I Could Tell You

I could tell you that I went to Mexico
rented a little place on the beach
drank Pura Sangre from the bottle
hosted giggly black-eyed senoritas
all of us soaked in agave sweat

I could tell you that I hit the road
bought a twenty year old Winnebago
steering clear of the highways and cities
map of Nebraska across the dashboard
and my dog in the passenger seat

I could tell you that I flew to Europe
passport, Visa and a fistful of cash
La Posada de las Almas y Tibur Hotel
walked in the footsteps of Moors
lit a candle for you at La Seo

I could tell you that I went to Vegas
Subsidizing hookers and strippers
Losing track of what was lost & won
sharkskin jacket and boxer shorts
Ben Sanderson had nothing on me

I could tell you that I met some girl
whirlwind romance & a trip to Elkton
Sundays spent reading the banns
gumball machine rings & impromptu vows
marital bliss with Sara (or was it Stella?)

I suppose I could tell you the truth
the bad & the ugly, not so much good
but illusions have gotten us this far
why start now with brutal candor?
Just pick a stanza above to believe

Show & Tell Tuesday - HermitWear by Assclown

I know most of you were imagining that, during my hermit period of introspection, I walk around my house smeared in my own feces and wearing nothing but a severed goat's head as a codpiece.
That couldn't be farther from the truth. And let me tell you why.....
Locking yourself within the cozy confines of your own address is curious enough on it's own. When people hear about it, they usually raise an eyebrow and (usually) silently think to themselves "what a freak". And if that person is intrusive enough, they sometimes start to concern thenselves with your mental stability (regardless of the fact that hermitdom has a long and respectable history). If you give them enough evidence, they may feel the need bring in the authorities and have you involuntarily admitted into one of the area's finer nut-houses.
So you have to give them as little ammunition as possible. Tell them its less about isolation and more of a retreat. Act as normal as possible to ease their inevitable suspicions. And that act must include a reassuring costume such as the one pictured below.
I've found that khakis topped with a cable-knit sweater over a lazily starched oxford is the perfect disguise to put even the most meddlesome busybodies at ease. After all, a total whackjob couldn't possibly coordinate an outfit like that. So surely I'm an intelligent and sane person, no threat to myself or others.
Right?

She

Shi has always been my closest companion
my confidante, my lover, my judge
touching the lives of the people around me
her hand so close to grazing my own
I can feel the warmth of her fingertips

Shi whispers her name in my ear as I sleep
I'm unsure if it's a tease or a prophecy
uncertain if I want her to lay down beside me
taking me in her willowy arms
embracing me as the candle slowly burns

Shi comes and goes as she pleases
but never quite leaving me alone
reminders of her presence litter my room
a murder of crows, a salt-pepper ram
keep me company until shi returns

Shi promises me comfort & redemption
alluring in her matte black dress and veil
a vision of fate and relentless certainty
her broken watch oddly out of place
but still keeping perfect time

Shi goes days without a single word
then blusters on for weeks on end
"hominem te esse memento" & "memento mori"
repeated until I hear them in my sleep
never knowing if she'll be there when I wake

Show Me Where It Hurts

I was going through some boxes and I came across and old gig case for a guitar I no longer own. It was just folded up inside along with a few zippos and 18" x 12" unframed canvas painting. The initials "R.J" scripted neatly at the bottom right in black oil.
Regina J. was an art student I dated a long time ago. A million years ago, it seems like. She had this exquisite tattoo on her shoulder of Alice gazing through a looking glass to see herself reflected as the Queen of Hearts. She sculpted mostly. Industrial stuff - definitely not marketable to anyone mainstream. But she didn't give a shit.
We dated for a few months. Actually, "dated" would be a rather generous term. We fought some. A lot. About politics, about movies, about art, about other men or women. We would literally scream at each other at the top of our lungs while our faces were inches apart. But it would only be a matter of time before I'd grab her by her hair or she'd shove me against a wall.
Needless to say, it was a fairly frenzied couple of months.
Anyway, I unzipped the guitar case and found a sheet of spiral notebook paper with a song I'd written for her. It was from my early "three chords of crap" period. Not quite power-ballad, not quite bubblegum punk. Just self-important bullshit.
But I humbly present to you "Show Me Where It Hurts". For Regina.

Don't hide behind that bandage

Can't numb it with that pill

I feel a little greedy

but I promise I won't kill

***

Take your finger off the trigger

I'll take my hands off your throat

Who are you trying to fool?

I read your suicide note

***

(chorus)

Show me where it hurts
tell me where it bleeds
let's take off all our clothes
and find out where it leads

***

Don't you like it when I scratch?

Do you like it when bite?

candle wax and razor blades

I love it when you fight
***

(repeat chorus)

***

Let's get you in the shower

and wash off all that pain

some of yours & some of mine

half-naked in the rain

***

(repeat chorus)

Mystery Assclown Friday - Clean

I’ve been waiting on your moods
Cuz when you do you please me right.
But something here is wrong between us.
You’re gonna make me lonely now tonight.

My hungry feelings frustrate me
But still I will not ask for more.
I could give you something that would
Make you want it like men have before.

(But we won’t ever go there cuz we wanna be clean.)

You say things that insult me.
Also shit that scares me badly.
You don’t fit well inside my life.
And I could never be your wife.
But I’m pretending that we’re happy.
Cuz I don’t wanna make you blue and lowly.
And I don’t want another failed bad ending.
But it’s gonna fucking happen obviously.

And I’m gonna run away into nobody’s arms.
Somebody wants me but I can’t be strong.
I wanted us to be a big thing and I’m sad.
Cuz I really don’t think we’re gonna last that long.

Beautiful Without Me

I had found the place by accident. There are a few thousand acres of woods behind my house and I used to spend a lot of my time walking the horse trails that meander through the trees. Though quite primitive, the paths had always been lifesavers for me becuase of my uncanny sense of misdirection. Once you get a hundred yards or so beyond the treeline, it's difficult to find your bearings. A 30 minute walk could easily turn into a two hour domestic replay of Lord of the Flies.

But being the gadget man that I am, I invested a couple hundred bucks in a handheld GPS unit. Voila - I was no longer a slave to the tramped dirt pathways. I could mark my house on the GPS and use it to to find my way back without leaving a proverbial trail of breadcrumbs.

The forest was now mine.

So I set out, GPS firmly in hand, determined to discover the outermost reaches. Through clearings, crouching under branches, snagging my shirt on thorns. For almost an hour before I found it - a place where the rock ledges intertwined to form a natural cathedral of stone, accessible only through an almost invisible three foot wide crevice.

