.

"The trees were screaming? Creepy." I reply.

I make sure to stay away from what haunts this area. Steady, tall, but grim, these trees look very much the part. I look back at the city and am embraced by the perceived serenity. It looks calm down there. But people are angry. People are wasting. People are watching sitcoms. If someone must be so far away to escape what they know all too well, this must by why people are content with what they've got. They just can't/don't step outside to see that it can be better. The city sleeps without care. But the people want more.

It's very important to live, isn't it? No, I don't mean the day-to-day grind of work, pay rent, be stable. Life. Enjoy it. Step outside of the box once in a while and see a view you've never seen before. You'll be amazed. Places will be scary and jokes might go gay, but at least you'll see it for what it is. A dog will make a formal introduction. The pancakes will be fantastic. And you'll see someone that'll astound you. It might not necessarily be the pretty girl, either. It just might end up being be your own self. This day has been planned for weeks and I did not know what would happen. There sure are a lot of things outside my window. I think it went well.

Next Up: Tracy Pancakes

Fear not, kids! Uncle Lacking's got something for ya'. Still tired from this past Sunday's ride, I was not able to get a word down until late last night. With the computer shut down, my attempts to get the sucker working on the TV screen failed and I was relegated to the old fashioned way of writing with pencil & paper. By this morning I got the computer back on the TV again but I''ve decided to finish the rest of what's been written the less technologically-sound way. I'm a little over half-way done and shall post a new entry by tomorrow, if not this evening. "Pencil? Paper? Let's go . . ."

!!! Next Up: Tracy Pancakes !!!

A Tutorial On The Ganso: Places to Avoid Self-Gansos

This shouldn't be here out in the open, upright and ready to bring on the pain! It's dangerous. It might look cool in the sense of a horror movie building suspense for an upcoming death scene, but the venturous part is that the same can easily be applied to here and now with a little girl playing hopscotch.

Hop. Hop. HopTRIP!!

"AAAAHHHHH! Tiffany!"

I look at sharp claws of this rusted beast and think, "A self-ganso onto this would not be pretty." Should the anxiety arise and you feel you may stumble, fall and self-ganso, the very least you could do is do is not be in a place where things get pointy. The massive amount of rust doesn't help, either. You might be asking yourself, "What is a ganso?" Simply put, the Ganso Bomb is one of the most devastating finishing maneuvers in pro wrestling. Don't ever, EVER get caught in one!



Ouch.

In equation form:
pointy rusted thing + self-ganso = why god, why?!

Do Serenades Bring The World Down?

I'm trying to learn the Eraserheads song "Harana." In English, this means "serenade." A traditional way of courting the beauty of your yearning, the question of romance is no question at all; singing to a girl is an Everest in the cavalier notion. Although I'm far from being fully adept in the Filipino language, I do get the gist of what's being said in the song. The guy doesn't seem like a superman but his feelings are undeniably true. With the girl skeptical of what the guy wants from her, he goes out of his to make one fine gesture of passion: a harana.

Looking for clarification of the what certain words mean in English, I asked father what "dungawin" stands for.

"Looking out the window." he says.

"What about 'humahanga?'"

"To admire."

I go on further and tell him that the line is from a song entitled "Harana." In his drunken agitation - yes, he was drunk the entire time - he immediately gets into a fierce rant about how a harana is completely nonessential and is nothing but a waste of time. He continues into how Filipino traditions like a harana drag the Philippines into the less-than-spectacular state that it is in. This is where I beg to differ.

"Traditions are what keep the Filipino people great."

It wasn't tradition for money to be the be-all, end-all and the final word. Lord knows that it wasn't a tradition to have absolutely corrupt politicians take command of your society and it sure wasn't tradition to screw your own people over just so you could be a little more wealthy. Is a harana the cause of the Philippines' current status? No. Modernism is the breaking point. The more they lose their sense of self, the more they become like all the assholes in the rest of the world.

Meanwhile, I'll be over here singing "Harana."

Well, trying too, anyways.

Ely sings pretty damn high.

