Circling the block...

Circling the block...

The traffic signal had been green for less than 10 seconds, but her taillights stayed red through the last 3 cycles. Green, yellow, red, green, yellow, red, green, yellow, red, and green. Silent and gridlocked without another car in sight. She reached across my lap to open the door, avoiding touch like playing Operation with fresh batteries, surrounded by upright dominoes just waiting to be knocked over. I was inclined to interrupt her arm's course but I knew my grasp would only be avoided with ninja like skill. She pulled the handle with grace, and pushed with power. The now open portal allowed for escape, and I knew I needed to seize the opportunity. As I stepped to the pavement my ankle rolled, not enough to sprain, but enough to distract me momentarily from the night's events. I regained my bearings just in time for the brisk, dark air to encase my whole body. I turned just in time to watch the ruby red disappear from the taillights and reappear on the stoplight, setting the car in motion to break the law. As I watched her pull away a chill without goose bumps struck deep, and the pouring rain wasn't going to help our state of affairs. Almost immediately, the drench soaked through to my skin adding, even more, to an uncomfortable situation. I made my way to the sidewalk, unsure of exactly what just happened, and hoped the rain would just wash this day off. I kneeled to the curb, and even with opposable thumbs, a bit of DE-evolution was finally realized. Maybe she's right, I show only what I want to show, and feel only what I want to feel. But if it only means walking home on a cold, dark, rainy night then so be it. Or maybe the headlights coming this way means she was only circling the block...

Cataclysmal Triad

Inspired by a friends blog about bad doggy style...Some names have been changed to protect the innocent, or not so innocent.

So back in the day, Will (perfectly good pseudonym) was lucky (or unlucky, you decide) enough to experience 2 threesomes. Although he still believes that their overrated, mostly from the hype surrounding them, his last one just might have scarred him forever...

Will used to hang out at Joe's apartment all the time. It was party central every night of the week. Will was jockin' these two fly girls (maybe you can guess the era). They were both friends and both named Heather (Oddly enough much like the movie, Heathers, Okay then, Will is now Jason Dean or JD to follow true to the greatest black comedy of the eighties). One being brunette, the other blond, JD was more attracted to the brunette. The brunette was an all star softball player (imagine that, bi-sexual) and the blond was a ninja (okay, she just was some kind of belt, that included really hard groin kicks but we'll get back to that later). JD had learned all that, in the pre-game leading up to "The Night". After large amounts of coercing and alcohol, JD led the Heathers into Joe's lair. Which was really weird cause he never slept in there. Probably cause it was the room that everyone had sex in. It was well equipped with a small fridge sporting a variety of beverages (Not unlike a hotels mini bar). A cigar box full of condoms laid open, right next to the king bed. And a tower of clean mismatched sheets were stacked in the corner. The only 2 rules were to hang the pooka shell lei on the door knob so that you would not be disturbed, and change the sheets when finished. Everything was set and started off without a hitch. Everyone began to undress each other and JD grabbed a beer from Joe's mini fridge. Before he could crack it open, he was invited to the bed, so he set it on top of the fridge. They engaged and continued with the foreplay which was quite awhile. Now JD knew that equal disport was important, but he was just a bit more attracted to Brunette Heather. When the time came for intercourse, JD's decision was obviously already made. As JD started his business, Blond Heather got up out of bed and began to gather her clothes for redress. JD interrupted his act and got up to see what was wrong. When he asked, he was abruptly answered with a karate kid style kick to the groin followed by the comment "Threesome means three people, not two". Being his first completely naked barefoot nut shot, JD fell to the floor in writhing pain wondering why God didn't give him two penis's. His first instinct was to grab his package, but also Blond Heather's foot. She fell to her hands and knees. As she began to crawl away on all fours, Brunette Heather had already shot out of bed and grabbed the unopened beer that JD left upon the mini fridge. With only what JD could imagine as a softball style pitch, Brunette Heather whizzed the silver can right across the plate (Or JD's head) hitting the strike zone (Or Blond Heathers right ass cheek) while screaming "You bitch!". Brunette Heather jumped on Blond Heather, but as it seemed Blond Heather's ground game was much better delivering quite a few shot's to the face of Brunette Heather. The bedroom door swung open, and Joe stood there with the most indescribable look on his face. The Heather's were pulled apart and everyone was tended to. Busted balls, a bruised ass, and a broken nose...Threesome's can be dangerous.

