Thursday, September 01, 2005

Sex, Unwanted

So . . . Texas A&M, my beloved, tells me six months ago that I will have to pay for 15 hours, even if I take only twelve. I say, fine honey; be that way. I'll make do because I love you. You give me what no one else can. But she, Texas A&M, has turned super-bitch on me. She raises the price-per-hour, lets her retarded little brother with a humping problem (named Transportation Services) alter the bus routes so not one single student is happy or content with his/her lot in life. I say, fine honey; be that way. I'll grin and bare it. I'll take more hours, since I don't have to pay for any hours over 15, up to 18. So I take another KINE class, to get more bang for my poor, worn0out University buck. But suddenly I check my fee statement and lo-and-behold, an 85.00 dollar charge is laid by what must be the hand of god in my A&M account. What fortune! That money must go to feed the poor or the leperous or the women with freakishly big or mishapen feet. I am a samaritan; a good one at that. Of course, my judgement was off. In doing further research, my 85.00 dollars is yet another KINE fee, plus more student fees and taxes. You see, even though I don't pay for more hours, I pay taxes on what I would have paid, had I not been so lucky as to have all these new Goddamn rules thrust upon and into me like a midget's first day in the state pen. I'm talking about rape folks. Rape that comes and sneaks up on you, leaves you first totally breathless, then wondering where your wallet went. Oh, and my virgin sensibilities. That's gone too. If college is here to prepare me for the real world, I am thus prepared. I expect, upon graduation, to find myself raped continually, with little to no control of the outward flux of my bank account. I also expect to work hard, and see the money flit away like a rapist in the night. The cops, they might come and disbeleive me, they might assume I made up a story because I blew all my money on coke and whores. I don't know where to buy coke or rent whores I tell the boys in blue. No matter they say. It's written on my face, the lies, they say. I tell them the mistake a liar's face for mine: a gullible and defenseless college student. Let me toast my imaginary glass of Captain Morgan and Diet coke- *cheers*- Here's to having no control over who screws me. And to hoping A&M will stop making such stupid and careless choices in the future. Oh, the waitress wants me to pay. She says it'll be 85.00 bucks. I open my wallet; out flies a moth. The moth has my last dollar in its mouth. Dammit.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Stabbing people in the eye-for-an-eye

