It happens every Christmas without fail: After unwrapping presents, one of the kids figures out his or her load is smaller than everyone else's, and the tears start to flow. Even though you emptied your checking account and stayed up half the night wrapping presents, you do a quick comparison and realize the kid is right; there is an imbalance.
The ensuing depression is contagious. No matter the reason, if your kids are crying on Christmas, you feel like a failure.
This year, however, as it all began to unravel, I wasn't all that fazed. I didn't even reach for a drink. Before the big day, I had tried something different: I consumed a steady stream of Saint Vitus and Charles Bukowski. And while I'm not exactly sure why, that did the trick.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Can you believe this shit?
It's really hard to write about my mom without making her sound like some crazy roommate from hell. For one thing, she's a great liar. Not because she's a believable liar, but because she refuses to throw in the towel.
After she kicked my dad out, my mom really took control of the house. My sister and I could always stay there. We just couldn't use the stove. Or the microwave. Or the toaster oven, the washer, the dryer, or the garage door. Basically anything with moving parts. Personally I think it was her way of kicking us out and keeping us from moving back in. This way, she could spend her days undisturbed and in her bedroom, surrounded by People magazines, throwing back Tostino's pizza rolls, and watching Montel with the ferocity of a heroin addict.
Anyway, because Mom had no idea how to fix stuff and was too stubborn to ask my dad to come over to help, most of the appliances we were forbidden to use eventually broke down. Yet she had a hard time facing this fact.
The kicker came when the sewage line broke and Mom's, ahem, collective fecal output began erupting into the backyard. Fortunately I was gone by then. But when I came back, saw it, and tried to inform her, she refused to acknowledge it.
"Look," I said, having dragged her down to the back porch. "It's spewing shit."
Below us, little burps came from a pond of smooth, greenish-chocolate mud. Sprinkled on its surface, like coconut flakes, were tiny bits of toilet paper. A cloud of bugs circled and landed, as if we were watching the world's tiniest, busiest airport.
"No it's not," Mom said. "I don't see anything."
She turned back toward the house, shaking her head and pointing at me.
"You're seeing things," she added, holding up the bottom of her bathrobe as she climbed the top stair. "I think you need to lay off the sauce."
From the corner of her mouth I caught the edge of a sly grin. Then Mom quickly shut the back door, as if I wouldn't be able to hear her laugh.
After she kicked my dad out, my mom really took control of the house. My sister and I could always stay there. We just couldn't use the stove. Or the microwave. Or the toaster oven, the washer, the dryer, or the garage door. Basically anything with moving parts. Personally I think it was her way of kicking us out and keeping us from moving back in. This way, she could spend her days undisturbed and in her bedroom, surrounded by People magazines, throwing back Tostino's pizza rolls, and watching Montel with the ferocity of a heroin addict.
Anyway, because Mom had no idea how to fix stuff and was too stubborn to ask my dad to come over to help, most of the appliances we were forbidden to use eventually broke down. Yet she had a hard time facing this fact.
The kicker came when the sewage line broke and Mom's, ahem, collective fecal output began erupting into the backyard. Fortunately I was gone by then. But when I came back, saw it, and tried to inform her, she refused to acknowledge it.
"Look," I said, having dragged her down to the back porch. "It's spewing shit."
Below us, little burps came from a pond of smooth, greenish-chocolate mud. Sprinkled on its surface, like coconut flakes, were tiny bits of toilet paper. A cloud of bugs circled and landed, as if we were watching the world's tiniest, busiest airport.
"No it's not," Mom said. "I don't see anything."
She turned back toward the house, shaking her head and pointing at me.
"You're seeing things," she added, holding up the bottom of her bathrobe as she climbed the top stair. "I think you need to lay off the sauce."
From the corner of her mouth I caught the edge of a sly grin. Then Mom quickly shut the back door, as if I wouldn't be able to hear her laugh.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Gray skies
I used to love hot weather. I sweat a lot, and when it was hot I could sort of resign myself to this, not worry about it, and then go play basketball for three hours. But now, in my 40s, the heat bugs the shit out of me.
I can't focus. Thoughts and plans reel off inside my head. It's like flipping through the pages of an art book and not being able to stop. The best remedy is cold beer, but with kids and work, drinking during the day is pretty much out of the question.