Fence & Grace

Breaking Roses

The basketball net stands high to the side of the driveway, overlooking the neighborhood. The steel and composite Goliath built by man tries to compete with spirited green trees in the surrounding area but it isn't as tall and time has been unkind; the metal is worn and the paint vague. Despite this, it still stands strong in an area of roses. Beneath the peril of the net that rides high, these roses falter as Davids without a pebble.

He shoots. He scores. A rose falls.

He shoots. He misses. A rose falls.

No matter how the basketball descends, whether through the hoop or just short of it, beauty can shatter. It isn't dependent on missed or made goals. The action alone is an avenue to a possible misdeed. The existence of a commitment to do something illustrious is without sufficience. We aren't aiming for petals but still they tumble in a shower of red mistakes. Pink mistakes. Yellow ones too. Sometimes roses break and I really didn't mean to.

[personal note: watch shawn johnson go for the gold]

Writing Turds & A Little Straight-Edge Wisdom

Ely Buendia was on "Deal or No Deal." I don't care much for the show but Ely Buendia is a rock god so I went ahead and watched. Am I an Ely mark? Yeah, sure. The Eraserheads ruled. Check. His post-Eraserheads solo album was something I enjoyed. Fill in the circle. The current band that he's in, Pupil, also rocks. Blink twice for "yes." (Although I tend to favor the direction he went with pre-Pupil "The Mongols" sound.)

He had quite a number of people with him on the show. The wife. The son. An uncle. An aunt. Goose and many more. Ok, maybe there wasn't a Goose. "We're going ballistic, man!" Ely ended up with 120,000 pesos. At the end of the show he had the following to say:

1.The Pupil album, "Wildlife" is still out in stores.

2. The Eraserheads are re-uniting with further information on August 30th for an upcoming performance.

Wait, wait, wait.

The Eraserheads are re-uniting?

Fan-freakin-tastic!

Can one hope for new material? That would be splendid. The Eraserheads were masters of their craft. Writing a song ain't easy, folks. Writing a catchy one is even harder and the E-heads had albums full of the stuff. I'm curious to know if they enjoy the material they've come out with? I've got a personal dilemma, see. I know what kind of music I'd like to be able to bring forth but I what I end up doing is singing crap (yes, crap) I would NEVER listen to!

The song I put together today is sappy and solid in its cliches. I can't avoid it. Gamu-Gamo. And as heartfelt and truthful as it is, I would be mad at anybody who would listen to like-minded music on the radio. "AH TURN IT OFF!" The lyrics are the culprit. I can't let go of the melody of the guitar strumming. To throw the song out completely would be a waste. If anything, I'll trash the lyrics and recycle the rest.

In other news . . .


CM Punk.

ROH shoot interview.



Go low with this. It totally works, dude. Refreshing.

G064

If I failed I do wonder if an entry would have been written at all. Maybe yes. Most likely, no. If something were written I would still make the attempt to find the funny in it. It would turn out to be very cynical. Maybe a curse word or two. I could even fill the entire entry with nothing but curse words. That would be fun.

Luckily, on this day, you are spared the page of curses. Things turned out for the better. Yahoo!

(Google! doesn't work as well.)

(Neither does Ask.com!)

I wake up ready to tackle what is needed to be done on this day. Or is it more of a hope of readiness? I stopped singing songs/strumming the guitar for a couple of days to be even more prepared. I needed a clear head with a focus on the target. Keep it steady. Shut one eye. Ready. Aim.

On the morning road, the sun is very bright, the skies clear. The heat hasn't kicked in yet. It'll happen when all of this is over. When a radio station gets more static than I'd care to listen to I change it to something else. The stations switch from R&B to Soul and back again. This happens 4 or 5 times while on the road. I look at the freeway ahead. I am surprised at the chipper mood I'm in. There's a smirk on my face. It sure is better than being more nervous than a bomb-disposal expert while on the job. "Cut the blue wire, dude."

Destination reached, it isn't as crowded as it could be. On a some days the line reaches out and around the corner. This time it starts just outside the door. An application filled, I play the waiting game. With my iPod, of course. With my mind on the possibility of pulling out a blog entry from this I put the MySpace playlist on play. Still chipper. That's good.

