Holy shit, I love this word. Eh-net used it in her recent post. I laughed for 5 whole minutes. Yes, I’m a child.
I hate clowns. I find them to be scary. But assclowns? Does your mind too, conjour up images of the little rascals frolicking about in your ass? Big feet, red hair? Entertainment for the southern parts? Haha. My mind is sick. I’ll give you that. But the assclowns are sicker. Circling ’round Uranus. Can’t wait to call someone that. You wanna volunteer? I wonder if you hafta do something really stupid to have that name applied. I’m gonna go try it out on someone…
See ya, assclowns.
P.S. I bet 50 bucks no one will comment on THIS post, eh?

I can remember sitting in my classroom in grade 7. Circa 1979. Me and Jason were discussing the future. We couldn’t imagine the 80’s, let alone the 90’s and beyond. We couldn’t quite insert ourselves into the future like that. It was beyond our young imaginations. “What will we be like when we’re old?” Old of course, meaning 20. I think even then, as a child, I felt as though my life would end young. At least, I could not conceive of growing old. Did you feel like that as well?
But here I am. Months away from 40. My existentialistic belief still firmly in place.
I grew up somewhere along the timeline. Forgot Jason, forgot grade 7. Forgot that I had not anticipated being this old. But here I am. Almost 3 decades later. I’ve been “there” and made it back again. From the furthermost Northwestern tip of Vancouver to the SouthEastern most tip of America.
“Hello?” Here I am. Over here. I made it. I survived, y’all.
Will my life be measured by whom I’ve loved? Whom has loved me? Or perhaps, whom I’ve harmed along the voyage?
The parts of my physical body are deteriorating. Like my teeth. Like my uterus. Gaining pounds without neccesarily gaining strength. Have I reached the summit? Is it going to be that proverbial descent; “Downhill from here?”
My insides, I know, are lagging way behind my outsides. You laugh when I tell you that I’m way too immature to be 40. But it’s the truth. My 7th grade philosophy is racing to catch the 40 year old reality. And I hate to run, my friends.
It is hard for me to imagine that my life here is half over.
Damn, I hope I do better with the second half than the first…
And moreover, I hope to get some kickass presents for the milestone of achievement.
40. Forty. Four zero.
I’d love to sit with Jason today. Our superfluous doubts we could debate.
Should we still be here? And how on earth will we make the time count?
And without children of my own to teach, what will it matter anyway? What freakin’ legacy do I have to leave? And to who? My spider? Even she is getting old.
They say that 40 is the new 20.
But pretty soon I shall need a hearing aid, so who the heck cares what “they” say, right?

What do y’all think about when you’re at the end of your wits? The place where you feel stifled and oppressed? The place where you’re just so Goddamned tired of being responsible. So tired of looking into the disappointed eyes of your loved ones. You fucked it up again, Dee.
Do you ever imagine yourself just walking? Walking away? Like your life was a dirt path and you could just keep going? Going far, going long. Going to familiar places. Like that walk could answer all your questions? Answer the void left behind from so long ago…?
Cleveland Dam? Capilano Fish Hatcheries? The house where you ran away from, the house where you fled to? The memories of youth that grew up and grew out, only to leave you wanting? What do you do when you want to leave it all behind? When the restraints of this life bind you so tight that you want to scream? When you feel so weighed down by the expections of others? When you feel like it was all a farce, a fraud? That you really suck at all these endeavors? That the ones who believed in you were misled all along? That your life is really meaningless? And the ones who tell you otherwise are mistaken? That the difference you dreamed of making as a child, was just a fleeting glimpse of someone elses reality?
I’m in that place now. That flight path. The old run before you walk mode. It happens now and again. I wonder if it shall ever take hold. Take hold and allow me to walk away. Walk so far away from everything. Everyone. I wish sometimes, that the world would end. So that I may have an excuse to walk. Watch me now. Walking away.
To quote Mr. Blunt;