I was never allowed (by my friends) to engage in these activities ever again. I mean JD was never allowed (by his friends) to engage in these activities ever again...

The "Lucky" Grandson...

There are two things a little boy is “lucky” to have. A loving grandpa and his first dog. Or in my case a loving grandpa and his first 100 dogs...As a boy I spent a lot of time with my grandpa. As far back as I can remember, all the way to my mid teens, my grandpa raised greyhounds. It was his livelihood and almost every weekend I got to be a part of that. These dogs were athletes, and were treated as such. Like the athletes that they were, they had a seven acre training ground fully equipped with multiple gated runs, heated kennels, a mini racing track, barn with feeding area (a full cafeteria size kitchen that served 2 daily meals of beef stew with veggies), and a lot of room to roam. My grandpa treated every dog with the love and respect that any dog owner would give his long lasting companion. Only they weren't his dogs, he was only the trainer. These were racing greyhounds, and his job was to get them ready to race. Now if you know anything about greyhounds, you would know that they are not in any way an aggressive dog. In fact they are very gentle, and I would suggest to anyone to adopt a retired racer. You will not be sorry. But they do love to chase...Especially rabbits. Now let me stop all you PETA freaks right now. This is not a story with a political agenda and I'm not condoning the training methods that were used, it's truly just a story of a boy and his grandpa. And furthermore don't think if I picked you up from one of your naked photo shoots and dropped you off in Antarctica with a hunting knife and a fur coat, that I wouldn't find you later all bundled up chomping on a seal sandwich. So back to the rabbits. There was a very simple training method. It would start with a trip to the feed store where I would get to help pick out a dozen or so jack rabbits. And to spare all the particulars, yes a chase would ensue that would end the life of thumper and his 11 other forest friends(and just to clarify the dogs were never the executioner, again they were in it for the chase). Like Clarice and her silence of the lambs, I had my own feelings about the velveteen slaughter, but it was how they trained the dogs. So this is all really just back story for my tale (or tail if I wanted to stay on theme).

So sometime around the mid 80's two things started happening that sparked my young entrepreneurial mind. Only years later did I truly understand how ridiculous my idea was, but I'll never forget the way my grandpa dignified my attempt to supplement his now lacking income from the greyhound industry...

So these animal rights activists started attacking the greyhound industry for their training methods, which in turn, years later put my grandpa out of business. But at the same time, when he was just beginning to feel the financial burden of “Watership Down”, I noticed a fad at school that would save the day. And to put this all in perspective for you the reader, I was about 11 or 12, 5th or 6th grade. Almost every kid I knew had a colored, lucky rabbits foot on there backpack or belt loop. (If your my age you can't deny you owned one in the eighties). So here was my somewhat morbid scheme. Not only could we train greyhounds, but we could sell rabbits feet to make up for the loses (remember that this was 5th grade economics and we did have an abundance of rabbits feet).

I'll never forget pitching this idea to my grandpa telling him, we were selling “luck”, and I'll never forget his response...

With just enough laughter not to elicit a feeling of stupidity on my part, my grandpa said, “Having a rabbit's foot doesn't necessarily make you lucky, most of the rabbits we get have four, and look where it got them.”


Miss you very much, grandpa...

Jagermeister in the land of OZ... (a re-imagining)

So this is going to be more of a re imagining of the original. Most will not understand, but will be obligated to at least parallel themselves with the moral of the story in one way or another. While most of the individuals involved will "get it", only one person will truly understand.

*This has been modified to fit your screen, edited for time constraints, and the names have been changed to protect the innocent (or not so innocent).