There are girls to be seen. With small few of them, I take more than one look. After getting the slip to take the test I wait some more. I look some more as well. Not just girls, mind you, but the people. People watching is a fun activity. It's probably the adult version of a little girl playing with her dolls. Except these figures move on their own and have mortgages. They can be surly, kind, racist, or funny. Most of the people here are impassive. Can't blame them with a place like this. This is where failure and success hang out from Monday to Friday as the best of friends. Someone tells me they used to hang out here on the first Saturday of every month but the budget got cut.

G064. My number is up and I take the test. There are a few questions that throw me off. I skip over them and continue. I skip over enough to have a legitimate worry about failing this shifty paper of multiple choices. With the last question answered, I go back and ruminate over the more slippery queries.

"Ok."

"Umm . . . yeah."

"That one."

"B. I think."

"Maybe this?"

"What a stupid set of choices!"

"Totally got that one."

I turn in the test and wait some more. The "myspace Lack" playlist goes back on. Not too far from where I stand is a girl sitting next to her . . . boyfriend? Dad? I think "boyfriend" to keep my less controllable solicitations far away. I look at her.

Uh-oh.

She's looking at me too!

Her gaze fixed on my eyes, I am taken aback. I hold the look to check if she really is (for lack of a better term) checking me out. She is. In this impasse in our lives, the only time I'll probably ever make any sort of contact with this fair stranger, I am the one to break and look away. I look down.

"Hello floor."

"What's up?"

"I think that chick over there is looking at me. What do you think?"

"I'm just a floor, man. I can only see her size 6s. Try asking the wall."

The girl leaves soon after the trade-off of looks. I think to myself that she probably was dropped on her head or something. No girl in her right mind would check me out. It just does not happen.With the Dismemberment Plan's "Ellen and Ben" on the headphones, a clerk calls out, "Mr. Fernandez?" He wants me to sign a slip. I pass the written exam for a driver's permit.

Keeping Up Appearances

[NOTE: I don't know if I should give you a warning about the crude language included in today's entry. Consider yourself warned. It isn't much but I refuse to change anything on account of the guilty segments losing impact if certain words were lost. Sometimes that's just the way it is. F*ck Yeah!]

[NOTE: The previous F*ck Yeah was completely unnecessary.]

SATURDAY, AUGUST 9, 2008

I am informed that a birthday celebration is to take place at Cataldi Park. It can be easily seen from the freeway going 55. As it approaches the speedy mechanical masses, the park itself ungracefully tapers into a very awkward point; nature's fencer keeping an urban monstrosity at bay. Parry. Parry. Halt.

It is 2 in the afternoon and I play with the idea of making an appearance. It is not often I go out, family gatherings included. Thanks to my recent turn in spirit I am open to the option. The closet opens and I search for what to wear. My closet is packed tighter than a pornstar on a multi-man marathon f*ckfest. This is because 87% of my closet consists of things I won't wear. can't wear, or would rather not wear. Since it's packed so tight, the things I end up wearing are usually wrinkled in some form.

I once again think to myself, "I need to learn how to iron someday."

The clothes I pick doesn't help my "laid back" figure. I mix and match and try another set. This does not help either. It might even be worse. If my mood was cheery and upbeat beforehand, seeing my fat self in fat clothing looking rather fat kicked the mood down tempo.

"Ah screw . . . I won't go to the park."

I go to sleep.


I wake up 3 hours later with no remembrance of a dream. The urge to head over to the park is stronger than ever and I brave the closet once more. This time I find something that might work and go with it. I step outside and am thankful for the sunny but cool day; the trees dancing with the wind reflecting my gratitude. Outside on the porch while thinking of a way to actually get to Cataldi, a biker (sans bike) strolls on up and says,

"Can I borrow your phone? My bike ran out of of gas."

This man is the true biker type. The leather, the facial hair, the works. The calm and pleasant delivery of his question is the only thing which betrays his rough and tough exterior.

"Sure." I say without hesitation.

I grab the phone and he makes a call to his girlfriend, seemingly. The pick-up is confirmed.