Hope came today with the overcast skies. I have no idea whether such weather is healthy or not, but it sure feels like it. Whatever it is, the condensation, cool air hitting my throat -- I feel as though my body is getting what it needs.
In my 20s, an overcast morning usually meant perfect surfing conditions: warm water, glassy waves, even if the waves were smallish. It meant hot coffee, reading the newspaper outside, and smoking Camels. It meant being at ease with myself, even if I was in debt and not getting laid. That stuff could be fixed. I had time.
Man, I wish that feeling would come back. It won't, but at least the gray has.
I can't focus. Thoughts and plans reel off inside my head. It's like flipping through the pages of an art book and not being able to stop. The best remedy is cold beer, but with kids and work, drinking during the day is pretty much out of the question.
Hope came today with the overcast skies. I have no idea whether such weather is healthy or not, but it sure feels like it. Whatever it is, the condensation, cool air hitting my throat -- I feel as though my body is getting what it needs.
In my 20s, an overcast morning usually meant perfect surfing conditions: warm water, glassy waves, even if the waves were smallish. It meant hot coffee, reading the newspaper outside, and smoking Camels. It meant being at ease with myself, even if I was in debt and not getting laid. That stuff could be fixed. I had time.
Man, I wish that feeling would come back. It won't, but at least the gray has.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Ridin' the no-sleep train
OK, not really. Everyone needs sleep. But I'm finding out that the more I deprive myself of adequate slumber, the more I get done -- even if it's executed in a fitful, manic sort of way.
I'm also finding that with very little sleep comes near-catastrophic visions of genius (at least that's what it feels like), coupled with the impulse to off myself if my beer, while it's precariously balanced on the arm of my infant son's high chair, happens to spill. Good thing I don't own a gun.
They say Edison survived on naps. That he slept in a chair while holding ball bearings, and when the bearings fell, it would wake him up. Then he'd be back inventing toaster ovens.
I've been trying that. But truth is, naps leave me zoned and insane. For example, my oldest son just now walked into the living room and, for lack of anything better to do, pee on, or destroy, decided to kick a ball across the floor and knock over my 22-ounce bottle of Arrogant Bastard Ale.
I've already boxed his remains. The funeral's in two hours. After my nap.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
You're tearing me apart, Tommy Wiseau!
I highly, highly recommend the film "The Room" -- not in the manner in which it was conceived, but in the way it will make you pee your pants before going out to toss a football in a tuxedo while talking like a vaguely European, half-dead smack addict.
The following interview with director, producer, writer and star Tommy Wiseau provides just a glimpse of this movie's absolute glory. Personally, I don't know how the interviewer managed to keep a straight face:
Choice lines from the film:
And my personal favorite:
The following interview with director, producer, writer and star Tommy Wiseau provides just a glimpse of this movie's absolute glory. Personally, I don't know how the interviewer managed to keep a straight face:
Choice lines from the film:
"I like you. Very much. Lover. Boy."
"I got the results of the tests back. I definitely have breast cancer."
"I did not hit her. It's not true. It's bullshit! I did not hit her, I did NOT! Oh, hi Mark."
"I gotta go see Michelle in a little bit, to go make out with her."
"You betray me. You're not good. You're just chicken. Cheep cheep cheep cheep..."
"You don't understand anything, man. Leave your stupid comments in your pocket."
"Thank you honey, this is a beautiful party, you invited all my friends. Good thinking!"
And my personal favorite:
"I'm fed up with this worwald."
Sunday, July 04, 2010
Another day, another exercise in futility
Battling a fly. This is what it's come down to.
It was brazenly flying around my face in the bathroom, unable to find the two-inch hole ripped in the window screen. I tried to whip-kill it with an unnamed family member's swimsuit (shh, no one tell) and thought I had gotten it. But it resurrected himself during my shower. Flying on half power, but still alive.
Confronted by its will to live, I could no longer kill. So I tried to steer it toward the two-inch hole. I could not grab it because my hands were wet. It circled ever so close to freedom, but could not find it. Our frustration was in perfect sync -- the fly, slowly walking across the screen wondering how to get out, and me, cursing and wishing the fly understood English. It didn't seem to matter that flies only live for days, and that this one may have only had one day left to live, should it have escaped.
Finally, I gave up, only after I began to turn pruny in the shower and after my frustration had grown to wanting to kill it again. Only at that point did I realize the fly had to be someone I knew, just had to be. And it was just another one of her damn, dirty tricks.
