Southern Comfort

I recently read a friend's blog post where she had confessed to reading an article that suggested Southern manners shouldn't be taught to children because they are demeaning given their historical context. This immediately made me think of similar complaints that we tend to hear in more frequency during the holidays.

The idea of not teaching children manners is unfathomable to me. It points to a fundamental problem with society; not only people's aversion to teaching discipline and respect if it has any relation to religion or an undesirable historical context, but also to an egotistical and illusory concept of entitlement masked by a desire for political correctness.

Look, I say yes ma'am and no sir, because it's how I was raised to show respect to my elders, strangers, and to those for whom I work. If you find it offensive, express that to me and I shall refrain from saying it to you, out of respect. But to get enraged because it was said to begin with, or for you to want such practices eliminated from a child's upbringing because you are so vehemently insecure, hyper-sensitive, think the world should bend to your will, or because they have some historical context which you find offensive is a little ridiculous.

Unfortunately, most of our history as a race is littered with war, slavery, death, slaughter, and sacrifice, but from those ashes and from that bloodshed we have emerged, evolved, and hopefully gleaned the positive to pass on to future generations. It's inconceivable to me that people continue to hold on to the past and to victimize themselves and entire groups of people. Everything we do today has roots in some pagan ritual, some form of organized religion, some travesty, a rite of passage, or as a result of overcoming adversity in order to survive. Perhaps we should get rid of Thanksgiving because Indians were killed and Christmas because, God forbid, there's a baby involved who was believed to be a forgiver of sin. While we're at it, let's stop calling our country America because, for all intents and purposes, its a term mired in the genocide of indigenous people.

Okay, so perhaps Christopher Columbus day is a little stupid. I'll give you that. But I am going to continue opening doors, offering my seat, wishing people a Merry Christmas, saying yes and no Ma'am, and eventually teach my children to do the same. I would venture to say that anyone who takes offense to such trivial cultural gestures of politeness has issues far beyond what can be fixed by the mere elimination of them. I don't get offended when a Japanese person bows as he greets me, when Muslims witness Ramadan, or when the Chinese celebrate the new year a month after the rest of the world has, and do so in the name of warding off a mythical lion who apparently is afraid of loud noises and the color red. Who would have thought?

In the spirit of good will, peace, and family, I think we should embrace each other's cultural differences and spread good intention and cheer, regardless of why or how we came to do such things. In the end, we can't change our origins anyway, we can however choose to take these opportunities to share in the merriment, company, and joy of others, whether there is a nativity scene under a tree or the faint glow of a Menorah's candles on a mantelpiece. In either case, I'll be having a few drinks.....I hope that doesn't offend you.

Good Reads

Whenever I mention Good Reads to people I often get facial expressions that suggest I asked them for a quart of blood, or if they know the exact distance to the moon. Due to society's digital addiction to social media, I imagine that most people would have heard about this site by now, but I guess it's never too late to learn you a lil sumthin sumthin.

So, Goodreads.com is somewhat of a social media site for people who like to read. It allows you to easily organize all of your books into different shelves, those you have read, are currently reading, and those which you would like to eventually get to. It has a great search engine, produces recommendations, keeps you updated on your favorite authors and genres, has book clubs, talks to facebook, and even links directly with amazon if you just can't wait to purchase something right away. As if those weren't enough features, it is similar to facebook in that you can add friends, see what they are reading, and read their comments about books they've reviewed. To get started, it scans your favorite email address to see if any of your contacts are already on the site. Me gusta.

The only thing I don't like about it, is that its newsfeed cannot be imported into hootsuite.com, another one of my favorite sites, that allows you to stream up to five social media sites for free onto one dashboard while monitoring or publishing to any or all simultaneously. It eliminates the need to have 5 different tabs open on your browser to update each individually. Brilliant. I'll talk more about hootsuite in another post. 

Goodreads has a reading challenge that keeps track of all the books you read in a year and helps you reach a specific goal. I like to think of it as a personal trainer. I picture an owl with a headband and sweats, pushing me to flex my brain for an extra page or two. I figure it was better than Richard Simmons in his nuthuggers. But hey, whatever motivates you. My goal this year is for a modest 30, which I'm pretty close to hitting. I think I may be closer than indicated, but can't remember the dates I finished certain books, so I'm not including those. When I do have the time to dedicate to fiction, time that isn't consumed by reading the Kama Sutra text books or articles, I generally keep a book a week pace. There's a widget on this blog that documents my latest reads. I don't always get around to posting my full reviews.

Anyway, for those of you who like to read, I thought I might suggest it. If you do decide to explore, or even be bold and sign up, my screen name is Mr. Poopie. His Sexy Caramel Highness and intrepid Ruler of the Universe was too long. Sometimes you just have to make small sacrifices...