I’m so hollow baby. I’m so hollow. I’m so, I’m so, I’m so…hollow…

The day we commemorate our Dads. In retail, it’s a significantly lesser holiday than even President’s Day, or Memorial Day. But have you ever forgotten Mother’s Day? Doubtful.
Why then, is Father’s Day such a diminutive occasion? Why did poets say that if it were natural for men to be good fathers, there wouldn’t be so many laws commanding them to do so?
Sis and I conference called our dad this morning at 5am. We sang and read a poem and made him open his gift whilst on the phone with us. I can count on just one hand the number of people I know whose parents are still married. Times have been altered, hence my disbelief in true love. In fact, most people I know find father’s day to be just another mark on the calendar.
I’ve been blessed, I suppose. I’ve crossed paths with a few men who were worthy enough to shoulder that responsibility with grace.
My own father at first, then Ed. Now Vern.
One does not exceed or surmount the other. They’re just different in their approach. My father, the strong, silent sentinel. Ed, the gregarious, affectionate Marine. Vern, the calm and steady hand that stills my rocky waters.
I needed them all. At various times. Men worthy of my adoration. There have been few, compared with all those women sages in my life, that have measured up to my steep criteria. But today I honor them.
I give thanks for their emphasis and impact on my life. Three men. Three men who burrowed their way, through thought and action, into my heart. I love you. Thanks for your force and presence in my life. I need you now, will need you always.
Happy, happy Father’s Day.

Do any of you remember Mad magazine? I’d still be getting a subscription if I weren’t too embarassed by its juvenille humor. Remember the “fold-ins?” Man, I loved that magazine. The little cartoons that crept up the side of the page.
The hilarious mockery they made of our life and times? What would Alfred E. Neuman poke fun at today?
I haven’t been to a magazine stand in awhile, but please tell me your thoughts! I think it’ll be hilarious!
Better than Spy Vs. Spy, even!
The lighter side of 2006, or any other Mad mag entry. Bring it on!
Ready? Go…
Make me laugh, it soothes my soul.

There’s this girl, right. Met her in January this year. I thought perhaps that I was ready for that thing called dating. So after filtering through the characters I decided to intruduce myself to one of ’em. One that appeared to be smart, and definitely made me laugh. She kept up with my sarcastic lobs. Anyway, Goddammit if Cupid didn’t take aim at my ass. Again.
The first time we met, we stayed up all night talking. She explained why they call the quarterback the quarterback, I spoke of gross profit margins. It was refreshing. It’s been years since I’ve been on a date with a girl. The next time we met, she said she loved me. No, don’t adjust your glasses. She actually said that. It freaked me out. What? You WHAT me? Love? A term I KNOW is so often strewn about with no significant feeling behind it. A term I reserve for oh so few. But there it was, layed out in front of me like a blast of cold water to the face. I shoulda split then. Run off screaming and not looked back. But look back I did. Entered into that maelstrom of lust…

(more…)