Jagermeister in the land of Oz

She was Dorothy, and Dorothy wanted to run away. The spinning tornado encompassed her life and complemented her spirit. Broken, trying to put herself back together with shiny jagged red pieces, now glued to her Manolo Blahnik heels. No Toto, which would mean I'm leaving the dog out of this story. But in Esperanto, defining my purpose (way to obscure, might want to google it). I was the tin man, a broken heart instead of the absence of one. Not broken like her, more like rusted. His oil can was a green bottle boasting validity of being a master hunter. Or put simply, Jagermeister. We met up with the lion and the scarecrow along our yellow brick trail of downtown Portland. Only for the fluidity of the story, would I attach these two stigmata's to the actual people involved. Neither a lack of courage or stupidity plagued these two. We partied with the lollipop guild until way past their curfew. Then we trampled the yellow brick road using every path and hitting every bar on our way to Oz. And finally, when we ignored the warnings of “Authorized Personnel Only” to look for flying monkeys from the hotel rooftop, we realized things were getting out of hand. The lion was cut off for “showing” off her “courage” and the scarecrow decided it was time to bale...(had to throw in the cheesy hay joke) So the lion and scarecrow left Oz, and Dorothy and the tin man left their inhibitions. They were not behind the wizard's curtain, but under the covers unleashing their own tornado. I did hear Dorothy click her heels and say "There's no place like home" at least 5 times.

Moral of the story…

Beware of company sponsored Christmas parties, bottles (yes plural) of Jagermeister, and make sure you turn off the TV during your incredibly unbridled, drunken, sexcapades or you will wake up next to a co-worker, with the worst headache you've ever had being serenaded by the real munchkins of the lollipop guild.

So Much Better On (Recycled) Paper

A recycled version of my original...

So Much Better On Paper

Small talk annoys us both, but we still converse about shit that don't matter with the intention of finding a common, alluring relay of thought. She knows I'm bored. Somethings wrong. Somethings missing. I can't remember the last time we had a sober discussion that held my A.D.D. attention span while sober in the light of day or the calming shade of night. Bartender, please save me. Please make her interesting again. There's definitely an awkward idiosyncrasy between ordering a drink in thirst, and ordering a drink to numb yourself from the company you keep. Either way it can't be poured and/or drank fast enough. Please don't speak; the tranquilizers haven't taken affect. Only seconds went by and as my delusions hit my bloodstream like a junkies fix, and so did her question. "So, what do you want in a girlfriend?" "My penis", answers my second brain. Luckily, anatomy never connected a man's second brain to his mouth, so she didn't hear that. Plus that's not what I was really thinking anyway. The funny thing about that question was I saw it coming, even expected it. Yet I never intended to ever answer it. Not because I don't want to, or refused to, but because I don't know the answer. Another long sip injects more phantasm into my veins and prevents me from speaking. Even when I finish drinking I leave my lips upon the glass to avoid a reply, keeping eye contact with an ice cube instead of her. Out of my peripherals I could see her reaching def con 5 due to my avoidance of her query. When she realized I was not going to answer her or use my 3 remaining lifelines to at least fake an answer, she walked away. But before she was out of audible range, I heard these words, "When you know the answer, let me know". The sad truth is I won't let her know, but it was then, for the first time, I really cared what came out of her mouth.
 
So for the rest of the night, I sat alone scribbling, which was actually refreshing of sorts. I went through 7 keno pencils, and the sound of ice cube rattles kept bringing me pages to write on, as each drink's companion was a small square napkin. At each delivery I asked for extra folio in lieu of the novel I was drafting. I never saw myself composing in a bar, but it was the best way to observe the asinine, male/female coital reciprocity. Metaphorically perfect, since this environment is where I met my first wife, and that worked out well didn't it.
 
Observe. Write. Listen. Write. "No this seat is taken". It wasn't entirely untrue. I was frankensteining my napkins in a nice neat stack sitting across from me. Observe. Write. Listen. Write. I took bits and pieces of every woman that stole my attention. Observe. Write. Listen. Write. I felt much like a serial killer, with one gross difference, I wasn't there to designate a victim, just to gather the attributes of the perfect woman. And then it hit me, just as I heard the words "Last Call!"
 
I gathered up all the napkins but one, and drowned them in my last watered down drink. I grabbed keno pencil 8 and for some reason i had the death grip of a high school student at the Saturday Afternoon Test.(Obscure reference to my favorite love story) I jotted this down on the last blank napkin and left it on the table right next to keno pencil 8…
 
…Divorcee's, widower's, the broken hearted. We make lists. Lists that define our next journey; learning from mistakes, and embracing quality's of the once loved. The problem is, they always look so much better on paper…