Emboldened by explorers of the past - Desoto, Magellan, de Leon - I walked through the opening to see........... crushed beer cans and broken whiskey bottles littering the leaf-covered floor. So apparently I wasn't the first to grace this virginal outpost. It must have had a 20+ year history as a hangout for underage drinking and general mischief.

But beyond the spray-painted graffiti and discarded trash lied a truly beautiful, almost majestic, place. The sunlight broke through the trees above to form a thousand spotlights, each one framing a a dark corner in a bath of light. The main 25 foot wide opening was encircled by a dozen or more rocky outcrops. And the intersection of each one of those formed an almost unpassable exit to yet another smaller opening. Definitely a place to be explored rather than defiled.

I marked the point on my GPS and filled my backpack with as many cans and bottles that I could carry.

I go back to that place every now and then, each time trying to scrub and little more paint off the rock walls or disposing of a little more litter. Not for myself - I think I can see past the traces of refuse and appreciate the sublime for what it is, before it was besmirched by inconsiderate shitheads. But maybe I can make little easier for the next guy to realize how beautiful it is. Even without me.

Schismatist

Even after I stopped doing some serious drinking, I still made a habit of spending a lot of time in bars. It was probably good for me to get out in a social atmosphere, even if I wasn't directly contributing to the fraternization. I suppose that my theory was that I would somehow absorb the ability to mingle via osmosis.
But mostly I just found myself clinically observing other people.
And I spent one night observing one person in particular.
She was drunk even before she walked in. It was a hotel bar, so my first thought was that she may have been a prostitute. But that belief quickly faded away. I knew a hooker when I see one, and she was no hooker. Though she was a little under-dressed for this particular bar. Her clothes a little too tight & cheap and her shoes much too Payless.
Just a drunk whore.
I'm surprised they even served her. She was visibly wobbly and obviously alone - a combination that's usually a prologue to trouble. So I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I nursed my sidecar. It wasn't so much a predatory gaze, but rather how one would look at a car careening out of control on a winding mountain road - something bad was about to happen and I didn't want to miss it.
As my eyes volleyed back and forth between her now slumping figure and my melting ice cubes, I noticed another man in the corner doing the very same thing. But he wasn't merely looking on in grotesque amusement. He was patiently waiting for opportunity.
He was about my age, maybe a little younger, well-dressed and sober enough to know exactly what he was doing. And planning. An unintentional predator salivating at a target of convenience.
He waited 30 seconds or so after she gulped what remained in her glass then stumbled toward the door before he left a twenty on his own table and followed her out. But not before scanning to his left and right to see if he was the only one eyeing the unsuspecting girl.
I watched them both through the picture window facing the street, their bodies now framed between Bass & Guinness neon signs. She was attempting to sort her thoughts, obviously in vain. Maybe trying to figure out how she'd get home, remembering the bus schedule or calculating what the cab fare would be . But much too engrossed in her ephemeral thoughts to notice him approaching.
I saw the whole episode acted out in mime to the jukebox soundtrack of Stevie Ray Vaughn's Tightrope. He was trying to give off the impression of a helpful stranger, offering her a ride home. Or maybe just walk with her a while to make sure she was ok - there were a lot of crazies out in the streets that late, right?
She clutched her purse tight against her ribcage, perhaps sensing that he wasn't as he seemed. She drew back as he reached his hand out to rub her shoulders - just a warm, friendly gesture, right? Her apprehension didn't deter his physicality. To the contrary, he must have liked his women with a little fire in their bellies. He stepped up his tactile offensive by wrapping his arm around her waist.
I'd seen enough. I left money on the bar to cover my tab and strode through the door
"Leave her alone, you piece of shit", I said.
Perturbed at being interrupted, he placed his hand on her breast and told me to mind my own business.
I asked her if she wanted me to call her a taxi. She looked at him before answering in the affirmative. I held out my hand for her to take and led her away from the dirtbag.
And he was pissed. But he didn't move from in front of the building. Just watched us walk halfway down the block to the hotel entrance and to the curb as I hailed a cab.
I opened the back door and made sure she was in safely as I handed the driver 2 twenties and told him to take her home. She looked at me without a 'thank you' as the car pulled away.
I started heading back to finish my "conversation" with the scorned shitbag. Since he clearly wasn't interested in going back in the bar, he must have wanted to have a few words with me. And by now, I couldn't help but notice a few patrons watching us through the window, waiting for the discussion.
But then I heard a car honk from the street as the same taxi pulled back next to me after circling the block. The driver rolled down his window.
"She's too drunk. She won't tell me where she lives. Told me to take her back here. I don't have time for this" he said, frustrated, as he handed me back one twenty.
She opened the door, nearly falling to the pavement face-first, and exited the car.
"Sorry", she apologized. "I don't remember my address. I guess I'll just have to go home with you".
I was suddenly disgusted by her tequila-slurred words and clumsy attention-seeking.
"Look, there's no way you're coming home with me. You better get your ass back in that cab before you do something really stupid or before someone does something real stupid to you", I spat out.
What the hell was the point of helping someone who was pretty much deadset on self-destruction?
"Come on, guy. Just take me home, ok? I just need to sleep a little then I'll feel better in the morning. I swear I'll be good", she pleaded.
The spurned suitor was watching this all in amusement.
"I'll take you home, sweetheart" he offered with a smile, ever the helpful gentleman.
She looked at him then she turned back to me.
"So what's it gonna be, huh? Are you going to make me go home with him?" she asked, almost daring me to take advantage of her.
"You're going to have to find yourself another hero, little girl" I told her as I walked back into the bar for 8 or 9 more drinks.

Mystery Assclown Friday - On Losing My Virginity

whisperings of a time past float about my ears,
lulling me into deep reverie....
the warmth of your body,
my flesh branded everywhere you have touched.

a flush arises, as the memories surface...
i can feel it now...
the innocence of youth,
exploring the sacred;
naive, but knowing,
manifesting the desires of our souls,
of our love

Two Months, Two Weeks & Two Days of Darkness: Day 41 (The Vigilante Philosopher)

I had a friend over my house the other night. He's a bit of an asshole, but we get along pretty well nonetheless. I had an old bottle of Southern Comfort that had sat in the back of my liquor cabinet for, hell, must be almost 10 years now. So we're down in my basement shooting pool and exchanging swigs straight from the bottle. It must have gotten pretty late, but neither of us really had any place to go in the morning. So we drank and talked and drank and drank.
I think I mentioned that he's an asshole, right? Well, he's even worse when he's been drinking - a mean drunk of the highest order. He starts rambling on about one rant or another, just ripping into whatever subject that slinkied through his mind. Now of course, I find this amusing enough to start laughing out loud, which obviously pissed him off to no end.
He got stoically silent all of a sudden. Then he turned to me and said;

"Imagine for a moment that you're in the home of a friend. Maybe not quite rising to the level of a full-fledged "friend" perhaps, but an acquaintance nonetheless. It's an unremarkable house in an otherwise unremarkable housing development. Lukewarm suburbia at its most mediocre.
And as you're standing there in the living room, you look down to see a emaciated rat scurry across your bare feet. You leap back to avoid further contact with this disgusting piece of vermin. But as you do, you catch glimpse of yet another rodent peeking at you from beneath the couch - not quite out in the open, but also not completely out of your view.
You walk into the kitchen hoping to escape the disease-infested menagerie in the living room only to see a half dozen cockroaches feeding on one of their own on the formica countertop.

