Just Off Center

There was a scene at the end of the Dustin Hoffman classic Little Big Man in which Hoffman, playing Jack Crab, is approached by General Custer to ascertain the strength of numbers of the Indians down the hill they were approaching. Custer's plan was simple. He believed that Crab would never want to risk his people being slaughtered, but would try and lead Custer to ruin. So Custer concluded that whatever Hoffman's answer was, Custer would presume the exact opposite was true. Jack Crab knew this was happening so he simply told the truth. Custer gave the order to proceed and was summarily wiped out.

Custer was an arrogant fool by most accounts, but the logic was a strong one. When someone has displayed time and time again that their advice will lead you to a result that is opposite to the desired one, you can then begin to trust their advice by following the opposite of it. My coworker Carl is one of these people. In his case the advice is on the subject of movies.

I consider myself something of an amateur movie buff. That is to say that I'd like to think that I have discerning tastes. My favorite film is Kubric's Dr. Strangelove. And I am very proud of the fact that to this date I have never seen (and will never see) Top Gun, at least not more than twenty or so minutes of it. But Carl is the antithesis of all I believe in when it comes to the critique of cinema. My first encounter with this was not too long ago when I had returned from seeing The Matrix: Revolutions. I'll not waste one more byte talking about this...film. But the next day when I was still reeling over my loss of love of this once awesome story, Carl chimed in with "I thought it was fucking great. You must not have understood it." Yes that's it, Carl. I simply lack the cognitive ability to understand that the machines drilled a big hole and then struck a deal with Neo.

But then the reviews started pouring in of "great" films that Carl wanted me to see. Each one worse than the one before. Let me put it this way: If Jerry Bruckheimer ever made a movie where an angry, misunderstood black man punches his deadbeat dad while getting a blowjob from a spunky girl of undetemined origen then jumps in a sports car and races a gang of killer aliens to the top of a giant tittie just before it explodes, destroying all life on Earth, Carl might just come to work the next day crying. And what's worse is every film I see that I recommend is met with the same kind of apathy. After telling him how much I hated whatever turd he was raving out a few months ago he decided to throw an insult my way.

"I bet you're the kind of guy that gave Amadeus five stars"

Yes, actually I would have. And I understand that the only thing that would have improved the movie for you was if at the end Antonio Salieri suddenly burned the requiem sheet music, pulled Mozart's heart out with a pair of tongs, raped his wife, and took his son away to teach him the ninja arts and gangsta rap. What kind of dis is this? Why not just say "I bet you're the kind of guy who read books as a kid."

He came up to my dry erase board today and wrote the letters "A.V.P." on it. I assume he was referring to the new release panned the world throughout, Alien vs Predator. Now I loved Predator. I consider it a horror classic and I'll watch it every time it comes on. And the idea of AVP has been a long time coming. But I've read the reviews and I've seen the trailers. This one might not even make it into my Netflix queue.

And no matter how bad the movie is, if it has a flash of tits, it's an instant hit. Don't get me wrong, I love gratuitous nudity in movies. I love that women are still so desparate for the opportunity to get some attention that they'll take their clothes off and give a faux blowjob because the director tells her it's art. But even the best bush won't heal a movie as bad as Anger Management.

So lately, whenever Carl tells me about a new movie he just shelled out two hours pay to see and how much ass it kicked, I can instantly take the path of Custer and go the other way. And I won't have to worry about suffering through any intolerable shit like Haunted Mansion or Sorority Boys. Hell, if I had attended a paid viewing of one of these bombs I might have gone home and scalped myself.

After watching about a hundred episodes of the People’s Court over the course of my life, you’d think I’d know better than to enter into a business agreement with an unestablished business and without a contract. But apparently some lessons are only going to be learned the hard way. I have come to my wits end in the pursuit of two seamstresses with whom Nina and I had an agreement for some drapes, towels, a shower curtain and a duvet cover. We paid them 50% down for most of it and in full for the shower curtain that they came back and took for alterations, but never returned. In total we are out about $500.

It began almost a year ago, when Nina and I were trying to decide what we should dress as for Halloween. You see we’re married so we have to be a pair of something like salt and pepper, Bonnie and Clyde, or dom and sub. It’s cuter that way. Otherwise people might begin to silently doubt our cohesion. At least that’s the impression I get from Nina and some of the other couples I’ve seen. Well I had the idea that Nina could buy some Goth type clothes in all black and get all funkified with makeup and black nail polish and that I could dress up as a white god-like figure so we would present ourselves as “good and evil”. It was a good plan in theory. But once Nina got all dressed up in some new duds from Hot Topic and went to the first party it wasn’t exactly convincing. While she had the costume of evil, she was still just plain cute, thus nullifying the effect.