Despicable Me

Being a massage therapist has its major inconveniences, such as having to be extra careful handling everything from kitchen knives to post it notes. One false move can put you in a finger condom for a week, and let’s face it, nobody likes condoms. As active as I am, I always suffer from inevitable cuts, scrapes, or jammed fingers, and finding creative ways to work around ailing digits can be a nuisance.

So, needless to say, I occupy a
meaningless existence, missing 
out on the finer experiences in life such as opening beer bottles with my bare hands, picking up broken glass, pyrotechnics, and carpentry. However, I do take full advantage of crushing aluminum cans on my forehead. For all intents and purposes, the world is virtually a string of insidious booby traps, not unlike the one those teenagers in Final Destination had to maneuver through in order to survive.

Facing eminent death at every turn is not a foreign concept to me, considering that I watch way too many movies moonlight as a ninja, but not even we can escape the cold and vengeful grasp of irony. While playing basketball this morning, I was being extra mindful not to jam my thumb for the third time in 3 weeks, only to sprain my ankle after stepping on some Neanderthal’s foot. It truly is a travesty to see a specimen of my athletic prowess to be reduced to gingerly limping through the pet store carrying a 35 pound bag of dog food. Not only that, you become painfully aware of how you take dorsiflexion for granted until you have to sit on the toilet, or drive to work in traffic. So glad I could amuse you Universe...at least I won’t have to wear a condom.

Commercial Mania

Don’t know how many of you watched the Super bowl this year, but I was one of the alleged 111 million viewers. I am a devoted football fan and even though my team didn’t make the big game, I was still thrilled at the idea of getting to hang out with family and see the final grid iron match of the season. The super bowl is also a great opportunity to watch some witty, humorous, and imaginative commercials, of which I am also a huge fanatic. Unfortunately, the game wasn’t as entertaining as we all expected, but we did have the commercials to look forward to. In fact, most of the time was spent eating, talking, and playing with my nephew, stopping only to shush each other prior to a commercial breaks.

Of all the commercials that we saw, 3 in particular elicited boisterous laughter: A Dorritos ad, in which the chips were used to revive dead things,  a Bridgestone one that showed a guy who thought he had accidentally emailed everyone in his office, and subsequently drove all over the place systematically destroying everyone’s computers. (He even yanked out all the cords in the server room) Hysterical, and the third was a bud light commercial about a movie director who’s told that he’d get free stuff with product placements in his movie. I've included them here so you don't get sucked in to a mind-numbing vortex of sneezing pandas and laughing baby videos on youtube. (don't judge) Enjoy.

                                          


Oh, almost forgot. I really liked this next one too. 

New Year Endeavors

This past year was, in many ways, one of the best in my life. While I had no profound epiphanies, transformations, or adventures, I did make small discoveries, which allowed me to grow as a person and become a more efficient communicator. In and of itself, I suppose this is a rather significant accomplishment, however, the results were entirely unintentional; so I’m not really sure I can start patting myself on the back. I will however, celebrate in some fashion, preferably with profuse libation and dancing in the streets. There may or may not be singing. I can’t make any promises because I find that the acoustics in the shower are a little deceiving….

As we bid adieu to 2010, and reflect nostalgically on all of our successes and failures, we inevitably welcome a new one. In doing so, we attempt to dedicate ourselves to fulfilling a specific set of resolves, or determinations intended to improve the quality of our lives. These “resolutions”, as we so affectionately call them, not only occupy quite a bit of our energies, but can even fuel sales in certain industries. Furthermore, they are often the source of much worry when there is already sufficient stress surrounding the beginning of a new year. Generally, I don’t like to get involved with setting myself up for failure, so I’ve concluded to comprise a list of “endeavors” for the new year instead of resolutions. I like to think of them more as general compass directions instead of affirmations I’ve vowed to fulfill in this life or the next. Here is a list of a few endeavors I’d like to see come to fruition; naturally, sans stress:

1.     Write more on this blog

2.     Write in my journal

3.     Write more poetry

4.     Write short stories

5.     Write more letters

6.     Write a novel

7.     Write a children’s book

8.     Eat more flan

9.     Write about eating flan

10.   Pay closer attention to patterns and reoccurring themes in my life

11.   Grad School

As you can see, I intend to take this writing thing by the horns, (wait, am I even still a Taurus?) and really attempt to hone my craft. Regardless of my astrological association, I feel that it’s time I ignored the voices voice in my head warning me of complete and utter failure, and fully committed to writing. It’s about time I regained my focus, determination, and aspire to fulfill my literary destiny. I mean seriously, it’s not like I’m operating or anything. Hmmm…operating, I do like the sound of that...