What would you think of the people that lived in the house? Don't they see the vile creatures that are lurking amongst them? Why don't they call an exterminator? Why don't they buy some traps? Who would let children grow up in that house?
How can they live like that?

Now what does it say about us..... No, correct that. Forget the universal "us". It's too impersonal for this. What does it say about YOU and ME when we let rapists, thieves and murders walk the same sidewalks as our sons and daughters, breathing the same air as the people we love? How can we look ourselves in the mirror after reading in the newspaper about a drug-dealing cop-killer that walked on a technicality?

There are rats and cockroaches in our homes, and we've resigned ourselves to their continued existence. And that makes me sick.

Don't pretend that you don't know of at least one feral animal that roams the streets in your own town. You've seen his face on the 6 oclock news or read about his (mis)deeds on the front page. And if you don't know about him, it's only because you've consciously made the decision NOT to know - changing the channel or flipping pages back the the soduku puzzle.
That's even worse.

And why do we let this happen. HOW can we let this happen when we know perfectly well that our own inaction will inevitably encourage action by those who maim and destroy. Unpunished killers will strike again. Unrepentent rapists will force themselves on someone else again. Maybe on someone you know, but probably (and fortunately) not. A random unlucky stranger will be beaten for the simple reason that we look the other way when confronted by evil.

Why do we let it happen? Because we fear punishment ourselves? Is the potential of losing a few years freedom too much to pay for stopping a child from being sodomized by a 70 year old freak? Does the very threat of being paraded in front of TV cameras as you do your perp walk discourage us from doing what we know is right?
Because if that's the case, then we're worse than the people we hold in contempt. We are the stones that pave their path to evil.

Watch what happens when one child molester is found beaten to death in an alley, his genitals bludgeoned pre-mortem beyond all recognition. Then they find another. And another. How many do you think will be discovered before others of their kind begin begging to be locked away in prison? How many will it take before some perverted sicko decides that it's not worth it to hang in front of the schoolyard? And how many dead rapists will it take before some liquored-up frat boy leaves the drunken co-ed alone?

I won't live like that - a ghost in the land full of zombies."


I took the bottle from his hand, then emptied the remains in the sink. I need to find some sober friends.

Does He?

Does he make you smile like I used to do?
whispering a dirty joke in your ear at a funeral
then glaring at you in mock disdain
as your cashmere lips form a resisted grin
Does he?

Does he make you laugh like I used to do?
when you're alone in your car, me miles away
but you titter thinking about the time
I painted happy faces on my nipples
Does he?

Does he make you come like I used to do?
turning you on like a switch
my finger tracing gently on your hip
as my teeth sink into your neck
Does he?

Does he make you feel like I used to do?
hunger, madness, longing and desperation
all before I finish your song
my fingers raw against the steel strings
Does he?

Does he make you scream like I used to do?
as I peel back your scabs
and probe your wounds with my finger
not sure if I'm a healer or a masochist
Does he?

Does he make you cry like I used to do?
wiping your tears before I walk back in the room
pretending everything couldn't be better
as if I never said the things I did
No he doesn't, does he?

Show & Tell Tuesday - My Sweater Dresser

I used to have to drive through a particularly ramshackle part of the city every other Sunday. It wasn't so bad that I would hesitate to venture into on a dark night, but it also wasn't exactly a place where you'd bring tourists from South Dakota for brunch either. Just a rundown part of town that was pretty well down the priority list for redevelopment. I had driven by enough times to figure out that their trash day must have been on Monday morning, the telltale sign being the plastic and aluminum cans spilling over onto the curb. If I left late enough, I would have to dodge the bags and loose garbage that neighborhood strays had already dragged into the street. That kind of thing made an already morose street all that much more depressing.
So anyhow, I was driving though this 'hood on my way into work on a certain Sunday afternoon when I saw an unusually large pile of trash at the end of cracked concrete driveway. The main components of this collection were two sets of bedroom bureaus. One of them had it's back to the street and it was obviously a cheap self-assembled laminated particle board piece of shit - you know the kind. But the other one was much different. Although it was covered in at least two layers of horrifically blue extrerior house paint, I could still tell that it was once a very nice piece. It clearly wasn't just some Walmart dresser-in-a-box. It had bowed top drawers, rolled trim, sturdy curved legs and brass (albeit rusty) pulls.
As I drove by I asked myself what kind of idiot would throw something like that out for the garbage. It wasn't a first generation piece, so it must have been handed down to whoever owned it, who in turn trashed it with garish paint, and was now disposing of it. Absolutely unbelievable. But I figured that somebody would soon come along in the next hour or so and rescue it from the dump. This was a well-travelled street and certainly someone would see it for what it could be rather than what it was. As a matter of fact, if I hadn't been running late, I might have pulled over and tossed it in my truck myself. But surely it would be gone by the time I would be leaving work.
Nope.
It was still there, unmoved, when I drove by several hours later. Hundreds of cars must have passed by (a least a couple probably headed to Walmart to buy a new particle board dresser), saw it sitting there, but just kept on driving. So I slowed down, pulled into the drive and slid the dresser into the back of my truck. I made a detour to Home Depot to buy some paint stripper and a can of varnish.
It was close to 8PM by the time I got home. By 9:30PM, I had every layer of paint stripped off every surface. By 11PM, I had finished the first coat of wood stain and was burnishing the pulls with my Dremel. By 1:30AM, I was screwing down the pulls to the finished product. It cost me six hours and a little less than fifteen dollars.
People are such idiots.