Two hefty topics. Topics that I struggle to find my definitive views on. If you watch Fox news (the W station), you hear the pros regarding each of them. But I can’t decide which side of the fence to dangle my legs over. Not that I was always so wishy-washy. Immigration is something I know close-up. I am one. A landed immigrant, according to the Canadian know-it-alls. Me and my siblings were classified as that when we moved to Vancouver in 1971. Talk about a stranger in a strange land. Kindergarten was where I first heard the term “Yankee.” I agreed with those that didn’t want us. I hated Canada. Just wanted to go home. You could keep your “sky is falling” snow, just let us all go back to California. Never happened. And I confess that Vancouver turned out to be the melting pot of every conceivable culture. I wasn’t a stranger in a strange land for long. Our parent’s gave us a gift. That gift was the one where you teach your children that if you hate because of color, hate because of race, hate because of religion, you are no child of theirs. Prejudism was not allowed in our household. At all. No wonder the “n” word still incites my anger. I don’t give a shit WHAT color you are when you utter that word…don’t use it around me.
I grew up in an era when you got kicked outside every time you tried to come in on the weekend. “Go outside and play!” Thank God I had a brother and sister (except when we played pig in the middle, I was ALWAYS the pig), both older. We rode bikes, built forts, played catch, climbed trees, did our chores for our $5.00 allowance…etc…
Do your kids get to do the same? No. It’s more like; “Hey! What are you doing outside?Get in here and play your video games!. It isn’t safe out there!”
But I digress from the topic…
It is indeed aggravating to me when (non-tourist) folks come in to my store and cannot utter a word of english beyond: “you geeve deescount?” It pisses me off. I wouldn’t, for example, go to India and start asking for hamburgers.
But should we ban and criminalize those who flood our borders looking for a better life? How about this…
Instead of flying half way around the globe in search of those ghost weapons of mass destruction, why don’t we look to our south and offer up a reason for the Mexicans to want to stay in their country? Can’t we do that? Can’t we send financial aid to those who are so desperate? The Iraq war seems stupid in the face of the children that I saw so many years ago. Instead of beefing up our borders with our already thinned out troops, why can’t we be humane and find the root of the problem and work to fix it? There is a reason people risk life and limb to get here. Is anyone paying attention? Mexico is beautiful. I know, I’ve been there. It ain’t no Club Med beyond the facade. What the tourist sees is not what real people see. But it is beautiful nonetheless.
Let’s think about capital punishment for a moment. An eye for an eye. So says THAT book. But what about dna? What about those emerging facts that exonerate those that have spent years in prison? And what does society say? “Oops, sorry.” Seems so friggin’ stupid to say that to the face of the wrongly accused. How can we compensate for that life so wasted?
I cannot imagine my feelings if someone purposefully stole the life of someone I love. I can try to conjour the emotions in my head, my body. But it isn’t real until it’s real. Is it my place to say who should have their life snuffed out? I never want to shoulder that responsibility. I’m not high enough to pretend that I know better than God. My legs would never dangle near the switch that executes another human. Would yours? I do not know what my point is. Maybe just food for thought.
But here I sit, fence-bound, nevertheless.
On immigration and capital punishment.
Why are some people in Mexico so desperate to get here? I went to Mexico when I was 19. No, not the gringo trail, the hippy trail. Public toilets? Haha. Bring the Florida Times-Union for tp, folks. Pick a field, any field.
Dogs and cats are NOT pets. Touch them and be scowled at. Women? Well, women are used for two purposes only. One is to cook. The other? Well you can figure it out. Children, babies, come from miles and even countries away just to make a dime selling Chicklet’s. Never was high on the list of Gloria Steinem’s “to see” places. Would you try to escape? Would you make a run for the border with the hope of a better life? I would. Does this mean that I think we should just combine the two countries? Free up the border for any and all? No. I have a sense of pride about America that I feel obligated to protect. And the same goes for the protective nature of my loved ones. And the ones who get wrongly accused. Crossing the border or crossing the line. What a dilemma.
That’s where my legs dangle.
In that dilemma.

Really. I’m serious. Where is your heaven? I want to know.
I want to know what Utopia looks like for you. Because I can’t quite figure mine out. I’m scared of dying. I’m afraid to face whatever lies just past those gates. Always have been. Maybe I always will be. I haven’t received any memos from the great beyond. Have you?
What does it look like? Are there colors? Can we see those who’ve left us? Our family? Our friends? Our pets? Will Sheba, my childhood dog, be there? Will she remember me? Will she look like she did the day she died? Full of maggots, panting and looking upon my 12 year old self for sanctuary? Right before me and my father took her to be euthanized? Will she forgive us? Will Clyde and Irving and Sammy and my Grandmother’s smile when they see me? Will grudges be held like anchors on a ship at sea?
What about Ed and Judy? Who will I pick to visit with first? Is patience a gift we wear like a band around our wrists telling the world we’re 21?
What does ultimate consciousness feel like? Who gets to pick the weather? Or what’s for dinner? Or who gets forgiven? I never wanted to actually TOUCH the stars, just pretend I could.
As if I could be some Hercules in the the face of those who feared everything.
But I’m the fearful one. I do not know where my Heaven is.
I’m scared. I’m afraid I won’t have enough tickets to get in…