Atonement

I figure the best thing to do in this scenario is just to be honest. I suppose you can’t hide from yourself forever. Eventually, your reflection stops believing your lies. The truth is…..I have an addiction. That’s right, it’s finally out. I can breathe now.  The secret no longer needs to be tucked away in tiny envelopes and buried deep in the cavernous bowels of my subconscious.

The thing that gets me the most about the manifestation of this disease is that I should have seen it coming. I should have seen it as easily as one sees the dark ominous clouds that fill the sky prior to the unleashing of a powerful twister. It also should have been obvious given my genetic proclivities. It runs in the family. Invariably, it has found its way to me. It was embedded in my DNA, lying dormant, biding time. I no longer try to deny its existence, but simply attempt to keep its ravenous appetite subdued. Much easier accomplished in theory than in practice I assure you. Idle hands are truly the Devil’s workshop, and spare time only fuels the desire that consumes me. Recently, I’ve begun perusing the dark recesses of the internet in search of my fix. I am addicted….I am addicted I say….My name is Brown a.k.a Mr. Poopie (after my bright disposition) and I am addicted to crossword puzzles.

I don’t rightly know what sparked the fire that is now an uncontrollable blaze. All I know is that I can’t get enough of them. I subscribed to a local newspaper under the pretense that I wanted to be informed. Truthfully, I only wanted it for the puzzles. I wake up each morning, like a giddy child on Christmas day looking forward to opening presents. In diner’s, I excitedly await a patron to finish with his or her newspaper before rifling through it to uncover my prize. I keep a vigilant eye on park benches, coffee shop tables, and store counter tops for evidence of an abandoned newspaper. Just the other day, I did the unimaginable. I absconded with one from a bathroom stall. I’m thinking about joining a support group. I think I may need help.

Three Cups of Tea

Working in a luxury resort has many perks, one being that I get to meet and work on celebrities. Unfortunately, we have a very specific protocol to follow which limits the interaction we can have with our clients, putting a significant damper on my ability to find out the most coveted secrets in life, such as who will be leaving the cast of Gray's Anatomy, what new nursing show will emerge, and if Chuck and Blaire will reunite. I am, however, privy to other sources of intrigue, with the plethora of affluent eccentrics I meet, that love to talk about their work.

Sometimes, when the stars align just right, I am blessed with opportunities to work on real genuine earth shakers. People who are special beyond belief, people who are grounded, intelligent, and humble; humanitarians who make the world a better place, people. . . . . like Greg Mortenson.

Greg Mortenson has been promoting education and literacy for children in remote villages in Afghanistan and Pakistan for over 15 years. He speaks at over 125 schools a year, and briefs U.S. Marines on Afghan customs and traditions prior to their deployment. He wrote the number one New York Times best seller, Three Cups of Tea, that chronicles his failed attempt to summit K2, the second highest peak after Everest, that is found in the Himalayan mountain ridge in Pakistan. During his descent, he becomes lost without food or shelter and roaming aimlessly on the verge of starvation. Eventually, he stumbles upon a remote village in Pakistan, where he is nursed back to health and vows to return to build the impoverished town a school. What follows, is the recount of the trials and tribulations of a man determined to spread literacy to a nation bound by thousands of years of tradition and violently skeptical towards Americans.

Three Cups of Tea, is is absolutely amazing and is only surpassed by Greg's inexorable passion for building schools. You can learn more about the book, and Greg, here.

I cannot accurately express how honored I was to be his therapist the day he came into my spa. When I saw the name of my first guest that morning, I thought it peculiar that it was similar to the famous author, but dismissed it as coincidence. All doubt was removed when I went to greet him. Greg (as he insisted I call him) had an enormous frame, unmistakable smile, and although soft spoken, had a commanding presence. I am not easily starstruck, but in this case, I was as giddy as a teenager on a first date.

During the massage, we engaged in some of the most riveting conversation I have ever had. I asked him questions about his adventures, and listened to him talk about his passion and expand upon events in the book. I couldn't believe that I was actually talking to this man, it was so surreal. At times, I felt like a journalist in an exclusive interview. We talked about his family, current projects, and the eminent arrival of his second book. Greg and I also talked about other books we liked, and he told me about meeting Khaled Hosseini, the author of Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns (Both fantastic books by the way).

Unfortunately, the hour went by all too quickly, but I am so grateful that I had the opportunity to meet and spend time with such an incredible and inspirational person. He was so humble and respectful, and thanked me profusely for my work. By the time I had escorted Greg back to the relaxation room, I knew that I had experienced one of the most memorable days in my life. It's not everyday that you get an opportunity to meet a modern day Gandhi.