Two Months, Two Weeks & Two Days of Darkness - Day 36 (The Visitor)

My house is kind of tucked away off a sparsely populated back road, so I don't get too many accidental visitors. When someone appears at my door, it's a very deliberate and mindful undertaking.
I was slight taken aback when I heard the doorbell ring, for a couple of reasons. First, most of the people who come to visit me are on good enough terms that they don't bother knocking - they just walk right in and say hello. Secondly (and as I said before), it's a very quiet street and you can hear cars approaching well before they pull into the drive. Even young kids selling magazines or candy for school trips/scouts have their parents drive them from house to house.
So whoever this was standing at my door must have walked down the winding road, hundreds of yards between houses, to get there.
I opened the door to see a disinterested guy, maybe a couple years younger than me, holding a clipboad and not quite making eye contact.
"Yes?" I prompted.
"Hi, I'm Frank Hargus. I just moved in with my parents down the street", he said as he introduced himself.
His folks were the first people I met when I moved into this house. I was unloading some boxes from my truck when they came over, bringing me a foil-wrapped lasagna and a apple-walnut pie. We went inside and talked for awhile, sitting on boxes and stacks of books. Since then, I've been over to their house a few times. Their home was built around the same time as mine, but it really hasn't been updated since then. Still, it's very quaint and charming. They're good people.
But I didn't remember seeing any pictures of any children and I also didn't remember them telling me about a son.
"You're Stan & Mitzy's son? Nice to meet you", I said as I reached out my hand.
He looked down, paused for a moment, then quickly shook my hand, his own limp and sweaty.
"Yeah anyways ummm, I'm here because I'm legally required to uh notify all the neighbors that I'm uhh a convicted sexual offender", he stuttered out.
Now I'm sure that my jaw just fell to the ground. A little background: the town I live in isn't a town at all - it's a postcard, a Norman Rockwell painting. The biggest crimes we see are pet owners not bagging up their dog's excrement in the park. So we don't get sexual offenders knocking at our door on a regular basis.
I'm sure he had grown accustomed to this wordless response by then, so he pushed the conversation along.
"I just need you to sign this paper saying that I've notified you", he said as he handed me the clipboard and a pen most likely hoping that I'd mindlessly sign it without reading the text.
Two thoughts came and passed through my head.
Number one - he's a liar. If a judge ordered him to notify his neighbors, then he's more than just a convicted sexual offender. In this state, a simple sex offense crime would only require you to register with the city when you were released from jail. Being required to notify your neighbors meant that you were either a serial offender OR that your offense was extraordinarily heinous. I could guess which one it was, compelling his parents to never speak his name.
Number two - people would know that he was here. If something were to happen to him, the police would soon discover that he had visited my neighbor to the east of me, but hadn't made it to my neighbor to the west. So it couldn't happen now.
I took the paper and pen and began to sign my name, but holding the tip at a 45 degree angle and pressing forcefully on the page. The ballpoint burst under the pressure and began to dribble blue ink on his form.
"Fuck!" he said as he grabbed the clipboard back from me before it could be ruined.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Come in for a minute and we'll get it cleaned up", I pled.
Once inside, he calmed down as I dabbed the inkspots with a damp dishcloth before it could seep throughout the paper. Catastrophe averted, as I'm sure he wasn't looking forward to repeating the notification process throughout the neighborhood with a new form.
"You thirsty? You want something to drink or anything?" I asked.
He responded in the affirmative, obviously relieved.
"There's sodas in the fridge. Probably a couple beers too. Go ahead and grab something while I try to get this ink off my hands", I told him as I walked down the hall towards the bathroom.
I heard the refrigerator door open then close again a few moments later as he innocently left fingerprints throughout my kitchen.
"Hey, could you do me a favor? This ink isn't coming off. In the garage, there's some Lava soap in the cabinet to the left right inside the door. Could you get that for me and bring it in here?" I called down the hall.
He set his Pepsi down on the counter and walked through the breezeway out to the garage, returning 30 seconds later with the soap. But not before leaving footprints and trace evidence throughout my house.
I cleaned myself up and dried myself off as I asked him to get me a replacement pen from the desk drawer in my office. I signed his form, wished him luck and sent him on his way back down the street.
People skip out on parole all the time, right? I'm sure it happens all the time - scumbag sexual predators leave the state and vanish into thin air. I doubt they'd even spend much time looking for him. Just issue a bench warrant and wait to see if he turns up. Even if they did decide to poke around and wanted to look around here, there's a perfectly rational explanation as to why his fingerprints and DNA were scattered around my house, right? Besides, I'm an upstanding member of the community.
Who would suspect me?

Yet

Grown up to be a woman
yet still a little girl inside

Settled for a boy
yet still longing for a man

Found her purpose
yet not the one she hoped it would be

Living with uncompromising honesty
yet still hiding one dark secret

Content to wear jeans and a sweater
yet gazes longingly at the gown in the window

Pleased with her life
yet holding out hope for another

Grasped hard-learned lessons
yet feels like a schoolgirl next to him

Sees the beauty around her
yet dreams of somewhere else

Show & Tell Tuesday - Secrets (Winter 2004)

This is my box of secrets from the winter of '04. I keep it next to a couple dozen others on a bookshelf in a locked closet in my basement next to my laundry room. Each cd represents an hour of truths, lies & somewhere-in-betweens. Things that you don't tell your husband or wife? It's on one of those discs. Things you're ashamed to admit even to yourself? That's in there too.

I've tried to listen to at least one a day over the last month while I've been locked in my house. If I'm doing the dishes or folding laundry or painting the downstairs bathroom, I'll slide in a random cd and listen to two voices volley back and forth. I try not to think about the things that I should have left unsaid or the times I've pushed a little harder than I should have.

But you know why I listen?

Because if I listen long enough, I get to hear one moment of pure unfiltered accidental truth. It's almost never on purpose; usually something that slipped out amongst hundreds of other carefully-crafted and well-practiced sentences - plainly spoken before the realization strikes, then just as quickly buried under a monologue of platitudes and niceties as if a stark honesty never passed their lips.

I missed a lot of them the first time around. Sometimes the second and third times as well. But they're there. You just have to really listen.

Assclown's Top Ten-ish

As has been discussed in here extensively, nearly all the posts chronicled here are complete driveled shit. If I didn't revel in my own pathetic decrepitude, I would have deleted it all long ago. Pretentious, imperceptive shit.
Here'a few that I don't think suck

She comes to me
One of these nights
What if
She gave it away
It's just sex
Locked in the bathroom
Heroin dreams
and I'm not even sorry
she pretended not to notice
Demographic hell
Numb
emptiness
Hard truth
First day of school
One of these nights
It doesn't help to be beautiful
12 stories

Two Months, Two Weeks, Two Days of Darkness - Day 28

I last got my hair cut the Thursday before I started my hermitude. I can't let it go much longer than five or six weeks in between cuts or else my coiffure tends to get a tad bushy. I do the low-maintenance thing so long hair kind of crimps my morning routine. I usually get #3 clippers on the sides and back, squared off in the back, tapered up, short and thinned-out up top.
So anyways, I'm at my barbershop getting my haircut by my usual stylist. Like I said, I'm in there fairly regularly so we're on pretty good terms. So I mention that I've been giving some thought to isolating myself in my house for a couple of months.
Her response?
Perhaps she was concerned for my mental state? No. Maybe she was worried that I would get lonely? No.
The first thing she wanted to know?
"But how would you get your hair cut?" she asked.
Yep, her biggest concern was that my hair might get a little Bolton-y during my homebound time. So she volunteered to come over and do her thing so I wouldn't get unkempt. And today was that day. She came over with her scissors, clippers, etc after she got off work, sat me down in the middle of my kitchen and hacked away. And I have to say, it's one of the best haircuts I've ever had. Very tight.
So props to Teri for knowing what's really important in life.