Jesus walked around selling books to folks, turning water to wine for a hot meal and a lap dance, and then there's that dirty bum who pretended to be blind, and when Jesus paid him a never-ending fish-and-loaf-of-bread-combo, the blind man explained to the world, "I can see." So, Jesus, while being one of the saviors of modern mankind, was also the greatest con in the world. Greater than Milli Vanilli, Pop rocks, richard Nixon, Coke-a-Cola, and Rosie O'Donnell all rolled into one. Well, maybe Rosie trumps Jesus in stature. She's so damn nasty. Anyhoo, here I am to ponder why man is such a bundled lump of ass-hair, when the idea comes to me. The world being so nasty and inflated (much like a larger version of Rosie O'Donnell), I think taking Jesus and Hammarabi and Gandhi and Thoreau's logic about giving and eye for an eye should be extended. For instance, instead of waiting to be kicked in the groin while I use the manner's I was raised with by holding open a door for a lady, I shall kick her in her groin, then gently roll her through the door I open. And at work, when someone calls bitching and moaning about what a terrible service my department offers them (that they use so freely) I should sayeth this, "Hey-HEY. Shut the fuck up. Yeah, you say another word, I will hunt you down using this crappy system's information about you and duct-tape you family to the kitchen pipes, then pour honey on they bodies and let three hungry monkeys into the house. then I'll set you up to watch, covered in mushed banana. Now will you let me do my job, or do I have to pay you a housecall?" Or, if an unruly midget co-worker drinks himself into a stuper the night before and mistakes letterman's for the voice of God (thus deeming himself, in his drunken state, the left-over genetics of Jesus) and name me Spunky- this Spunky co-worker would lash out at the unfair world, and I would tell him, "hey, chill out. Your life sucks. You can't do anything about it. Most people, they have a shot at change. You- you better just accept it and hope you find someone as unhappy as you to make each other miserable for the rest of your lives. then you will leave everyone else alone." Or, if on a date going badly, I'd say, "Listen, honnie- listen sweet-ass. I don't want any trouble, but I'm gonna throw this water on the front of your blouse because I'm going to pretend I'm mad. You'd have done it anyway. So I'll just role reverse, call you a dumb bitch (as I would have rightly been called an insensitive bastard) and storm away, pretending that I didn't even leave you stuck with the bill, as well as water all over yourself, as well as no chance for sex tonight. That will teach you, lady." Or I can just chew off my own arm like that guy that was too dumb to just wait and die while his arm was trapped under a boulder. Might as well chew through your own pecker. I refuse to believe that he could not have held out another hours or two until the rescue crew found him. And whatever happened to the strength of ten men when in trouble, about mother's lifting cars off their babies? What happens to miracles? We need jesus at card games, at GlobbTrotter pick-up games, at bikini model's refrigderators, doing everything in his poewr to make things appear one way, when they really are something else entirely. I sound cynical, I know, but I am serious. We need Jesus, or a Jesus-Knock-off David-Blaine-Wannabee to come and provoke, to astonish the world. We need more miracles. We doubt too much as a people. We want to look under each nut, to find the mode that tricks up, the reason why birds fly, the reason why an anglefish can change the shape and intensity of it fishing-lure light. We wonder, but too much wonder can infect our sense of mystery. We enjoy mystery out of others, the intangible that draws us to them. But in things and animals, we trying to dissect, over-analyze and cut up until our view of things is unrecognizable. We lose sight, but what's worse is we lose focus. Our vision is blurred and we struggle to focus on the importance out of life. We glance around, we wash our hands, we dry them, we shield our eyes from the sky and stay indoors most of the day. Where is the mystery in this? Mystery is there, and instead of being curious of all things around us, we must have answers, we must have answers until the questions are defeated. Until the questions are useless. So we lose ourselves and our childlike interrogations of the world. We are broken as a people, and most of those who resemble complete people, live a meager and quiet life. They are, for lack of a better word, the meek. And so, there are men like me, that will plunder and pillage before being myself, thus plund-ed and pill-ed, but I will one day not think so harshly on the laws of good men and on good men themselves. But mostly, I can't stand the way people treat one another. I want to stick a fork in their eye, as they have blurred my vision irrepairable, it seems. I want to do the same to all of them, the stupid people to stupid to know thta we all know so little. We all know nothing compared the the totality of knowledge as a complete and round concept. We know nothing of the whole knowledge of the world. We know nothing at all really, and for that- for thinking we are smarter than we are (and in turn, breaking the souls of plants and animals and mother earth and people worldwide)- God will make us all suffer. He will take the same weight of an eye we stole from him. And believe me, he will not be so kind as to use a fork. He'll probably use a tree branch, if I had to guess. I just hope the asshole go first, so I can watch. I'm done.

Monday, August 15, 2005


Her hair might have smelled of lavender, or maybe turpentine. I never met her face to face. But she did barrade my email, my facebook posting. I answered a call from her at work. Her voice as young and giddy, restless and bored. A Pandora's Baby Blanket of odd smells waiting to expose their source. So she tells me she has no internet connection and I spend more than 30 minutes trouble shooting, when she asks me to call her. I tell her I don't mix work with personal stuff; that work is important to me. She says I can call her afterward. I say, no thanks. So she calls back, tells me (after we find no solution) that she let her ethernet cord unplugged. Silly, silly freshmen. It used to be (when I was new to A&M) that seniors took in freshmen, taught then how to live correctly. By that term 'correctly' I mean to say correctness is different for each person, but there are certain tenets of behavior a young person learns at A&M. Respect for life, respect for tradition and age. But now, after the fall and removal of bonfire, students don't know this. They walk, aimlessly with their head down, and when I make eye-contact, there are no eyes to meet my gaze. Let me be angry a moment: fuck them. Fuck them for not fighting for more from this campus. The Regents, the higher-ups are only doing their jobs. They struggle to keep what we've had, to create also a new environment for more diverse people on-campus, but they can't seem to find a decent medium between the two. SO here I am, voicing as best I can, the inadaquicies of the world I live in for the next year, for the past three. Sure, children grow, but here they grew well for the most part. Now, they just grow, like any other university and each tradition loses value as its participants lose personality. Right now, I'll say I don't care. To care is to have my heart broken each moment I walk on campus. So much so, I don't want to attend class. Hell, I don't want to anyways, but there used to be a reason. The commeraderie. The bousterous nature of the Aggie Spirit. Now, a dying flame. But this chica- I don't know her name because I don't remember her name and feel no emotion about the lapse- she takes the advice I give her as ciriticism, and then just end sup being mean. Calling me a tea sipper. Fine, call me whatever you want. I've been struggling to fight for the salvation of this damn University for three years now, and I'm done for the moment. Tomorrow I'll return to my mentality of salvation, but tonight I'll baste myself in teh shame of a freshman's poor attempt at a verbal abuse. Tea sipper I am tonight. Aimlessly fighting my school and my classmates, my patrons in education. I am the definition of a tea sipper tonight. I'm lost and pretending to know the way. I'm all flash and no substance. Tea sippers will cheers me as their new found friend and curse me behind my back. Aggies- the whole damn lot of them in school today- are sipping tea with me tonight. They don't know the meaning of the Spirit of an Aggie. Shit, this is depressing. So the truth can't be denied. Things are changing. Soon, I will have the mindset not to get down about it, to fight my way through doubt and self-doubt. I'll not fall to my knees and shake, as I do tonight. What a world. What a place this is; humans bending, breaking, shattering and others slow down to watch the ambulance and the police acting calm, desensitized and disingenuine. No, I don't want my old University back. I just want the Spirit to return in whatever form it should rightly take. And when the freshmen enter THAT world, they'll know to bad-mouth an upperclassman without just cause (calling them out on breaking Aggie code or conduct) is to slight the Spirit itself. Stupid freshmen, don't even know where the term tea-sip comes from. I'd sigh if I wanted to waste another breath. I'm already ashamed of what I've written thus far. I'm done.