He passes back the phone and asks, "Can I have a cigarette or something?"

"Sure."

I pass him the cigarette and a match. He lights the cigarette and passes back the spent match saying, "I don't want to be disrespectful and just drop it, here ya' go."

In the middle of thinking how nice this guy is, he looks straight at me and suddenly says "You know what happened there? You'll see it on the news. They messed up my bike and I'm going to do something about. Get it done right."

Whoa.

With multiple "thanks" for the cigarette and phone, he takes his leave with a stroll just as chill as the one he arrived with.


I previously made a call and found out that the party at the park was over. Sunset parks don't like party people, apparently. The celebration was to continue at the celebrant's home. Knowing this, I was very much ready to take the short walk over there. Luckily, TJ (the brother younger) gave me a lift.

The party arrives. Greetings are thrown around with ease with I, the almost-stranger, picking it up and throwing it back just as freely. I feel good. Chairs and coolers are transferred to the big backyard and the party continues.

People hang out and talk. That's what they do. As a half-man/half-loner, all social scenes are foreign to me and I sit ever lost. I tell this to my youngest brother, J. Norman and he (as social as they come) tells me to just listen in on a group and hear what's going on.

I do so.

I can't catch on. Neither can I relate to what's being said. The only world I know is the world seen through my eyes. Narrow though it maybe, the sucker is on replay and I get all the angles. Maybe not all, but definitely the ones which are horrorshow. That's how I keep myself entertained. To apply this to another person's proclivities is something I have an issue with. I still can't catch on.

I would try to make the attempt to get to know another person but everyone else is holding a conversation with everyone else. I turn on the iPod and have at it with the Deftones' "Saturday Night Wrist." To want to know another person is something of an intimate affair. Common likes and dislikes can go forth without attachment but to get any deeper is a no fly zone.

This must be why I stay in the shallow end of the pool when knowing people.

I reserve the 8 ft. side for the significant other, whomever that may be.

I wonder if this is the way it is with most people.

The night is spent listening to the conversations of others. What I have to contribute is very little and never elevates what's been said. Given the opportunity to listen, I find myself with the "permission to look," so to speak, at those in the current command of any given conversation. This provides an avenue to which I have hardly any discipline: looking at an attractive female . . . comfortably.

Maybe it's the sympathy that the shadows of a backyard evening provide, pacifying faces of their true ambitions, loyalties, and faith. I could suggest that it was perhaps the varying sets of mexican party music that melded and inundated the neighborhood air but it isn't that. It certainly is not for lack of looks, either.

I look at her whenever she speaks, naturally, and I am able to do so with more freedom (of mind) than I thought I had. Is my side of the attraction there? The slightest hint exists but is nothing to take action upon. She undoubtedly is one pretty lass. This is all goes back to the idea of female "configurations," still a topic for another day. Find me another girl like her and maybe I won't be kept in such a state of awe but for now, there she sits.

And I am one lucky bastard.

(How do I insert a stupid giggle in here?)

I am most thankful for the fact that I am able to be comfortable and keep composure around such a fascinating girl. My modus operandi in a situation like this usually consists of: 1 part awkward mess and 2 parts weirdo. Do you know Radiohead's song Creep? My motherf*cking anthem.

(Add another giggle, thanks.)

But not this night.

Do I ever talk to her? "Patience, young grasshopper." I'm not quite there yet.


Jaidyn is my goddaughter and after many months not having seen her she appears later in the night. Shy at first and hiding behind a curtain, she gets the idea that I somehow forgot her.

"That's funny," I say to myself, quietly, "I thought she might have forgotten me."

Her imagination is ever wild and she believes me to be a monster, I tell her, "No. I'm not a monster but I do hide a lot." It isn't long before I am her godfather again and we get into the swing of play along with her little sister, Jazmine. Leaving the conversations and the nice-looking one behind, I get lost in the cheer of two young rapscallions with nothing but positivity on their mind. I think back to a time before my brain decided to have a frown as its manager. It was good. And these kids are good, untouched by the cruelty of a mad, mad world. Childhood can afford to do so.