Untraceable

As many of you now know I have a plethora of women in my family and although they went to great lengths to teach me the ways of the samurai, they went to even greater ones to hide the fact that women poop. As a matter of fact, although privy to every other female secret, I had been brainwashed to believe that they also never ever fart. Ever. I didn't discover that women pass gas until well into my adult years.

However, when I reflect back upon all those years that I had been deceived, I cannot for the life of me figure out exactly how they managed to keep this fact so expertly hidden. That is, of course, until now. Sorry ladies. . . . .

The Reader

I have discovered the Holy Grail! Okay, well, not like the actual cup of Christ with life saving capabilities and all, but more like the next best thing. For those of us that like to read or watch movies anyway. And I didn't exactly discover it really, my sister Cris more or less sat me in front of her computer and showed me the awesome amazingness that is Swaptree.com. I'm sure for all of you reading this, because we're related, is probably old news. However, for the remote possibility that someone I'm not related to should happen upon this blog and doesn't know about this gem of euphoric reading fantasticness (it's a word a swear), I shall give you the 411 as they say. (I'm not sure who says this shit anymore, but it seemed fitting.)

So, this website, as I was saying, is fantastical awesomeness. It allows you to swap Books, CD's, DVD's, video games, and babies (I had a cute little African baby I wanted, but Madonna beat me to it). When you are finished with books or movies you don't want anymore, you can put them in a queue as stuff to be traded, in exchange for things you want. Both your wish list, and tradeables can be comprised of all the aforementioned things, except for babies (but I think stem cells are okay). The website, powered by magic and scientifically enhanced hummingbirds, matches and pairs you up with other random people who have books you want, and vice-versa. All you need to do, is either accept or decline offers from these gate keepers of stupendousness, that have nothing better else to do than hoard all the shit you've ever wanted. Sometimes, you can be involved in a 3 or 4 person trade . . . . like an orgy! See? I told you it was awesome.

Halloween

Happy Halloween!



I hate it when this happens. . . . .

My Best Friends Wedding

So, I've been recuperating for the past few days from a gluttonous 4 day eating and drinking binge with a bunch of feisty Cubans and even feistier Brits (they literally can drink like fishes). One of my closest buddies, La Cubana Gringa, got married over the weekend and I had the distinct pleasure of being the MC for the reception. I'm not entirely sure what she was thinking when she offered to give me free reign of a microphone after I would have undoubtedly been drinking, but luckily we were behind schedule throughout the night which didn't allow for too much extra commentary. Although I wasn't allotted any extra time to tell jokes, (I had prepared a few good ones) it was still smashing and I was deeply honored to have had the opportunity to be a part of the festivities.

I won't go into too much detail, (I proudly still remember them all) but the weekend's events started with the rehearsal dinner on Friday night, quickly followed by salsa lessons and dancing. The wedding and reception on Saturday, with pub hopping ensuing late into the night. An enormous BBQ on Sunday, and finally a wine tour through Sonoma Valley on Monday. Don't ask me how, but we managed to visit bars, watch movies, and even play games in between all the other events that had been expertly planned.

The two recurring themes throughout my entire visit, besides the wedding of course, were drinking and eating. Everywhere I went I had a beer in my hand and I ate more food than I really care to think about. Collectively, I've drank and eaten enough over the past 4 days to sustain a few Cambodian villages for a month. Although I usually do eat large quantities of food, I'm more of a social drinker and generally not accustomed to ravenous stints of alcoholic overindulgence (okay, okay, well at least not anymore). So, imbibing in such excess over any prolonged stretch usually requires a period of recovery. Needless to say, I had a difficult time at the gym this morning.

All in all, I had the most amazing time revisiting with old friends and making new ones. My British accent is not only spot on now, but I'll have a place to stay if I ever get the urge to put it to the test. The ceremony was so beautiful and unforgettably perfect that all subsequent weddings I attend will have a lot to live up to.

Far and Away

So, my Dad calls me this morning about wanting to share some sort of poem. Like an eager child exacting his parent's attention before showing them how he can jump off the diving board, he says, "Brown, listen to this:"

I used to rule the world,
Seas would rise when I gave the word.
Now in the morning I sleep alone,
sweep the streets that I used to own.

Apparently, after the disastrous week in the stock market and the fall of a few Wall Street behemoths, he had some epiphanous moment of poetic justice, and couldn't wait to tell me more. As if climbing back out of the pool with excitement and again approaching the diving board with unwavering focus, he continued on . . . . .

I used to roll the dice,
see the fear in my enemy's eyes.
Listen as the crowd would sing,
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the King!"