My costume was the real challenge. I wanted to wear a white robe with a rope and sash with sandals and a staff. I basically wanted to look like God from the painting on the Sistine Chapel. So after trying on a couple prefab outfits from Halloween stores I decided that it wasn’t going to work. Everything was just too thin in material and nothing fit my body right. So I had another brilliant idea. I’d just call a seamstress and have my Halloween costume tailor made. That way I’d look great and have something to wear every year. I did a bit of Internet searching and came across a website for the now defunct Armystics Designs. I called the owner and made my request. The finished product was a little simpler than I would have liked and it had some ragged edges, but she gave me a discount and once I accessorized and put on a beard I was the absolute best dressed at both parties I attended. I even won a prize gift card from Best Buy. Unfortunately, everybody just called me Moses.

But it was such a success that when the topic came up of how to decorate our bedroom and bathroom and how to cover our windows I thought we should just call Armystics back. So the owner came by our apartment and we discussed what we wanted with her and even gave her a 50% deposit on some of it. We had a “generic” theme for our master bath with towels that had “towel” stenciled on it, a drape on the door that read “drape” and the shower curtain read “shower curtain”. Cut to four months later. We have been unable to contact the people from Armystics. They won’t return our calls. When we did talk to them they lied about their progress and every time they said they were going to come up they failed to do so, wasting our time and frustrating us to no end. We did get out bathroom taken care of for the most part, but the lettering on the shower curtain was crooked, so we had them come up and alter it. But once they tried to do it onsite, they ripped part of it and had to take it with them. We agreed with a promise that they would return it within two weeks. We haven’t seen it since.

I spent months tracking them down. I finally found one of them working in accounts management for an auto restoration company. I called her and she gave me a bullshit story about how all she needed was my address and that the person who had bought out Armystics would cut the check. Of course when I called the new owner this woman claimed no knowledge of my situation or me and refused to help. So to date no refunds have been issued and now the number is out of service. This woman has to have changed her number three times to avoid me. I’ve basically accepted that the whole thing is a loss. And it hurts to know that I’ve been taken advantage of like this.

But not being one to accept pain without retribution, I have vowed to locate those responsible and get my money back as well as my shower curtain. I really liked that shower curtin. So I now turn to the general public by writing this post in my blog. The names of those who ran Armystics are Reagan True and Allen Tant. They live and work in Tucson Arizona. I have no phone numbers, one email address that gets no responses, and few other options. I'd take them to small claims but I don't have any means of contacting them. But I will not let this just fade away. $500 is a lot of money, but the principle is worth far more. Any help in locating these two fraudulant assholes is greatly appreciated.

I'm starting to realize the fact that I can't draw for shit. You may recall a while back I was starting to feel somewhat creatively dry of late. So to give me a sense of artistic expression I decided to try out one form of creative writing, namely the development of a comic book. I'd give some of the details of my comic book concept here, but right now it's still so new and precious that I haven't even told Nina about the story. I'll just say that it's a comic book for kids.

I wrote out the entire plotline. I gave all the characters names and developed them for a sense of realism. I've even done a breakdown of the script and what each frame should look like. So the only part left was to actually draw and ink it out. Now here's where things got a little complicated. You see, I've never really been a visual artist. I've been know to screw up a stright line with a ruler. I haven't seriously tried to draw something since that Tyrannosaurus Rex when I was six. But that T-rex was the absolute fucking bomb, so I must have some natural talent. And I'll be damned if I'm going to have my hopes dashed simply because I'm rusty with a pencil.

So I started drawing on a big sketchpad that my father had bought for Nina a while back. It was also her set of colored pencils I was using. I drew things around my house at first, but then started to focus on my cats. I quickly determined that I was going to need to start drawing with regular pencils first. I went to the library and borrowed several books on how to draw, but they either were waaaay too advanced or wanted me to learn how to draw human superheroes. But I don't want to draw humans. I want to draw animals. Shit, kinda let that one out of the bag too. Alright, I'll just say that since I have three cats around the house I must have been inspired to base the story around animals.

I went back to the library and got a couple books on how to draw comic books. I got a couple of actual comic books from the library and from Atomic Comics. I went to an art store and bought some different leaded pencils and erasers, including that cool kind that changes shape when you squeeze it. But even armed with all of these tools, I still haven't learned how to draw very well at all. I have to admit that with work and school and a personal life I haven't put all that much effort into learning as I would have when I was six.

But still there has to be some way that I can learn to draw as well as what I see in those comic books, even if only for two or three of my own. I considered hiring an artist to pencil and ink the book, but that just sucks. This is supposed to be my own project, born of my own mind and put together with my own hands. Take my house for example. I'm intensely proud of owning it, but I didn't put one single solitary stick of wood into it myself. That counts. Maybe it's just bullshit male pride or ego, but I want to create something, and I want it to be this comic book, and damnit I want to do it myself. But I also don't want to spend the next five years learning how to draw before I get it done.