It was brazenly flying around my face in the bathroom, unable to find the two-inch hole ripped in the window screen. I tried to whip-kill it with an unnamed family member's swimsuit (shh, no one tell) and thought I had gotten it. But it resurrected himself during my shower. Flying on half power, but still alive.
Confronted by its will to live, I could no longer kill. So I tried to steer it toward the two-inch hole. I could not grab it because my hands were wet. It circled ever so close to freedom, but could not find it. Our frustration was in perfect sync -- the fly, slowly walking across the screen wondering how to get out, and me, cursing and wishing the fly understood English. It didn't seem to matter that flies only live for days, and that this one may have only had one day left to live, should it have escaped.
Finally, I gave up, only after I began to turn pruny in the shower and after my frustration had grown to wanting to kill it again. Only at that point did I realize the fly had to be someone I knew, just had to be. And it was just another one of her damn, dirty tricks.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Insomnia
I can't sleep. It's too hot.
Couldn't stand the kids tonite. I played with them like a madman, throwing Sonny and Deck all over the living room, then got sick of it and sort of shoved them away. Felt pretty bad about it but I had very little sleep the night before and was totally fucked. Of course I had to hike four miles in 100 degree weather Sunday and nearly died of heat stroke. Still recovering from that.
It was so hot I couldn't cook, so I ordered Domino's. The driver was on drugs. I did the online ordering thing and saw that it took him over a half an hour after the pizza was done to get here. He called to say he was running late, I'll give him that. When he arrived, though, he smashed right into all our empty garbage cans. They went all over the street. Mary happened to be following him as she came up the hill and saw the whole thing. I'm sure he was out scoring. He had the same tone of voice and bullshit patter that Mary's brother has when he doesn't do what he says he's gonna.
The pizza was still warm though, so I tipped him anyway. I thought about complaining but figured you can't really rat out someone who delivers pizzas for a living. I mean how much lower can you sink? If I had that job, I'd probably be on drugs too. Plus his arms were covered with these really shitty tattoos. I felt bad. I did, however, give him a dollar less than I usually give the old Chinese guy from Round Table. That guy is funny and seems genuinely happy to have a job. Plus he actually acknowledges the presence of my kids. That's gold to me.
I should have tried to sleep but He Got Game was on. I'm a sucker for sports movies and I like Spike Lee and Ray Allen. Ray is one of my favorite players and Spike's movies are very drippy but he's got certain style and I dig how his characters are riddled with imperfections. Then I noticed it was almost 2 a.m. so I talked myself into driving down to 7-11 and getting a Mickey's tall boy, thinking it would help me sleep. So I came home and watched the end of Carrie--because it was on and you sort of have to. Now I'm energized, but only blandly so, in a I-can't-sleep-but-I-should-do-something sort of way. So I made a to-do list and now I'm writing and maybe I'll get back to Tropic of Cancer.
It's been so fucking hot out these past couple of days, it's ridiculous. It was over 100 yesterday and probably close to it today. I have a hard time working when it's that hot. I have to totally psyche myself up for it. Part of the problem is that I sweat like someone with much darker skin. Always have. Throughout school I played sports during lunchtime and came back to class completely soaked. Now it pours down my arms and down my nose and right onto the keyboard. The only way through is to strip down to my boxers, surround myself with fans, position the laptop "upstream," and focus on some deadline like my ass depends on it.
Music helps. Lately I've been going through an old school punk thing. Germs, Stooges, Saints, etc. Sort of coming to terms with the fact that I'm not a huge Minutemen fan. I listened to them back in the 80s and now I understand why I stopped. I dig who they were and what they were about and their originality and talent. If I was a friend of the band I'd probably go to every show. Everything I've read and seen about them makes them out to be really swell guys. But easily four out of five of their songs I could do without. That other one-fifth is some pretty awesome shit, though.
OK enough of this...
Couldn't stand the kids tonite. I played with them like a madman, throwing Sonny and Deck all over the living room, then got sick of it and sort of shoved them away. Felt pretty bad about it but I had very little sleep the night before and was totally fucked. Of course I had to hike four miles in 100 degree weather Sunday and nearly died of heat stroke. Still recovering from that.