The Retarded Lance Armstrong

He whirred by me- me in my car and him in his bike. Cars screeched their tires, but he, the delicate marvel, kept riding across the street without notice of the world around. I thought him a daredevil (before finding out his retardedness). I pulled in my parking spot (the one I always park in front of the liqour store) to grab a few things fromt he grocery. And this is where he, also pulling in, watches the front of my car come to a stop.
"Stupid mutha-fukka," he says.
I smile and chuckle to myself, the way a confident man does, or a stupid man does.
As he is chaining his bike up I notice something not quite right about him. He watches me, as a cat might (or a naughty puppy) from the corner of his eyes, pretending to work something on this bike, but really doing nothing. So he is putting on an act while he watches me walk toward him, walk toward the doors that split open automatically. But he is not convincing, even half-so, as most Americans are at watching the world while pretending to be doing something else. This mindset is an agreement with all of North America to be the 'rugged individualist' but really only feigning what the phrase means. So as I get closer (still not realizing this man is retarded) I ask him if he has something to say. His response:
"Dumm Mutha-Fukka; I'll bust your head open."
I continue on to buy my little things, thinking that if he did strike me, if he did make this ''mutha-fukka's" head part like a coconut, then I'd calmly get a grocery worker, tell him there is a beligerant retarded man outside, and that I did not hit him back. Why? Because he is much like a child, the way he acts, but how horrid it must be to be stuck as a child for a lifetime. How nerve-racking to have complex emotions and not have an outlet, a proper outlet, to expose them. So I shop, and leave, and watch him at the candy machines near the entrance, pulling out a giant gumball and smiling. I think what a wonderful thing it must be too. To be a child for a lifetime. But like anything, the good and the bad points kill each other, and the question of the day, year, and second is this: what's left when the dust settles?

Saturday, July 23, 2005

Michael Bublé

The regeneration of Frank Sinatra, his voice is smooth. I'm listening to him right now. Sweet, his voice is. But I consider the soothing harmonic lyrics he molds to be a facáde. How Can we grow? I ask myself.

I've only recently settled on the topic for my first novel, not to say that it will be published (or my first published book), but the first book it will be. In a way, the writing will wrench my heart, make me question how strong I am. I've proven how weak I can be at times, but only recently have I questioned again the power inside myself. The feeling is wonderous, like a child exploring nature. Intoxicating too. So, after meeting someone, I have been posed that question: How strong am I? Are we all? Sure, we are separated by body and ideal, but our soul is unified between us all, like a loaf of bread divided between us all.