Now, being that I am a poet and have many memorized, I immediately started scanning through the sheaf of files in my mind's library, much the way a reporter would flip through streaming sheets of old articles stored on micro-fiche. As he continued talking, I easily began eliminating poets. Cummings, Dickinson, Frost, Blake, Browning . . . . .definitely not Chaucer. . . . .

One minute I held the key,
the next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand,
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand.

Dammit, I know this, I kept thinking to myself. It sounds so familiar. Hughes, Poe, Wilde . . . . could definitely be Whitman . . . . or even Yeats. Yeah, I'm definitely leaning towards Yeats, but the title eludes me. . . . . .

I hear Jerusalem's bells a ringing,
Roman Calvary choirs are singing.
Be my mirror, my sword, my shield,
My missionaries in a foreign field.

Wait a second . . . . . is this even a . . . . "Brown, have you ever heard of Viva La Vida?" he interjects. "Uh, no" . . . came my defeated reply. "It's a song from these people named Cold Play", he says. "They're very good". "Ah, of course it is", I say, the realization striking me like an anvil being dropped from an overhead window. Being almost 3,000 miles away, he doesn't have the advantage of hearing them on the radio like we do, so on some things he can be a few weeks behind. He finishes his lyrical rhetoric illuminating the connection with the government's current events and topping things off with an insightful thought of irony, about how both McCain and Bush were initially against government regulations that my have circumvented these very financial travesties.

Having once been a teacher, my Dad is exceptionally computer savvy for a scholar his age. He continues telling me how he downloaded the song and even watched the video on You Tube. I never thought in a million years, that I would ever be discussing You Tube with my Father. Which actually, is kind of cool when you think about it. Although he comes from a very different generation, (you know, the one that had to walk miles in the snow to get to school) he's remarkably perceptive when it comes to today's generational paradigm. I love having these conversation with him now that he's retired and has the time. As long as he doesn't call me later to share Lil Wayne's, "I got Money", or tell me that he pimped his ride, I couldn't be happier.

Rain Man

In celebration of my infinite wellspring of useless knowledge, I found it appropriate to share a little gadget with you that would simultaneously symbolize my savant-like abilities and help to spread the wisdom of impractical trivia. This bastion of useless information, although not as brilliant as the cuss-o-meter, is equally as adored and hopefully will serve to educate you, or at the very least provide a modicum of inconsequential entertainment. (notice how I'm always looking out for you)

Toodles . . .

Life Lesson #219

I'm not exactly sure how one can possibly drop a gas pump nozzle on one's big toe, but I have found a way to do it. In flip flops.

Apparently, being late for work and having to pay today's exorbitant gas prices was not enough of a slap in the face this morning, that I had to attempt to sever a toe for good measure. It wasn't like I had extra virgin olive oil on my hands, or hair gel, or even lotion. Nope. Perfectly dry and capable ninja hands were employed for the job. However, for some reason, I thought it was a good idea to shove the nozzle with the spring loaded cover as far into the car's gas tank as possible to witness the amazing power of harnessed energy first hand. The nozzle propelled itself right out of the tank, through my fumbling and uncooperative hands, and right on to my exposed toe, sending a signal to my spinal cord informing me of just how badly I was going to regret this single moment of stupidity.

After hearing me scream and without missing a beat, the lady at the next pump said, "I hear ya buddy, just let it out". Apparently, she too feels my pain.

The Italian Job

I am proud to report that on Tuesday my best friend G-money and I went on a little adventure of sorts. It had been a while since our last. His bachelor party to be exact.

So, G-money used to date this girl who we shall call . . . . . . . The Whore. They met in college, sparks flew, [Insert finger in mouth now] and blah blah blah. Well, six years went by, they were engaged, and things were seemingly pleasant and tranquil, but unbeknownst to my boy G, The Whore had been mischievously devising the most evil and sinister plan known to mankind. [insert villainous laugh] She claimed to be taking on baby sitting gigs for friends, as a front for her prostitution ring. Over time, however, G-money became suspicious of his partner’s irregularly late hours, lack of deposits, and general disdain for children. The Whore was getting sloppy and G-money’s curiosity began to get the better of him.

One stormy night, G-money decided to go to the house where The Whore claimed to be looking after little snot-faced life suckers, and guess what he saw?. . . . . . . . . . . .Nothing! That’s right, he found nothing. No cars, no kids, not even a damn light on in the house. No baked cookies, no toys on the lawn, and no fingerprints anywhere. (G-money is very thorough) Thinking perhaps that The Whore may have taken the children out for ice cream, or to the nearest overpass, he decided to come back later, but not before driving around to the houses of known accomplices. Long story short, he found the Ho-bag’s car at some dude’s house, while she was inside giving him the red light special. He later confronted her, only to find out that she didn’t care that he knew about her infidelity. She continued her slut dealings, quite openly mind you, until their lease had ended. When the time came, I helped him move into his new bachelor pad, and for months he ate pizza and slept on his couch with a PlayStation controller tightly in his grasp.