It was so hot I couldn't cook, so I ordered Domino's. The driver was on drugs. I did the online ordering thing and saw that it took him over a half an hour after the pizza was done to get here. He called to say he was running late, I'll give him that. When he arrived, though, he smashed right into all our empty garbage cans. They went all over the street. Mary happened to be following him as she came up the hill and saw the whole thing. I'm sure he was out scoring. He had the same tone of voice and bullshit patter that Mary's brother has when he doesn't do what he says he's gonna.
The pizza was still warm though, so I tipped him anyway. I thought about complaining but figured you can't really rat out someone who delivers pizzas for a living. I mean how much lower can you sink? If I had that job, I'd probably be on drugs too. Plus his arms were covered with these really shitty tattoos. I felt bad. I did, however, give him a dollar less than I usually give the old Chinese guy from Round Table. That guy is funny and seems genuinely happy to have a job. Plus he actually acknowledges the presence of my kids. That's gold to me.
I should have tried to sleep but He Got Game was on. I'm a sucker for sports movies and I like Spike Lee and Ray Allen. Ray is one of my favorite players and Spike's movies are very drippy but he's got certain style and I dig how his characters are riddled with imperfections. Then I noticed it was almost 2 a.m. so I talked myself into driving down to 7-11 and getting a Mickey's tall boy, thinking it would help me sleep. So I came home and watched the end of Carrie--because it was on and you sort of have to. Now I'm energized, but only blandly so, in a I-can't-sleep-but-I-should-do-something sort of way. So I made a to-do list and now I'm writing and maybe I'll get back to Tropic of Cancer.
It's been so fucking hot out these past couple of days, it's ridiculous. It was over 100 yesterday and probably close to it today. I have a hard time working when it's that hot. I have to totally psyche myself up for it. Part of the problem is that I sweat like someone with much darker skin. Always have. Throughout school I played sports during lunchtime and came back to class completely soaked. Now it pours down my arms and down my nose and right onto the keyboard. The only way through is to strip down to my boxers, surround myself with fans, position the laptop "upstream," and focus on some deadline like my ass depends on it.
Music helps. Lately I've been going through an old school punk thing. Germs, Stooges, Saints, etc. Sort of coming to terms with the fact that I'm not a huge Minutemen fan. I listened to them back in the 80s and now I understand why I stopped. I dig who they were and what they were about and their originality and talent. If I was a friend of the band I'd probably go to every show. Everything I've read and seen about them makes them out to be really swell guys. But easily four out of five of their songs I could do without. That other one-fifth is some pretty awesome shit, though.
OK enough of this...
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Poem
In the drive thru line
Marysa shotgun, Joey in back
complaining again.
I don't want Taco Bell, he says
I'm thirsty.
Ahead of us a bumper sticker
some crap about Christ and hell
and how we have to choose
I pick Jesus, Marysa says
What about you?
She waits patiently for my answer
with perfect blue eyes
and face like fresh pancake batter
It's hard to imagine she'll ever face the Dark
or feel differently about such things
She says, well?
I say
I don't know about that stuff
(because I don't)
I say,
Sorry.
She smirks like I'm crazy
like it's so square peg=square hole. Hello?
Shaking her head as a voice behind us says
He chooses Sprite
Marysa shotgun, Joey in back
complaining again.
I don't want Taco Bell, he says
I'm thirsty.
Ahead of us a bumper sticker
some crap about Christ and hell
and how we have to choose
I pick Jesus, Marysa says
What about you?
She waits patiently for my answer
with perfect blue eyes
and face like fresh pancake batter
It's hard to imagine she'll ever face the Dark
or feel differently about such things
She says, well?
I say
I don't know about that stuff
(because I don't)
I say,
Sorry.
She smirks like I'm crazy
like it's so square peg=square hole. Hello?
Shaking her head as a voice behind us says
He chooses Sprite
Friday, June 25, 2010
Workplace hazards
Back from Disneyland almost a week now. I've lost a little weight. Except for rare instances, I've quit drinking and eating fast food and all meat besides seafood. I started running again and I'm spending more time with the kids. I feel good. I wonder how long I can keep it up.
I'm not sure what's up with me, at least professionally. I'm still working, though not as much into certain aspects. I've decided I'm not into pitching or "sales," at least when it comes to selling anything but myself and my writing. I guess I knew that already, but I tried--for the sake of career and finances--to get into it. "Hey, you should talk to this person, he's an expert at blah blah blah. By the way, I can totally see you living in this house!"
