Monday, January 30, 2017

Condiments and Back to Punk

Condiments

As you may know, I'm a condimaniac. Love me some condiments.  It's a land of many rulers and regions divided by many nationalities. You've got your basic western condiments: ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, and hot sauce.  Then you've got your eastern condiments: soy sauce, hoisin, ponzu, and fish sauce.  In between these prominent regions lies several towns and cities of equally amazing oozes.  Some are larger metropolitans like BBQ sauce while others are only quaint towns in small packages like fire sauce at Taco Bell or Chick-fil-A’s Polynesian sauce.  To explore this world has always been a goal of mine where my fridge displays the trophies from my travels.  A ceramic jar of French mustard with stone seeds and slightest hint of vinegar pushed in the front next to a hot sauce that destroys your palate for a day.  When guests come over, I direct them to my pantry with a spoon. Oh you haven't tried real Mexican hot sauce, no worries, I've smuggled some Tapatios into Germany from my last visit to the States.  So you like hot things, try this Harissa I found in the oriental bazar last month.  Give me topic and I'll give you a sauce.  Follow my lead to fish sauce town and nobody will want to talk to you for a couple of days.  Just trust me and I'll lead you through this beautiful world called condiments.


Back to Punk

I'm a 28 year old punk again: lost, confused, and angry by the actions of my past.  I tried to be an adult, tried to live a responsible life. Worked hard to fight my attempts at flight, and fought hardest at being content with the idea of being a good husband, father, and friend cause I found somebody worth a damn – someone to grow old with.  I got pretty far, but went about it all wrong. I went at it alone.  I now know that happiness is not real unless it is shared.  So simple a concept, so easy a plan, but acknowledged too late and not expressed soon enough. Now I'm back at square something.  I won't lose what I've learned and still learning, keeping it in a bag to pull out for someone special, even if that person may not come around for some time.  Because the fact is I’m not good at casual dating.  It's just not for me. I don't need a body to grab onto, I need a personality and future to hold onto.  So I'll live my old way; a punk way. Strong, passionate, and pushing forward alone until I can rest in someone's loving arms or six feet underground.


Note: These posts were written in May 2016.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

Analogy Whore and Ringmaster

Analogy Whore 

This title is an analogy; fuck me. I tend to dislike too many analogies in writing, but damn do I like making them myself [see passage below, and this whole rant]. I’m so bad at it - like I was going to name the passage below Lord of the Love, but realized I’d have to kill myself for doing something like that. But I love them because what better way to describe a shitty day than comparing it to the watching Grown Ups 2 on repeat for five years straight or saying “it was like smashing my dick between two bricks.” What’s a nicer way to tell your Mom her cat exploded? Letting her know the gory details or comparing it to a flower blossoming. I’d go with the later and maybe talk more about the happy flower shit than the mess of cat hair and guts all over the carport.

Ringmaster 

I miss companionship, embrace and ultimately love, but I have a problem of dealing with its presence too. Love’s warming touch comes with anxiety that its potency may fade or embrace may be shared with others. To love unconditionally: that’s my quest. However, in this pursuit, I've only drove myself and those willing to take the journey with me completely crazy. I’ve garnered trust, wholeheartedness, and pure love from others, but have not been able to return the favor. I doubt and behave outlandishly, making claims on irrational futuristic thoughts. Sitting on the fence waiting for it to break. I’m now officially a member of the circus I shied away from so long. But I guess knowing is power, and I plan to get better at this. Maybe one day I’ll be the ringmaster and not the hungry lion.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Personal Fashion and Vices

Personal Fashion

I'm not a fashion buff obviously. Most of my shirts and pants are wrinkled, stained (mostly mustard and coffee stains), covered in cat hair, missing zippers or buttons, and are probably home to undiscovered biological life while my shoes have many holes to prominently show everyone that my socks don't match. This slop fest is then enclosed in a giant black tortilla called a trench coat. In general, I pretty much have had the same wardrobe since high school with a few tweaks. For instance, I wear less shirts with funny phases on it like "Don't let me get my flying monkeys", and I've also thrown away most of my iconic fast food branded t-shirts after realizing that nobody goes to bed with someone labeled Taco Bell. Furthermore, I completely removed myself from the Crocs line of shoes which might be one of the smartest decisions in my life. Not that I don't think they are comfortable, but the fact that no style of that shoe is attractive - yeah, definitely not the ones with fur on it. Actually, if I ever discover a volcano, I'm dedicating it to all the UGG boots and Crocs of the world. It will have a sign on the bottom that reads "Step up to the volcano edge, take off your shoes, throw them in and start increasing your chances of getting laid." The volcano would also be named Helga and have a Dippin Dots ice cream stand because your future life without those feet dwellers should start with futuristic ice cream.