I try to keep up with the energy that Jaidyn and her little sister bring out. We knock cups over, spin, jump, train, hide, seek and laugh. Lots of laughing. It is a good time indeed. In the moments of rest I manage to acquire, I can't fathom how the people who take care of the J.J. Duo do it every. single. day. I'm only a godfather and can hardly keep up in the very few times I see them in a given year. Whew! They're great.

The night now late, their father calls them into the house for sleep. I wipe my brow one last time. The ambiance of the party itself is now even more calm than before. Two groups are gathered: the birthday celebrant with her peers and everybody else in a tent. I walk into the tent and sit on the couch, the conversations less manic. My comments are more frequent but just as glib.

The night ends quite nicely with my cousin Debra and I speaking about the wonderful world of pro wrestling. Yeah, yeah, don't shoot me. Some people like ballet or modern dance. I watch pro wrestling. It's just like a choreographed dance . . . except with body slams. I could go on and on about the virtues of a worked match but that too will have to be an entry of its own. Debra heartily speaks about her past fandom with the American greats of the 90's to early 2000's. I agree for the most part but also throw out the beauty of the Burning Hammer and its origins. You marks know what I'm talking about. It's an elite land full of Tiger Drivers and Shining Wizards.


On my bed and tired (a good tired), I quickly post something on my blog about this day's experiences and insights being written not now but soon. Although the world hates seeing a fat bastard, I went out and did my best. No, I did not accomplish anything grand or learn secrets that only the privileged few know, but I did go out there and live. Just live. I think to myself, "It's been a good day, hasn't it?"

"Yes it has."

Next Up: Keeping Up Appearances

I write this wondering if it is justified to post an entry for the sake of hits. I then think that perhaps I am posting this particular message to appropriately build suspense for what's forthcoming. My viewers are few but I must put on a show. Puppetry doesn't really transfer all that well into the written word.

I am tired. Tired in a good way but tired nonetheless. Yesterday was a good day. By the setting of this day's sun I will hopefully be able to churn out something worthy of your time but for now, sleep.

!!! Next Up: Keeping Up Appearances !!!

Butterscotch Bastard

In a recent e-mail reply I ended up writing about the yellow candy that a lot of people tend to hate: butterscotch. Hate is a strong word, isn't it? That's why I'm using it. Regarding this artificially flavored not-so-delight, I'm at the opposite end. Posting an entry such as this would be more appropriate around late October but I might forget. I won't even be in the U.S. in October. Where I'll be, a time like that is celebrated by chilling out at the graveyard with relatives both alive and elsewhere.

Here's my e-mail reply:

Halloween is a special time of the year when the little kiddies go out as ghosts, heroes and occasionally mass-murderers. It's all in good fun, of course, as they go door to door in an effort to fill their bags and buckets with a treasure trove of sweets. At the end of the night there are favorites to be found in a giant pile of candy, but also candies children would rather not touch. One such candy is butterscotch. Maybe it's because the little yellow discs become so common that they'd rather reach for something chewy, something sour, something not yellow.

One night, not wanting the little darlings to go to waste, I decided to step in.

"You don't want 'em? I'll take 'em."

Thus began my love affair with butterscotch. When looking at a Halloween stash they really do tend to make more appearances than the Virgin Mary in Mexico. On this night of ghosts and heroes, I sweep in like a vulture towards a desert caravan eager to rid themselves of the believed lesser silk. Oh and it's mighty tasty.

Fat As I Am

With my belly full I again think of the better feeling. Is it with or without an abundance of food? The "in-between" of a small meal or properly portioned meal is hardly ever the absolute. Most of the time it's a little more. A bigger helping. Another plate. It was only a few years ago I realize that I didn't NEED to be completely and utterly full to have eaten my share. Imagine for 19 years eating beyond what's necessary. America as a nation must think the same way.

With my belly full I again think of the better feeling. Never mind the abundance of food. To eat enough is enough. There is no reason to chase heart-attacks. Eating too much anyways leaves me feeling sluggish and dim-witted. This I had to find out. I had to think about it. I had to look for it and it was indeed there. With all the slop in me getting processed on repeat, there was no time for good physical energy or the better feeling.