Intoccabile

I exited the lobby of my hotel
temporarily blinded by the reflection
off the glass highrise across the street
I had to quickly jerk myself back
to escape being trampled by commuters

I stood motionless waiting for my chance
to merge with the industrious crowd
not wanting to be absorbed by the bustle
shrinking myself to fend off their touch
practically leaping into an approaching void

I skitted to the right and left
nearly colliding with oncoming traffic
not even wanting to be casually brushed
nor inadvertantly bumped, tapped or rubbed
content to be tactually invisible

Then I noticed a strange phenomenon
just before I would flinch to dodge a passerby
they would move away from me instead
the more I condensed myself
the bigger the buffer they allowed
until I was surrounded by an ethereal halo

It was warmly comforting..... at first
unconcerned with their brutishness
lengthening my stride, slowing my gait
brazenly immune to my environment
my own aura of sanctuary

But as I reached out my open hand
to aid a fallen pedestrian
her purse strewn across the pavement
she suddenly withdrew from me
with a sickening churlishness

And she wasn't alone in her revulsion
a colleague refused my handshake
a grandmother dismissed my embrace
a lover spurned all intimacy
as my sanctuary became a prison

My Own Medicine

It was really just pure chance that I was close enough to stumble over to your house
I was at that hotel bar a few blocks away and must have lost track of my drinking
Didn't even realize how far gone I was until I stood up to try to leave
Yeah, I know there are bars that are a lot closer, walking distance even, to my house
But I wasn't even thinking about that when I headed out the door. Swear.

I was just going to walk for awhile because I accidentally drank my cab money
But then a car drove by and that "Anything For You" song was playing on the radio
You know, the one that you dedicated to me on K105 after I broke up with you?
I thought it was pretty cheesy back then, funny even, but it kinda struck me as I walked
It made me feel guilty for not returning all the voicemails you left that week

So that song reminded me of you then I remembered your house was close by
I knew you wouldn't be home yet. You're still on second shift at the hospital, right?
That's why I didn't even knock on the door & just headed on back to your porch swing
Maybe to sleep for a while until I sober up enough to drive on back home
I probably should have bought a coffee when I passed that convenience store

I didn't even hear your car pull into the garage, I was sleeping so hard
Only knew you were home when you closed the door and went inside
Right then I figured I should just go because you were probably to tired to deal
I was going to wait until the lights went out, but I guess you heard me swinging
Don't know why you weren't scared at first, but who else would it have been but me?

It was real cool of you to invite me in to sleep on your pullout couch
You really really didn't have to do that. But I know you're that kind of person
I promise I'll get up and before your new boyfriend comes over tomorrow
That might be hard to explain. What's that? Oh yeah, I know were just friends now.
And again, I'm really sorry for causing so much trouble. And for that stuff before

Do you have like a trash can or something that I can keep here next to me?
I should be ok, but 'member that time we rented that beachhouse with Mike & Laura?
I got so plastered and couldn't stop throwing up. I might've had the flu then too
But I felt better the next day because you made me drink fluids and take Tylenol before bed
That was a pretty good weekend, you think? Oh yeah, probably not as much fun for you

Just go to bed, ok? I'll be fine out here. Besides, you look tired. You should try to get more sleep
I worry about you sometimes thinking about you here all alone without someone to care for you
I really hope you find someone to make you happy. What? He proposed? That's .... good for you
Ummm I'm really happy, but you know what? I feel better now so I'm just gonna go
I'll be alright once I get back to my car. The roads should be pretty clear by now

One more thing before I leave....... thanks.

I Stand Corrected

I couple months ago I mentioned that this was the oldest tshirt I owned. Upon further review, I have found one that is approximately a year and a half older. It even has a more compelling backstory.

I came home for the summer after my sophomore year in high school. Actually it wasn't really for the entire summer - mostly just June through the fourth of July. After that I had some previously planned engagements back in the general vicinity of my school, one of those being pole vaulting camp (yeah, I'm cool like that).

So I head out from home with three 14+ foot long fiberglass poles strapped to the Jeep I was driving at the time, like some anachronistic jouster barrelling down I-70 (for the record, Pacer is the Official Pole of this website and Assclown endorses that brand above all others). The camp itself was being held on a college campus reasonably close to where I went to school. So I get there, check in, drop off my poles and head up to my assigned dorm room.

If you've never been to one of these things, it's about what you'd expect. There were about 150 or so vaulters there grouped by skill level. Every morning we did calisthenics and drills on the infield of the track then we broke into our groups and vaulted, did trampoline/pool/speed drills until lunch time. Then it was rinse and repeat after that. Most evenings were spent reviewing film from that day or video from competitions. The camp itself was run by Jan Johnson, the Bronze medalist from the '72 Olympics (and no, he wasn't one of the athletes who help the Black September terrorists climb the fence into Olympic Village - I asked).

The camp had some pretty strict rules about personal behavior. No one was allowed to leave campus for the duration of camp. Lights out was at 10:30PM and no one was allowed outside their dorm rooms after that. And the most strictly enforced rule? No chicks in the dorm rooms. Period.

Now, I fully expected to have no problems at all complying with any and all of those rules. After all, I'm there to learn to be a better pole vaulter, not to cavort around with curvaceous college coeds.

But then I ran into Danielle.

She went to the public school in the same town where I went to high school. To tell you the truth, I knew "of" her but it would be a huge stretch to say that we were friends before then. We may have exchanged words at a party or a sporting event, but that was about it. I knew some of the people from her clique and she knew some of the people from mine. I think I may have even played football against her brother. As far as what she looked like, I don't know if you remember how girls wore their hair short back then - very moussy and curly on top. She had that going on at the time. But reasonably attractive nonetheless. Not falldown beautiful, but nice.

But anyways, she was at this same college campus for freshman orientation and was staying in the same dorm (only 3 floors above mine). We (almost literally) ran into each other at the dining hall at breakfast of my first full day there. She recognized me at first and asked if I was there for orientation too. I told her I was there for camp and we sat down and talked for a bit. She mentioned that there was going to be a party that night on her floor and asked if I wanted to go. I let her know about the "lights out" rule, but said that I'd try to find a way to make it up there. She made this pouty face and said that she really hoped I could sneak my way up there.