G-money went on to become very successful at his job, eventually found the woman of his dreams, and recently married her. I was the best man at his wedding, but I’ll have to tell you about that some other time. For now, you should know that My buddy cosigned on a car purchase with The Whore, that she kept after their separation, but conveniently stopped making payments on. He found this out when bad people contacted him about his credit, wanting over 6 months worth of payments. The Whore had disappeared, moving her operations north and was exploiting the fact that G-money was a co-signer. He not only had to bring the car current, but was also forced to continue making payments for the next two years. That is correct, this bitch drove HIS shit around for two years, without so much as sending a thank you card, or a mint.

Eventually, the current wife had seen enough and encouraged forced her man to hire a detective to find his free loading ho-face ex girlfriend. The first one came up with nada, but the second, a former CIA and FBI operative, finally discovered the Tramp’s whereabouts. That brings us to a phone call I received three days ago:

“Brown, I need you to take off tomorrow . . . . . . I found her”, he said excitedly.

“What? Shut the fuck up! Dude, I need more notice than that, but I’ll see what I can do. What am I taking off for?” I asked.

“Well, my Private Investigator found out where The Whore works and I’m driving there to get my shit. I need you for protection . . . . . . . . and to drive it back. She’s a little over two hours away”

“Say no more, I’ll meet you at your place tomorrow morning. Have some snacks ready . . . . .She’ll never know what hit her! Wait, do I need to bring camouflage and face paint?”

“Ha, ha . . . that would be funny, but no. Your browness should do just fine.”

“Word, just checking”

This brings us to Tuesday. I met G-money at his mansion and after my short briefing on our stealth mission, dubbed “Operation: I’m Taking My Shit Back Bitch”, we began our long drive through Maryland to Delaware to meet the Detective and the gun-toting tow truck guy. After meeting The Detective at the most ghetto Dunkin Donuts in North America, we slipped him an envelope with unmarked bills, and planned the reconnaissance phase of our plan. We were then escorted to the insertion point (The Whore's work) to get a visual on our objective. There she was. The Jeep Grand Cherokee was snugly parked between two cars on the far end of a private parking lot. No hostiles were in sight, but the position of the jeep had me concerned as to whether or not it could even be retrieved. Like ninjas in the night, we doubled back to the ghetto Dunkin Donuts and waited for Jimmy, our no-nonsense, Hell's Angel, towing guru. When Jimmy and his tattoos arrived, we briefed him on the situation and he assured us that after 30 years as a repot man, he could tow anything from anywhere. I was inclined to believe him and not just because he had a bald head and a white goatee, but because of the twinkle in his one real eye.

Jimmy followed us, and when we arrived, we let him loose like you would a pair of angry Rottweilers on a burglar. The crazy bastard was right, with a surgeon's preciseness he worked his car ganking skills like a seasoned vet. It was a pleasure watching him work. Within minutes he had secured our objective, but his inconspicuous vehicle had alerted the enemy to his presence. The owner of the company to where the Whore worked, had come out to question the activities that were taking place on his "private property". Because this was no ordinary repot, Jimmy didn't have legal documents justifying the repossession, so he gave us the signal (we chose a double earlobe tug and flip of his eye patch) and G-money and I sprung from our hideout, running across the lot with documents in hand. After a few questions were answered, we were given the green light to continue our mission. We could see The Whore from the glass doors of the lobby, where she hid, refusing to come out, or to sign the power of attorney. No matter, having seen how fat she had become and having seen the expression on her face when she saw us, we'd gotten everything we'd come for.

Shortly after the anti-climactic event, we had the car taken to the nearest Jeep dealership, where G-money was financially raped for a new key to be made. To calm him down, I told him I was positive that the key had to be crafted by a Russian engineer using remnants of a NASA satellite. Once the key making phase had been completed, we had to disinfect the car, which The Whore left in disgusting conditions, and meet his over-priced lawyer on the way out of the projects back to the lovely suburbs of D.C. A few hours later, our operation was finally complete. We debriefed over dinner and a few beers, laughing about the day's events and imagining when our next adventure would arise.

This Christmas

Christmas has fallen upon us again and with the celebration of the birth of my main man JC, another milestone remains to be witnessed, although not nearly as significant as the arrival of Christ. That day, my friends is the much anticipated anniversary of this here blog. Although I was part of the recent writer's strike and vowed not to participate in any writing through the month of December, I could not let this day of remembrance go by without it's due recognition.