I hear Michael Bublé in my mind sometimes when I think on who I am. Sure, what I write is broken and swirls like toilet water, swirls like a diabetic ice-cream machine, icing on a cinnamon roll, or like an absent-minded students scrawlings. I wonder if anyone can makes sense of my metaphor, if it does good to edit, to revise and shape my writing at all, since its too muddled to form cognative prose anyhow. Anyhow, I will test myself (and the Bublé stereophonics of my mind) in the course of this book, which in Thoreauvian in nature (not literally, but idealistically) and will center all that is known within the self. I don't purport a philosopher's mind. I haven't read enough classics to do so, but one day. One day I will, and this will be my first step in that direction and a shift of my efforts on personal pain as a triumphs. Sounds awefully, terribly confusing, I know. BUt follow me here. I'll put this note in the back of the book, if it were written better. Maybe if I revise it . . .

A note: I do wonder how this new avenue will breed life in me. How this new work will shift my focus. How my personal life will mold itself around the words I write, how they will affect who I am, and how who I turn into will shape my writing. Another terrible and confusing sentence, but it sure makes some sense to me. To begin the novel.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

On death

While considering other's death, I think my own should be quick and fluid, straight to the point. Ya know? Life tends to make the pitch-black seems so dark, but it isn't really. Not when we spend so much time preparing, sleeping, blinking, closing our eyes when we kiss, when we hug, when we daydream. I'll embrace death when it comes. I just hope it embraces me, lets me slide right into her arms. Death is a her by the way. Gotta be. Just like God and the devil. Both women. All women. Everybody of value- women. All women. To the point again: Death does indeed wear a black cloak (for me, in my mind) but she doesn't seem so scary. She is the dancing feet of John Travolta, the smooth silk of a Degas stroke. It's funny, the American culture fearing death so much. So much, even after an experience with death, Americans still wonder and wish to know each little detail of secrecy. I generalize for my point. But I'd just prefer to be surprised, to do something good with my life before I go, taken while soaking in a bubble bath or laying in fresh cut grass. That's what I'm working on right now. I want to invent the world's fastest ice-cream dispenser. I'm so close I can taste it. Kidding. Something really good though. Something really majestic. That's a great word for the vague images in my head. Majestic. What to do? That's the question of a lifetime isn't it? That's all we really need the answers for . . . what to do. Who we want to be. We think that it will come, but it won't, not by itself. It needs a stiff push, a quiet yearning from our gut to expose itself. Who we are is composed of what we do. Something great, so I can be remembered by those who knew me as someone great. That's not too much to crave from life. And then death can come and woo me away. Then death can lift her cloak and I'll fall gracefully from the world we all know, but never really understand. That's my kind of life. That's my kind of death. Both sweet and fluid.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Loves Grows where my ................ Goes . . .

Day two, being in love. It is a nice fact to find, me not having to save this one. I'm sure she likes me; I am sure she has some quality that I cannot live without. The romantic in me wants to say she is the one, but of course, I just don't know yet. Her face is delicate and strong. Her eyes are just gorgeous. He mouth is like the mouth I saw in my dreams as a thirteen year old boy. Thr same mouth that was on my last girlfriend, the mouth-fraud. Her mouth is different in a way though. Hard on the outside, gentle underneath. For some reason, I want to kiss her, a want I've not had for years now. And I think that gentleness underneath is the most plush and vibrant thing I'll come across in a long time. If- if I get to come across it. Of course in love I am optimistic. It is the mindset I was raised with. My mother, my grandmother are both optimistic in love and have been lucky thus. WIll I be lucky? The men in my family are not. But the men in my family have only hurt the ones they love, where I know I will devote my life to her, when she comes to me. (Maybe this is her.) Maybe the clouds have parted and maybe she is waiting for me to propose. I always equate proposing as the ultimate act, no matter how it is objectified in that runaway-New-England-bride or the man left standing at the alter, at the bus terminal where his wife went missing.