It was her emphasis on the word "really" that made me put significant priority on putting together a cogent plan for a jail break.

There were two pole vaulters assigned to each dorm. So the first thing I was going to have to do was gauge my roommate's tolerance for mischief. I figured it was going to go one of 3 ways;

1. he'd be a dick about it and I would have to sneak out and back in very quietly when he was asleep

2. he'd be cool about it and would cover for me if required

3. he'd be cool about it as long as I invited him along (which I decided that I'd be willing to do)

But the gods were smiling upon me that day. During the afternoon drill session, my roomie snapped his pole and slammed his head on the runway as he fell. Concussion! Sweet, huh? He had to go to the hospital where his parents picked him up and took him home. So I had all the privacy I needed from there on out.

So 10:30 rolls around and the coaches do their nightly bed-check, knocking on each of our doors to make sure we were in for the night. I wait until 11. Then midnight. Then I silently crept out of bed and slowly twisted my doorknob. I still wore a pair of shorts and a tshirt - if I was caught outside of my room, I'd just tell them that I was just using the bathroom on another floor because ours smelled nasty (in fact, it did). I made my way up 3 flights of stairs (the elevators were too risky) and found the bank of rooms that were hosting the party. Danielle saw me first and ran up to give me a big hug from behind. She hands me a beer and we start talking (not really 'catching up' per se, because we didn't know each other well enough for that). One thing leads to another and pretty soon she's taking advantage of me in my slightly inebriated state. I try to resist, but I was powerless to her feminine wiles. So we get up and try to find a vacant room so we cand spend some private time, but hers is occupied so we only had one remaining option - my room.

So I sneak back down the stairs ahead of her so I can see if the coast is clear. I peak my head down the hall, then scamper back into my room. She follows me in a few minutes later and then we hung out in my room for a couple hours.

As she's getting her things together to sneak back up to her room, she asks "Same time, same place tomorrow?". I respond in the affirmative.

So this goes on over the next few days - she'd sneak down, we'd hang out, she'd sneak back up.

On my last night there, I don't think we were under any illusions that we were going to keep up the relationship after the next day. I mean, I was only going to be a junior and her school was a 3 hour drive away from mine. It was nice while it lasted, but that was about it. Before she left that last time, we exchanged numbers (the only one I had at the time was the pay phone in the hall at my dorm back at school) and I gave her the unworn long-sleeved tshirt that I got from the camp.

Fast forward about 17 years later.

I'm going door-to-door supporting the political party of my choice during the run-up to that year's election. The volunteers were divided by county, so I'm in some suburb 3 or 4 towns away from where I live. My job is to knock on doors of registered (my party) voters and make sure they were voting, aware of the issues on the ballot and that they knew where their polling station was. So I'm about halfway down a street when I knock on a door of a fairly nice brick colonial.

knock knock knock

A mid-thirties woman answers the door and I start my blurb - "hi, my name is **** and I'm just going around making sure...".

Here eyes get big and she says my name.

" **** ? **** Assclown? Is that you?"

I'm at a loss for a moment whie I try to figure out who it is.

It's Danielle. No shit.

So I say "yeah, it's me", but she interrupts.

"Oh my God. Hold on just a second. I have something for you".

So of course I start to freak just a bit. I haven't seen her in just south of 2 decades and she "has something" for me? A gun? A court order for a paternity test? A bill for four nights of boom-boom?

Nope, I wasn't even close. It was the tshirt.

Apparently she used it as a nightshirt sometimes (not in the freaky stalker-ish way. It was just a comfortable shirt). But her husband absolutely HATED it because he knew that some guy had given it to her. So she had it at the bottom of a drawer in her closet and hadn't got around to throwing it out. But now it was mine again.

So yeah, a little weird. But she did promise to vote, so at least something came out of it.

I don't really wear it that much. To tell you the truth, it's a little haggard and bordering on nasty. I mean, it's 20+ years old. But it's nice to have around if I'm working in the yard or I need something quick to wipe up a spill.

Equal Opportunity

I used to hang out at this bar called the Custom House when I was in grad school. I wouldn;t go so far as to say that it was a hard drinker's bar, but it was about as close as you could get reasonably close to campus. It was a small little place with a nice selection on draft and they'd leave you alone and let you drink.
I didn't really hang around the other people in my class. Or anybody else for that matter. I took a couple years off after college and worked for a bit, so I really didn't have much in common with these kids fresh out of school. They were still into keggers and Hairy Buffalos and all that stupid shit. I just wanted to get finished and go back home.
I was still working during all this, not full-time, but still missing a class every now and then while I had to go out of town on business. I still managed to keep up. I'd pretty much been living it over the last two+ years, so I did well overall. I was near the top of the class most of the time, though it was more important to me to just pass.
But rankings were a lot more important to others in my classes. There were a few in particular who made it a point to be the first to check test & evaluation scores, revelling when they did better than me and cursing when they scored below me. I wasn't part of any study group so I didn't make many friends. On the contrary, my aloof personality and anti-social tendencies made me pretty well reviled throughout the program.
Jason Ward was perhaps the one with the singlemost intense hatred directed towards me. Man, he hated my guts with the burning heat of a million suns. Jason was about as close to a prototypical dork as you'll ever meet - greasy hair, 50 or so pounds overweight, trying way too hard fashion-wise. He would study for hours, hell, DAYS on end while I sat on the third barstool from the end at the Custom House only to see me barely outscore him on nearly every exam, every paper, every assignment. After a while, his only purpose in life was to beat me in the final class rankings.
And I couldn't give less of a shit.
I couldn't care less where I finished. I really didn't. I'd read the texts more out if interest than out of desire to prepare for any test. I performed on the mock facilititions more out of instinct than reliance on any theoretical principle. So I only met Jason's challenge with amused disinterest.
And that just served to make him that much more angry.
The last course we had together was this blowoff Professional Concerns class. It was pretty lame, but it was a core requirement and attendance was mandatory. Final grades were determined by the results of two tests, 50% each. By this time, I was spending almost all my time at the bar so my focus was pretty much everywhere except my studies.
So guess where I was sitting when final grades (and the resultant final class rankings) were posted? That's right - 3rd barstool from the end. And thats where Jason found me to wave the scores in my face . He beat my overall score by 3/1000ths of a percentage point.
He walks, nay RUNS into the bar with some of his friends holding the printout. He comes right up to me, holds it up in front of me and growls "I BEAT YOU! I BEAT YOU!".
Now this is the last thing in the world I wanted to deal with, but I decided right then and there that I wasn't going to let him have his moment of glory. Nope, it wasn't going to happen.
He sat down on the stool next to me and ordered a drink.
"Just how exactly did you beat me, Jason?" I asked him.
"My 97 versus your 88!" he grinned as he spoke.
Just the answer I expected.
"I don't think you get it. How does that mean you beat me?"
He looked confused. "I finished with a higher score, genius. I think it's pretty obvious", he replied.
"Hmmm, do you have a girlfriend?" I continued with the questions.
"Yeah, I have a girlfriend" he answered indignantly.
"Do you love her?"
"What?"
"I asked if you love her".
"Yeah, I love her".
"And does she love you?"
"Hell yeah, she loves me".
"Let me guess - you met her in undergrad school. She's 2 years younger than you. She played trumpet in the high school marching band".
"Clarinet".
"Yeah, anyways. So how long did it take you to get in her pants? Three, four months?"
"That's none of your business, fag".
"Whatever. So do you want to make a wager?"
"What kind of wager?"
"I'll bet you $500 that, inside of 2 weeks, I can get your girlfriend - who didn't put out to you for several months - to sleep with me".
"There's no way".
"Really? No way at all? Then it's easy money for you, right?
"I'm not going to bet you!"
"That's damn right you're not going to bet me. Because you know damn well what would happen. What do you think she'd do? Yeah, all women just hate tall, good-looking, smart & funny men, right? Two weeks? Hell, I could get her panties around her ankles tonight".
"You're such an asshole!"
"Oh, you have no idea, buddy. There's nothing that you have that I couldn't take from you. Especially your chubby little girlfriend. So tell me again how you beat me".
"Don't be a dick".
"I haven't begun to be a dick. You think you getting a higher grade than me means anything? Do you think it's going to get you a better job? That's hilarious. What do you think would happen if you and I walk in for the same job interview? Do you think they'd choose you in your polyester tie under your K-Mart short-sleeved shirt? Or would they give the job to me - charming, good looking, humble?"
"You're just saying this because I beat you".
"You really don't it. It doesn't how well you scored. I could still bang your girl. I'll still get a better job. Even your friends. Do you think your friends would rather hang out with you than me? Do you even have any friends, not counting 'online' ones?"
"I have friends", he answered, his voice beginning to quiver.
"Are you about to cry, you pathetic piece of shit?" I asked incredulously. "Seriously, you're going to cry right here in front of me, aren't you?
He wanted to punch me so bad. So damned bad.
"You want to hit me? Go ahead, I'm begging you to hit me. I'd even let you. I'd sit right her and let you beat the living shit out of me. Just fpr the pleasure of thinking how your sorry bubblegum ass would do in jail with a cellful of crackheads and tweakers. Do it, you big pussy!"
He was literally shaking. I could tell that he wanted to say something, but didn't dare because he knew his voice would crack. As he tossed a five on the bar and turned to leave, I saw a single tear well up in his left eye.
"Before you go, why don't you give me your girlfriend's name, little bitch" I said as I went back to drinking my own beer.
He stormed out without turning back.