As I sat in church last night for Midnight Mass, a tradition that has remained in my family for centuries (well, okay maybe not that long, but it did have a nice ring to it) I began to reflect on the entire year's events and adventures as I struggled to get communion dislodged from the roof of my mouth. One of those adventures was ignited by the beloved Cubana Gringa last year. As I prayed for her addiction to cheese to be more manageable, I also gave her thanks for introducing me to one of the few places on the internet with value and relevance, besides e-bay, You Tube, and porn.

So, here we are. A whole year later and hundreds of thousands of brain cells lost listening to our President speak. In my moment of reflection I also gave thanks for Britney, MJ, OJ, Lindsay, Michael Vick, and the slew of other knuckleheads that made life worth living. They say that God only puts you through only what you can handle, and I have no earthly idea how I would have survived without pictures of Jennifer Love Hewitt's chunky ass. We're friends by now so I'm going to speak freely. I couldn't have been the only person on the planet that found it peculiar that every commercial she did was shot from the waist up and every episode of that Ghost show she was on, had her in a dress to hide the double wide she kept in her pants. I'm not angry at her, I'm just saying I didn't need close-ups to confirm my suspicions. Why magazines find it necessary to publish some shots I'll never know. Some things are just better left to the imagination, even if it takes you to Charlie's Chocolate factory.

Of course with the celebration of Christmas, comes another time that people find it necessary to drink ungodly amounts of alcohol for no reason (as if we needed more excuses) I'm sure with the invention of the calendar, the Egyptians didn't have what our modern New Year's festivities entail, but then again they did have wizards and believed that cats were evil (They may have been on to something with the latter if you ask me)

With the New Year, as tradition would have it, comes a plethora of empty promises we've come to know as resolutions. Basically that means that my gym is going to be overcrowded for the next three months until people realize they bit off more than they could chew, literally. I've actually ceased with making such votives and decided it best to just keep from going to jail or getting anyone pregnant. Both significant accomplishments I think and a lot easier than becoming a Vegan, for example. Not that I would ever do something like that. Someone has to help with the depletion of the ozone. And I vow to do my part, one Filet Mignon at a time.

With that my friends help me to wish my blog a happy anniversary as I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

p.s.

My computer was fixed so the Brown man will be back in full effect.

Forget Paris

One of the many things I love about my job is meeting new and interesting people. People that, under normal circumstances, I would have never met and would have never had the opportunity to be enlightened by their knowledge and experiences.

As I’ve mentioned many times before, talking is not usually a customary practice during a massage, but often time you are blessed with someone in your midst that is not only extraordinary, but willing to talk to you and share a bit of who they are.

Over the years I’ve massaged people from every walk of life and from every profession. Professional bodybuilders, surfers, powerful CEO’s, criminal lawyers, politicians, professional horseback riders, singers, dancers, artists, doctors, restaurant owners, preachers, and linguists. The list goes on and on. I’ve truly been blessed to have been placed in the path of these people, if only for a little while.

Yesterday, I had a wonderful client who was a former journalist with a rich history in international business and P.R. work. She was very well traveled and we spoke in Spanish, English, and French. She talked to me about when she lived in Paris, how amazing the people in Japan were, and even about the political history of my own birth country. I was captivated by her stories and before our time was up, she had even recommended a book for me to read. She said that she’d bring it to me upon her next visit.

I’ve always been a dreamer and hopeless romantic of sorts, with aspirations to travel the world learning different languages and immersing myself completely in foreign cultures. I want to experience backpacking through Europe, walking along the Great Wall of China, and looking directly into the eyes of a curious young cheetah who’s decided to lounge on the hood of my jeep after a meal. Hiking in Tibet, Sailing in Greece, Muay Thai fights in Thailand, and carnivals in Brazil. South Africa, Australia, India, and Japan, [deep sigh] what amazing adventures I would have . . . . .

Money Pit, part two

I have glorious news! The renovations are finally complete and I am proud to announce that I showered in my own bathroom today! The new shower head is one of those over sized ones you find in fancy hotels and the tub is all new and sparkling. The vanity is also brand new and a few inches higher (my back is thankful), with a large new sink and a faucet that allows me to fit my whole head under it (don't ask). New light fixtures were also installed with bulbs that emit powerful face-melting beams of blinding radiation. At least I can charge people for tanning.

As with most good things in my life, they are unfortunately accompanied by something not so good. Like when I started dating a nympho for the first time. Initially, things were wonderful. Sex was spontaneous, crazy, and occurred in multiples . . . . . unfortunately, so was her personality. As I was saying, about the good and the bad, now that I have a newly renovated bathroom, the garbage disposal decided that it was going to spew forth everything it ate for the past couple of months (I knew that femur was going to cause problems), have a massive myocardial infarction, and die.