Vices

I got to start remembering that a glass of wine is not a bottle. There's something to this; everything seems simple and usually leads to something more complex. A heartbeat leads to a stroke, or more simply life leads to death. A perfect example of chaos. Vices temporarily remove us from this conclusion or maybe guides us to some kind of compromise. Its job is two-fold: to keep us from fully understanding the fucked up situations we take on or maybe make sense of them. But how many cigarettes do we have to smoke till life comes into full focus? How many drugs are needed to produce something we can accept? Everything manifests into a form that is unique to us and it is our job to interpret it. Narcotics, alcohol, and promiscuous sex can only take us down so many paths, with each road engaging new ideas or fables while truth slowly reveals itself, whispering around every bend. Consequently, you know deep-down that a fire starts from a spark, burns with a hot heat, and ends in embers. Each story a drawing board that illustrates nothing significant and is easily erasable. Divination might be the answer. Knowing that the feelings or words we want to say have no future. Maybe, it's drowning thoughts that make the most sense sometimes, and it's vices that keeps them from floating to the surface.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

The Worst DJ and The Result of Too Many Rom-Coms

The Worst DJ

It’s easy to be a good DJ, but it’s even easier to be a bad one. I’m talking about playing all the right songs at all the wrong times. Spinnin’ the Thong Song at Little Timmy’s communion or droppin’ the 1998 hit single from Will Smith, Miami in Miami. This is the road to being a bad DJ, but why stop there when you can be so much worse. Yep, it’s finally time to bust out that wolf coat and dad cologne to dress the part. Maybe become a dread head or get a perm; hair-do or don’t. It’s all part of your funk and it smells so bad. Similarly, it’s time to work on those moves. Yeah, you’ve got the wave, but what about the tsunami? Take a splash with a quick dip and plug your nose, or throw callbacks to all your favorite movie bust-a-moves (Pee Wee tequila dance ya’ll). Don’t spin records, spin CDs and hit on every girl you see. You're doing great, but don’t forget to keep asking the crowd to bring you a jagerbomb.


The Result of Too Many Rom-Coms

How does it happen? A random bump, some snuggling, and then living with the ones we think are right. Is it trial and error or just giving up? Finally settling and giving into mediocrity with the mindset that it’s better than being alone. We stitch the patterns we hate. It could be better, but we compromise on the one thing that we have all the say in - love. It doesn't have to be like that. Romance is not dead; it’s still breathing. It’s reaching out for your hand with its trembling one, but it’s exhausted and tired. Not from waiting, but from trying.

Thursday, March 13, 2014

Cleaning and The Reuben

Cleaning

Cleaning is less about sanitation, and more about self education. Everybody has doubts; everybody has that existential moment at the tail end of a wine glass where they ask themselves “who am I” or “what have I become.” Don’t answer these questions with a thumb up your ass and a self-delusional fantasy; get up and start cleaning. It’s opening a dusty drawer and finding that sad, expired box of condoms that really capitalizes on your state of loneliness. It’s locating a pack of unopened, thawed corn dogs wedged between a broadsword and a spare tire which truly emphasizes your laziness and love of nerd culture. Rummage through old love letters to understand your incompetence at dating or calculate your manliness by counting the number of hot sauces in your fridge. The evidence of your life is sprawled out in an unorganized fashion, hiding among clothes, camouflaged as a bookmark, or lost in a shoebox. It’s time to start playing your own, personal game of Clue where each character is another one of your characteristics and each item or setting adding support for why you portray it. It’s time to put on your detective hat, start picking up the pieces you’ve left behind and cracking the case of who you really are.


The Reuben

I don’t think it’s a secret, I love reuben sandwiches. In my opinion, they are up there with the Mona Lisa and Egyptian Pyramids as one of man’s greatest achievements with the additional advantage of being edible. In a city of sandwiches, they are a castle among clay houses. For this reason, it is tattooed to my body and eating them has become part of my lifestyle. The reuben is a simple, but complex sandwich containing an awesome combination of bitter, sour, and sweet with a huge hint of salty beef. These features are placed between two slices of lightly toasted rye bread and served hot and kinda sloppy where the cross-section resembles a Mike Myers’ victim after several months of decomposing. Sadly, the description I entail to you now is one rarely seen in the wild. Restaurants today have gotten the gall to place this darling on their menu only to deliver something that wouldn't even be accepted in a small-town beauty pageant. It’s disgusting with many faults including not enough beef, sogginess, and the worse, complete dryness. This monstrous act not only discourages the average reuben-goer from ordering them anymore, but also gives a false impression to newcomers. If you’re going to represent, represent the real deal dawg. If not, don’t half-ass it and stick to hot dogs.