The worst part? I went back and got a re-grade from my professor. Added 5/1000ths of a point to my final score.

Égoïste

I used to have a real job. A real boss, 401k, bi-weekly paychecks - the whole 9 yards. And because I wasn't bound by the constraints of family, friends or a social life, I used to work relatively long hours. The only problem with that is, at that time, I lived about an hour commute away from the office. So working until 10-11 o'clock 5-6 nights a week, then driving 40+ miles home, sleeping for 4-5 hours, then getting up and driving another hour back into work got a little old after a while. So I was left with 2 basic options - either sell my house and get a place in the city OR find a cheap little studio downtown to crash after working late.
I opted for door number two.
I found a place about 2 blocks from my office. It was an unfurnished loft in a converted bottle factory (glass, not baby). Nothing extraordinarily special about it - about 600 sq ft of open space with ladder access to a raised sleeping area, but it was perfect for my needs. And it had a lot of good light, which was unfortunate because I didn't think I'd see much of the place during the day.
I signed a 6-month lease with an option for month-to-month after that. I bought a cheap couch, a platform bed and stashed a week's supply of clothes in the closet. It was pretty sweet for a while. Kinda like my own little private hideout, a safehouse that only I knew about.
Until I made the mistake of letting someone else in on the secret.
There was this admin in Finance. We had exchanged pleasantries and innuendo for a few weeks until one night when we were the last two people in the office. I was working late. She was working late. We went for drinks afterwards. We wanted a little privacy.
You get the picture.
This went on for the better part of 2 months. We'd work late, get drunk then go back to my place and have at it. We even took advantage of the close proximity to have a few long "lunches" as well. We'd come back to the office with our hair mussed and clothes wrinkled, but I don't think anyone suspected anything nefarious.
A little background on her - early 20's, graduated from a private catholic college in Texas, tight swimmer's body, dating a 3rd year med student. It would be fair to say that she didn't have a lot of bedroom experience up until that point in her life. And the experience she did have wasn't much more than the drunken-frat-boy "grope'n'poke" variety. Since her boyfriend spent a lot of time at school, they didn't have much of a chance to spend much time together. So she really came of age bedroom-wise while we were together.
So anyway, this goes on a bit longer until she starts feeling guilty about her boyfriend and decides that she needs to spend more time with him. She tells me that she can't do this any longer and breaks it off. She even gave her notice at our company and started working for the census bureau. I was definitely ok with it because I was getting even less sleep than when I was driving all the way home each night. And it wasn't like I had anything invested in her except the physical thing.
So I stopped seeing her...... for about a month.
She developed this habit of hanging out with her friends at a downtown bar and getting too drunk to drive home. So she'd walk over to my loft and knock on the door to see if I was there. This happened once every couple of weeks. I'd let her in, put her to sleep in my bed then I'd go sleep on the couch. Then she'd come over to the couch and start kissing my neck. I'd tell her to knock it off because I had to go into work early. Then she'd start rubbing my chest. So we'd end up making out for a while. Out of a convoluted respect for her relationship with her boyfriend, I wouldn't go any further than that.
A few months of this goes by. It starts getting pretty old for me. I got the place so I could get some sleep after working late, but now I was sleeping way less if at all.
So she comes over late one Friday night. After her engagement party. Smashed as she could be. I tell her that she can sleep on the bed but she better stay there. I lay down on the couch and go to sleep. I wake up about 7am when I feel her on top of me, completely undressed. I tell her to cut it out. She starts doing certain things to me (for the sake of decency, I'll leave it at that). I push her away and tell her to get off me. She starts doing something to me even more provocative.
I'm a man. I have weaknesses.
I roll over on top and enter her. Nothing intimate. Nothing affectionate. Just going through the motions to get it over with.
I look down to see her avoiding eye contact with me as her eyes almost start to tear up. I couldn't freaking believe she was pulling that shit. I roll off her said things that I regret. Pretty much a total prick. Things like "what the hell did you expect me to do?" and "what's your f-ing problem?".
You know, being the sensitive guy I am.
She stopped coming over after that.