Damn, I smoke more when I've been drinking. But tonight, I don't care at all. I've been there and back tonight, being strong and trying to get to know this woman, trying to find out how close she is to my perfection. Perfection being different for each. I don't expect perfection from her (if she is the one); I only expect her to be perfect for me (if she is the one). And her roommate- she wa there- I swear I've met her before. I don't get fond memories of this meeting, but I am sure. I probably won't place it any time soon. But this girl, she is odd just enough to make me interested. And I do not think I'll have to be her savior, which is a miracle in-and-of-itself. I hope I've learned to trust my gauge enough. I hope the love in my is still solid. I know it is still.
The way I see love: Love is pure. Love is the prayer before bed, excusing the selfishness that follows a truly good person's blessings of their loved ones. Love is the blanket that covers cold feet at night, the blanket leaving warm feet uncovered. I should not say love is another's feet; it is not. Love is knowing yourself well enough to value the love you offer, valuing the ones you love as they are,and gracing them with that love no matter what. I have yet to love a woman in this way (mother's and mother-figures are the exception and a similar but altogether different love); I've spent almost four years cultivating this frame-of-mind. I am a better person for it. I am a person who is able to love fully at a relatively young age. Now comes the hard part. Testing the women I find myself attracted to, and dictating which attributes make me thus attracted. I am in love again and Donna Summers is indeed playing. I've just put her on . . .

What am I, chop liver?

About a year ago, I worked at a church with the kids and the snot and the doo-doo diapers and I loved it. Not because of any of those things, but for one simple reason. I worked with four women. It was nice and they smelled good. But more on topic, I would come in Sunday mornings (drunk or half drunk) and sleep in the corner every once in a while. Anyway, I think I fell in love again today. I fell in love with a woman with an opinion finally and to boot, she doesn't look half bad. I like her in the worst way, the Moonlighting-David&Maddie-way, or the way the little kids loved to use me as the bottom of their fort (and sometimes a long work bench) because of my uncanny ability to stay still. So there you have it. I have been looking for a wife and I might have indeed heard Donna Summers singing, I might have indeed found someone I like enough to care enough to hate enough to love. Think about that one. It makes complete sense to me. I love to love ya baby . . .

***Edit*** Loves stinks like rotten, moldy tomato soup.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

Janie of the Southwest Parkway-Kroger Clan

She looks like a slightly less feminine, freckled face-Morgan Freeman (from Robin Hood: Prince of Theives) and speaks with a condecension I did not notice until yesterday. Let me begin from a point of coherency: I have a small delimma with Kroger's grocery store. It seems every times I go into the store (once a week for major shopping) I utilize the splendid price-saving strategum of the Kroger card. Since I don't carry it with me, and it is tied to my phone number, I tell them that. They type it in- oops, 'I'm surry sur, uh- maybe its on another nummer'. Nope- don't own a cell phone, only a home phone. 'Uh- I don't know wha tell ya . . .'. So I get slightly pissed and tell them to give me another application and the line behind me waits as I fill out another card. This has happed three times. And again yesterday.

Surprise was I, when I gave Janie my number and she said I must not have filled out the card. "Of course I did; I stood in line and handed it to the lady," I said. She preceeded to tell me THREE times I must have not sent it in. How many different ways can I explain that my mail carrier was THEM!? So I told her she usually doesn't give me problems, but today she's is really getting on my nerves and being very disrespectful. She was taken aback, I assume because I can articulately express my anger and dissappointment in the human experience from practice doing so. So then she told me one more time that I was wrong again. I told her to give me another form to fill out. Then she asked me why I didn't carry the card with me, explaining that there are keychain cards and a main card. I told her I didn't want to clutter my life with their crap. Again no reponse, so she told me I could leave my fingerprint on the machine. I laughed at the idea that I would leave yet another sign that I will die unknown, with every business and goverment agency tagged onto me, still sending me mail, via the knowledge they suck from me via my fingerprint. I told her, 'no way in hell.' This time she laughed, and I called her an idiot. I didn't, but I wanted to.

So life have a funny way of giving you lemonade and peeing on your face like R.Kelly did. Now Janie and I will soon be married, as I proposed in between the canned carrots and tollhouse semi-sweet chocolate. Actually, if by proposing I mean to say, "mailing a letter to the head of the Kroger Branch in Houston, Dallas, Austin, San Antonio, and her local regional manager" then yeah, I proposed. I haven't done this yet, but give me two weeks and let my anger fester. Better yet, let me go in again and have my ONLY phone number rejected one more time. Sounds like I have my evenings planned, doesn't it? Anyway, it really gets me when people can't extend simple human kindness. People sometimes ask me why I'm so grumpy. It could be one of two reasons: 1. You have made me grumpy and I am responding to your stupidity without blatantly throwing it in your face; or 2. I've just gotten back from Kroger's. If I am ever rich, I'll hire some crazy guys to blow up all the business buildings that mess with me. Crazy guys like doing that kind of stuff, and they usually get away with it. Because they're crazy.