I'm done trying. I'll still do it, but I won't attempt to enjoy it, if that makes any sense, and will endeavor to stop. I'm happiest helping people get what they need or want, or finding out what that is and helping them get it. But I don't want to tell them what it is they want, or assume it. I want to root out the fake. I'm embarrassed I haven't and that I've actually embraced some of the shit.
I'm trying hard to believe I have enough talent to get by on my own terms. It's hard when you have six people depending on you, though. Compromising almost seems inevitable. I just don't want to get swallowed by the beast.
I'm not sure what's up with me, at least professionally. I'm still working, though not as much into certain aspects. I've decided I'm not into pitching or "sales," at least when it comes to selling anything but myself and my writing. I guess I knew that already, but I tried--for the sake of career and finances--to get into it. "Hey, you should talk to this person, he's an expert at blah blah blah. By the way, I can totally see you living in this house!"
I'm done trying. I'll still do it, but I won't attempt to enjoy it, if that makes any sense, and will endeavor to stop. I'm happiest helping people get what they need or want, or finding out what that is and helping them get it. But I don't want to tell them what it is they want, or assume it. I want to root out the fake. I'm embarrassed I haven't and that I've actually embraced some of the shit.
I'm trying hard to believe I have enough talent to get by on my own terms. It's hard when you have six people depending on you, though. Compromising almost seems inevitable. I just don't want to get swallowed by the beast.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Hostage
I'm sitting at the lobby of the Paradise Pier in Disneyland, watching Disney "XD" on a large flat screen TV. Mary and everyone is in the park with our friend who we flew down to help out with the kids. I drove halfway, taking over in San Luis Obispo last night. It wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be, but there were a couple episodes.
Joey gets amped up whenever he's off his routine and does his best to annoy the shit out of the girls. When we found out we were an hour away from Disneyland, Tanner decided to count down the rest of the way in seconds. She got up to the hundreds when Joey knocked her off her game, and she flips out. I asked Tan if she'd like me to hold Joey down so she could kick him in the nuts. I was tired and not really thinking about my choice of words, but it cheered her up. I asked Joey what he thought of that idea. It was the funniest "no" I ever heard.
We spent last night in Goleta, just north of Santa Barbara. I thought Santa Barbara was a bit stuck up, ritzy kind of place. Goleta is worse. Everything was way too clean, everyone moves like they're on lithium, and the shops and streets take up way too much space. Cities that are too clean get on my nerves. People looked at us and our road-cranky kids like we were white trash and kept a healthy distance. Strange.
I looked at the local Homes & Land while at Dennys. Who can afford to live here? What do people do for money? No clue.
So I'm waiting for my room to be ready and trying really hard not to order a beer, because I know it will knock me right out. After working eight hours before leaving home, I put another four hours in after reaching Goleta, going to bed at 3:30 am. I hardly had the strength but I promised a friend I'd look over her resume and send it to the CEO group I work with. Hope I get a couple stars on my behavior chart for that one. But right now I'd rather have a beer.
Joey gets amped up whenever he's off his routine and does his best to annoy the shit out of the girls. When we found out we were an hour away from Disneyland, Tanner decided to count down the rest of the way in seconds. She got up to the hundreds when Joey knocked her off her game, and she flips out. I asked Tan if she'd like me to hold Joey down so she could kick him in the nuts. I was tired and not really thinking about my choice of words, but it cheered her up. I asked Joey what he thought of that idea. It was the funniest "no" I ever heard.
We spent last night in Goleta, just north of Santa Barbara. I thought Santa Barbara was a bit stuck up, ritzy kind of place. Goleta is worse. Everything was way too clean, everyone moves like they're on lithium, and the shops and streets take up way too much space. Cities that are too clean get on my nerves. People looked at us and our road-cranky kids like we were white trash and kept a healthy distance. Strange.
I looked at the local Homes & Land while at Dennys. Who can afford to live here? What do people do for money? No clue.
So I'm waiting for my room to be ready and trying really hard not to order a beer, because I know it will knock me right out. After working eight hours before leaving home, I put another four hours in after reaching Goleta, going to bed at 3:30 am. I hardly had the strength but I promised a friend I'd look over her resume and send it to the CEO group I work with. Hope I get a couple stars on my behavior chart for that one. But right now I'd rather have a beer.
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