Top 10 Reasons Why the Assclown Might be a Victim of Justifiable Homocide

By request.

10. He's not content simply to pick his own scabs. He'll pick yours too.
9. There was that one time back at college when he hooked up with that girl and told her that if she took care of... ummmm.... his "needs", then he'd take care of hers. Well, he never took care of hers.
8. He speaks under his breath a little too loudly
7. Most bikers don't share his caustic sense of humor
6. He's setting up his own little compound. It's only a matter of time before the ATF get wind of what's going on.
5. There are certain people out there who want his dog and are willing to do just about anything it takes to get him
4. During parties, he's that guy who takes sneaky photos of drunk people doing what they shouldn't be doing.
3. Statistically speaking, one out of every three people you meet will have sufficient motive for killing Assclown
2. Two words - mercy killing
1. He corrects people when they end a sentence with a preposition

Top Ten Reasons Why Assclown Might NOT Be Gay

10. He doesn't employ a Guatemalan houseboy named Enrique
9. He has restored an old Ford Bronco
8. He has never had sexual intercourse with a man
7. He prefers Norman Mailer over Truman Capote
6. Although he owns a pair of leather chaps, he used them exclusively for motorcycle riding
5. He really wasn't all that into Six Feet Under
4. He only spends 10 seconds on his hair in the morning
3. He knows how to drop the transmission on a 1984 CJ-7
2. He prefers Marco Island over Key West
1. He takes his coffee black

If I Was A _______, I'd Be _________

1. If I was a MUSICIAN, I'd be DAVE GROHL.
This is probably wishful thinking on my part. But neither of us take ourselves too seriously and are content doing what we enjoy regardless of how well it's received by others.

2. If I was an ACTOR, I'd be EDWARD NORTON.
I'm not pretty enough to be Brad Pitt of George Clooney. I'm not edgy enough to be Clive Owen or Eric Bana. Just a regular goofy looking guy who alternates between amusing (Keeping The Faith, Everyone Says I Love You) to a repulsive lowlife (Rounders, American History X, Primal Fear).

3. If I was an ANIMAL, I'd be a RIVER OTTER.
No reason in particular. I just think they're adorable and I want one as a housepet

4. If I was an AUTOMOBILE, I'd be '61 IH Scout 80
Utilitarian, durable. It's a truck with integrity, dammit! No like these sissified soccer mom grocery-getters that they make nowadays.

5. If I was an AUTHOR, I'd be GREGORY McDONALD
Irreverant anti-heroes consumed with their own ridiculousness. Writer of paperbacks - easily absrobed and easily discarded.

6. If I was a MOVIE, I'd be SLINGBLADE
Funny in a seriously depressing way. Lots of unspoken text with an unfulfilling climax

7. If I was a SONG, I'd be ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL - PART 3
I don't need no arms around me
I don't need no drugs to calm me
I have seen the writing on the wall
Don't think I need anything at all
No don't think I'll need anything at all
All in all it was all just bricks in the wall
All in all you were just bricks in the wall

8. If I was an OCCUPATION, I'd be a KARAOKE DJ AT THE WICHITA HOLIDAY INN LOUNGE
Insignificant in the big scheme of things, but a facilitator of empty emotional release nonetheless

9. If I was a FOOD, I'd be a STALE JELLY DONUT
No nutritional value whatsoever. Used to be tempting a long time ago, but now would just make you sick to your stomach.

10. If I was a COUNTRY, I'd be Vanuatu
No reason. I just like saying that word. Vah - new- ahh - too. Vah - NOO - ahh - TOO. VAH - Nu - ahh - CHOO. Gesundheit.

The Dumbest Woman I've Ever Dated

I would guess that 95% of the women I've dated had above average intelligence (their taste in men being the obvious exception). Even the average ones had a certain common sensical approach to problem solving.
Except for Erica. God bless her, but this girl was just plain d-u-m dum. One of the nicest people you'd ever meet. Just not exceptionally sharp.
Example:
I went over to her house after work. I pass her closed garage as I walk up to her front door, but I pause when I hear a noise from inside. It sounded like her car's engine was running. I start to freak for a second. I was on the phone with her when she pulled into her driveway, so I knew that she had been home for about an hour and a half. The first scenario that popped into my head? Suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning. No way that was happening.
So I punch her code into the keypad and open her garage door. Sure enough, her car was sitting there idling away. Her back windows were tinted so I had to walk around the side to see if she was inside. Nope, the car was empty. So then I figured that she clicked the remote start on her car when I pulled in just to get it warmed up. Nope. The keys were in the ignition.
Then I poke my head inside the house through the garage door and call out "hey, is there any reason why your car is running?"
She comes trotting down the steps, "Are you serious? My car is still running?"
Apparently she had to go wee-wee in a bad way when she got home. So she pulls into the garage, shuts the garage door, puts he car in park, then walks into the house to take care of business. And leaves the car running. For an hour and a half. With the garage door shut.
Her defense?
"Oh my gosh, I'm such a ditz. I can't believe I just did that".

Two Months, Two Weeks & Two Days Of Darkness: Day Twenty - And So It Begins

And so it begins. Just south of three weeks into my self-imposed period of confinement, and I had my first craving for the outside world. It wasn't a particular place I wanted to visit or person I wanted to see - I just felt like driving.
Well, not simply driving. I miss the sum total of driving, volume cranked, windows down, etc. It would be a stretch to call myself a car guy. Never really have been. But I've always been a driver.
I was off at school when I turned 16, so I had to wait until Thanksgiving break to go home to get my license. I flew home on Tuesday night, passed my driver's test on Wednesday morning, started shopping for a car Wednesday afternoon, bought one Wednesday night and left for my 1,600 mile trip back to school on Friday afternoon - the first of countless roadtrips. Florida, New York, Texas, Vegas, Montana. Drive, drive, drive, drive, drive.
But there shall be no more until 57 days pass.
I DO have an Infocus video projector. I suppose I could get one of my friends to drive around with a camcorder on their dashboard. Then I could sit in my car and project the video on the front wall of my garage while I blast Crazy Train with a fan blowing wind through my hair.
That wouldn't be strange, would it?

Show & Tell Tuesday - Random Book Shelf

A random bookshelf on the south wall of my basement. Please note the glaring lack of any organization or systemic sorting. Now that I look at it, there's a lot of crap and brain candy up there. Lupica, Buffett & Clancy don't necessarily reflect well on my intellectual curiousity. Don't judge me too harshly though. Several of these books were gifts from well-meaning friends.

In case you're wondering, the missing book (in between "Hitler" and "The Elvis & Marilyn Affair") is "Mr. Paradise" by Elmore Leonard. It currently resides in my master bathroom.