Saturday, January 4, 2014

Top Tens and Winter

Top Tens

This year has been a pretty busy one with the first half being a juggling act of four jobs and the second half getting knee deep into some fairly new science.   It's been a great, challenging year with a lot of long-term goals finally being realized, but not without the sacrifice of some closely held loves (e.g. music festivals, cinema, traveling, and late-night karaoke).  I'm ready to embrace the new year and replay some of the mistakes from last year.  Yes, I believe that you can learn from past mistakes, but I'd hate to go through life without them. Cheers.

Top Ten Albums
  1. The National: Trouble Will Find Me
  2. My Bloody Valentine: mbv
  3. RVIVR: The Beauty Between
  4. Flyying Colours: Flyying Colours EP
  5. Disclosure: Settle
  6. Iron Chic: The Constant One
  7. Daft Punk: Random Access Memories
  8. Postiljonen: Skyler
  9. No Joy: Wait To Pleasure
  10. Let it Go: Modern Atlas

Top Nine Movies (I could probably make a better Top Ten Worst Movies list)
  1. Before Midnight
  2. Spring Breakers
  3. Gravity
  4. Wolf of Wall Street
  5. Blue Jasmine
  6. The Way Way Back
  7. Upstream Color
  8. Much Ado About Nothing (Whedon)
  9. This is the End

Haven't seen a lot this year (these all have potential): Her, 12 Years of Slave, The Spectacular Now, American Hussle, Nymphomaniac: Volume 1, Nebraska, Blue is the warmest color, the great beauty, Francis Ha, Monsters University, Inside Llewyn Davis, About Time, Rush, The Lone Ranger.


Winter

Winter has struck with summer love's residual heat quickly fading, leading to warmth and comfort presenting itself with the bold, helpless word WANTED.  This may come in the form of food, whisky, movies or a warm body.  If winter fantasies exist, mine would be under the cover sharing a handle of bourbon or watching The Twilight Zone with a french dip sandwich.  It's strange; winter brings the worst out of me.  I get so lost in its solace or lack of that I start thinking dating might be a good idea.  That spending some quality time with someone who is not a cat might be worthwhile.  I imagine making pillow talk about subjects with short answers or long stories with no purpose but to keep talking.  Like popping bubbles, these thoughts materialize as quickly as they fall apart, and I'm back to thinking its near-sighted and stupid.  Sitting alone in my apartment, I fight back winter's cool breeze by forecasting a storm.  It's an annual battle in an ongoing war where both sides deserve to win.

Saturday, August 3, 2013

Subway and Planes

Subway
I survived the subway.  A loud, slithering tremor under the city streets that transports urban dwellers from the best parts of town to the worst, or visa-versa.  Each person a puzzle piece of an inconceivable landscape, and maybe one that no one wants finished.  From two girls blabbering about their experiences with bad relationships and how one even lost her favorite cookbook in such ordeals to another quiet girl sitting nearby drawing me the entire trip.  I knew and she didn't.  Setting her eyes, positioning her knee as a easel, she drew the homeless-looking hipster picking his wedgie and talking to himself.  Still the wheels on the subway keep turning, with each person, each in their unique get-ups and styles, playing a different part of the city sprawl.  Climbing the city ladder or falling off; Diving deep, but making little splash or worse, drowning.  You can only guess their suffering or happiness - and play their story as you see fit.
Late one night, after multiple drinks and a comedy routine, my friend (Mikey), his wife and I were in transit back home - the R train to be exact.  I sat rolling a fresh cigarette while his wife and him talked about the night’s events.  Standing up to join them, I dropped the cigarette and proceeded to pick it back up.  “Don’t smoke that please, Bob” Mikey touted.  “I've seen men smear shit all over this place, and not with their feet.  I've seen men hand-paint this place with their shit, or we can only hope it was their shit.  Even worse, there’s a lady who carries bottles of vomit and another that chases and sneezes on you.  I've seen her move train cart to train cart making sure her sneeze connects.”  This is the subway, and I love it.  It’s a place where you realize no matter how crazy you might think you are, there is always someone crazier.


Planes
To sum up my plane ride from New York: I got caught picking my nose by the prettiest passenger and the stewardess slipped me free vodka drinks.  I also learned white grown-ups love the movie Grown Ups.  Keven James is their God, Adam Sandler their Jester, and Chris Rock makes them feel less racist.  Which leads me to my next point: I’m not sure how it happens?  You know, turning old - not by age, but by attitude.  The jump from cliff-diving a situation to looking at life as a chess board, each move precise and efficient.  I know, I talk about this a lot, and yes, it’s always on my mind with a trailing response of “Ruunnnnnn!”.  But it is scary and always near, like a disease for which the only continual acts of irresponsibility and stupidity can cure.  Maybe it’s this fear that draws me to dick jokes.  One more cock reference and I’m in the clear. Like those old cootie rhymes, Dick Dick Fart Fart, now I’ve had my adulthood shot.