Food is my drug, there I said it. Who needs uppers or downers, the herb or the booze when on the table there sits your favorite dish? Oh you're a mean one Mr. Grinch!

As fat as I am, I am trying. Trying to not be so unfit, both in the head and the heart.

I can tell you this. It is far better to eat less and be merry than to eat more and feel like shite. Forget the touch of euphoria at the end of the big meal, my friends, what I want isn't measured in calories. I want harmony. I want enlightenment. I want to be me.

With my belly full I again think of the better feeling. And it's with a belly that isn't so damn full.

Strangers On A Pier

Yesterday, via AOL Instant Messenger, a cousin of mine by the name of Debra suggested I post my blogs up on Blogger (a.k.a. blogspot) for monetary reasons. She had mentioned Blogger before (no pesos were involved at the time) and my reply in the e-mail was the following:

"I appreciate the compliment regarding (to what I assume are) my most recent blog entries. As for the prospect of blogspot, what is that exactly? What I write is mostly written as a throwaway and as such, MySpace does suffice. If anything, it exists to fill up the void on the upper right section of my MySpace page. Hah. =P

But blogspot, huh? Perhaps."

That's how it is, really. The reply was to a comment Debra made about the MySpace blogging community being inactive and Blogger being the better venue. Her exact words?

"secure it in blogspot, myspace is dead"

Reading that line, I laugh now as I laughed then. "MySpace is dead." Bang! That's just too direct to not be funny.

This second time around Debra mentions Blogger and now an income of cents is a possibility. I had doubts about the penny signs and immediately told her about having to be a premium member pulling in tons of traffic to benefit financially. The premium membership was not an issue but she did confirm the traffic fulfillment. Enter predicament.

There is no [insert expletive] way what I write could pull in enough traffic for the pocket change to start rolling in.

"The rush hour is in another part of the city, peasant, and you are far, far from it!" says Billy Blogger, the Blogging Bishop of Blogtopia.

And where am I? At the park, by the lake, feeding popcorn to the ducks writing massive amounts of near-interest and humour that only I find funny. Mind you, I do check the number of views that this little sucker gets and I am appreciative for the few apparent but I figure every single one is a family relation. I'm not sure if that counts. Even then, at this point in time the numbers are hardly enough to give me my 3 cents a day.

But beyond the field and over the hill . . .

the words come back to me . . .

hush and pervasive . . .

"MySpace is dead."

So where do we go from here?



[cue creepy music]

"You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension. A dimension of sound... a dimension of sight... a dimension of mind. You are moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into... The Twilight Zone."

Of blogging!

The words you've read, are reading, and will read now reside on two different planes of existence. At one end sits MySpace. At the other, Blogger. Don't worry, there isn't a black hole to suck you into the other side (although that would be tremendously awesome). As a blog, being at two places at once must be tiring. Luckily enough I've got a twin and we can easily pull a Borden on our online audience.

Yes, I have gone the route of Blogger but fear not, for I am not abandoning my online home, MySpace. I figure I'll post on MySpace and "copy & paste" everything onto Blogger. It can't hurt. The wave of coins won't roll in but that doesn't matter; Blogger is just another place to be. If by (natural disaster e.g., earthquake) should I be lucky enough to gain some sort of "fan base" (that isn't family, cheater) then splendid! If not, then at least leonardlacking.blogspot.com is now taken and it's mine!

[in booming godlike voice]

"ALL MINE!! MUAHAHAHAHA!"

[cough cough]

But I digress . . .

thanks goes to Debra for this blog's existence on Blogger. Whatever may come of it, you can blame her. If she's lucky, the humble words I write might catch on and I'll have to throw a few dimes down her way. We can then toss them, one by one, into a nice fountain somewhere downtown and wish for giant Vegas jackpots.



[Location: a Monterey pier]

A man with a fedora sees a friend.

"Hello MySpace. It's nice to see you again."

Across from him stands a new face. Hesitantly, he approaches the stranger.

"Hello Blogger. I'm Leonard Lacking."