Apparently, there had been a clog in the pipes since the early 1900’s and I had to call the bathroom renovation guy back to gut out everything under the kitchen sink and replace it with shiny new internal organs. Since the kitchen sink also appeared to have a weak bladder, the flooring to the cabinets had to be replaced as well.

New kitchen sink parts . . . . . . $60

6 hours of labor . . . . . . . . . . . . . $240

Being able to continue dismembering stupid people in the privacy of my own home . . . . . . . . . priceless!

Now I'm just waiting for the A/C unit to submit it's letter of resignation and to be instantly incinerated by a lightning bolt.

The Sound of Music

Last night I met up with some friends at a local bar that was having karaoke night. No, I did not go there to sing, but I did go because the entertainment was free and one of the bartenders is also a client of mine. So, I get a few drinks here and there for free. I’m sure that violates some sort of secret ethical massage code, but judging by some of the singing that went on in that place, my transgressions were minuscule in comparison.
Apparently, alcohol makes people think they are Whitney Houston, or that they've met you before. (I spent a good 40 minutes of my night trying to convince this chick from El Salvador, that she didn't know me.)

The highlight of the evening (besides when this one guy who looked like Jesus sang "Pour some sugar on me") was when some skinny kid stepped on stage, acting goofy and sang, “Suck on my chocolate salty balls”. I literally laughed my ass off. He gyrated, danced, and even did quite a bit of testicular manipulation while on stage. It was very unexpected and to be completely honest, it made the time I spent in that shit hole collecting cancerous tar on my lungs actually worth while.
I knew right then, that not only was this to be my new theme song, but I might even be stepping on stage myself sometime soon.

I mean……


that kid obviously needs a partner.

StripTease

Howdy Y’all. I hadn’t put anything up the past couple of days, because I was in the Lone Star State, attending my cousin Big M's wedding over the weekend. It was held at an absolutely gorgeous garden-like venue overlooking a glistening lake, embedded in the rolling green hills. We were surrounded by a plethora of flowers and various plant life that swayed in the afternoon’s breeze with Sade’s voice in the background.

It was certainly a little different than most weddings I’ve attended, as everyone was casually dressed, and we were sitting outside melting under the sun’s unrelenting glare. I didn’t know it was being held outside (or that is was casual). So, I was wearing a tan suit with a black shirt and was so hot that I felt like a human tiki torch. Thankfully the actual length of the ceremony was shorter than in the bud light commercial with the auctioneer for a preacher. I never thought I’d be so happy that two people weren’t religious, or that I had forgotten to wear underwear.

For the weekend’s festivities we rented two huge houses on a huge resort, next to a huge lake(apparently everything in Texas is huge), to accommodate my astronomically large family. We had a complimentary golf cart to shuttle people between the two locations since they were a little over a mile apart. I like golf carts, but as I discovered, you should never drive them naked after 15 margaritas.

I love when the family gets together. For Hispanics this means tons of sinfully delicious food, good music, dancing, games, and stories. And of course, with so many cousins, nieces, and nephews around, this inevitably creates the perfect blueprint for my many pranks, or for someone losing an eye. This time nobody lost body parts, but one sister cut so many jalapenos that she did have to ice her fingers for 6 hours. [sniff, sniff]

We attended a BBQ on Thursday night and the party rehearsal dinner was on Friday night. It was a typical family reunion, with the elders telling stories and me trying to find out how many fajitas I could eat before exploding. I also drank so much sangria that I was running around slapping everyone on the ass saying, “good game!”

One of my cousins, who’s notorious for hooking up with beautiful women, even though he still lives with his mom, decided to go for broke and bring a stripper to the wedding who has a five year old son (and a peculiar belly rash). Now, I definitely don’t have anything against stripper moms, (God knows that my uncle Jerry is a wonderful mom), but this particular girl was definitely not the pick of the litter. I’m not even concerned with the fact that she got beat with an ugly stick. What’s entirely worse is that she is as crass and as unrefined as people get. At one point, she dipped some chips into the ENTIRE bowl of salsa, leaning her head over it as she ate, while little chunks of food fell from her mouth (she was gracious enough to put her other hand under her chin). I watched in horror as she desecrated my Aunt's holy salsa. Afterwards, she scratched her belly and I half expected her to lift her leg and let out a resounding fart (as I had a few moments earlier).

I suppose every one’s lucky streak runs out eventually, although I think my cousin might be under some weird stripper spell (or he could just be hypnotized by her gigantic breasts). Either way, he’s in for the long haul, because he decided to make a DNA deposit and now they’re going to have little stripper babies. I’m not a big fan of polluting the gene pool, but I suppose it’s better than getting syphilis.