Not only that, but I already know how I want it drawn. I have the look already published in my mind. I don't think I could settle for some crappy rendition of what I was looking to create just because I was impatient. I was looking at Maddox's website this week and he has a post about how he's working with a comic book artist to make a Maddox comic. And the drawing in it is absolute shit. A fucking nine year old could have assembled that drawing. No, I simply can't reduce the quality of what I want to make just to get it out the door. Not that this would ever really get "out of the door". In complete truth, I don't really expect to make a dime. But if I can just get it done, maybe I'll feel like I'm ready to try a greater creative feat, like writing a book. Hell, I keep this blog running in a semi-literate manner I'd like to think. How much more difficult can a novel be? Just look at Hemmingway. That fucking guy wrote with the vernacular of a teenager, and his stories are the stuff of legends.

Fuck, if only this were some kind of marital or professional problem I could fix it in a matter of a few weeks. I guess you can't rush skill. Nothing really to do but buckle down and learn my fucking shapes, dimensions, and perspectives. If anybody's reading this in 2010, let me know and I'll put you down for a free issue.

Nina's bad back has been especially troublesome over the past few weeks. Some days are better than others. I'll leave the details of her ailments to her own writing. But for my own part I have been trying to help by stretching her legs out, cooking, lifting, feeding her alcohol, and doing whatever other menial tasks I can to help. Of course I want to be a helpful and loving partner. But I know damn well there's just gotta be some nookie on the table for pitching in. I once read a post written by a woman entitled "No one ever gave me head for making the Goddamned bed". To me, that says it all.

Is it that women are so desperate for men to show even the slightest sign of caring that we are rewarded with sex? Is it given as a future incentive to do more? Is it that watching your man making dinner is so unbelievably sexy that women can't resist gettin some of that? Of course a woman would never admit this to the man she's banging. Or is it that women would have wanted to have sex anyway, but figured "he might as well think he's getting this for doing something nice for me"? Whatever the reason is, I'm sold.

So Nina's back is in almost constant pain. She rarely complains about it though, because what good does whining do? I've found that around bedtime, right as she's getting settled in under the sheets, is when she typically chooses to vocalize her misery. I think that this is a warning that any mojo I lay down will be put down. I'm sure the pain is very real. But I'm also sure that she's aware that I'm very horny. And she knows that I tend to feel rejected and unattractive when she turns down my advances. To be fair, I do tend to roll over and start going to sleep once this happens. To this, Nina usually asks "what's wrong". "Nothing." "Something's wrong. You were talking to me and now you've rolled over." It's a little scene we act out once or twice a week.

So to avoid the sting of rejection and the guilt she would feel for turning me down I have begun to try and relax myself around her enough to jerk off in bed. She usually just lies there, waiting for me to finish. It feels a little creepy, but a man's gotta take care of business. Last night though we were watching TV in bed and I started to make those initial tugs. I wasn't hard at all. I just knew that it was a good possibility that I was going to end up beating off anyway. I might as well go ahead and start working things up before I got too tired. I wonder if most women know that a good portion of the time when men jerk off that they don't even have a partial hard on when they start pulling. It's just a thought in the mind and it might as well be quelled before it flows to the loins.

Anyway, Nina blurts out "Are you jerking off?" I immediately stop and say "Not really. Kinda." Now all of the sudden she starts acting a little bit upset, which surprises me because I thought I was being considerate of her feelings by not even trying to get on her. I'd already made comments to her that night that I was wanting to have sex, and she'd hinted that her back hurt too much. And then she did her little bad back groan when she got into bed.

But then she tells me that she's confused and that I'm not communicating with her about sex. This has me completely flummoxed. I ask her if she wanted to have sex and she says "not really". Well then what's the fucking problem? So it occurs to me that she wouldn't be asking me all this if she wasn't willing to give it up so I ask her if she'd be willing to give me a quickie. She agrees and I take her up on it.

Now here's the strange part. I'm on top of her and she's lying there like a dead fish. I think she was actually scooching her upper body to watch TV. I like to keep my eyes open during sex, but after seeing her looking at me like "damn, that's a weird fuck-face" I think I might reconsider that tendency during quickies. I know it's a quickie and it's just for me so I shouldn't expect her to be getting off, but I actually find myself fucking her and wondering "what's she thinking right now?" What the holy fuck? How did this shit take root in my mind? It used to be that I'd say "hey great!" and put my full weight on top of her happily humping away with my chin in her neck and making a growling noise similar to a car that won't turn over. But now I'm wondering about her fucking thoughts and feelings? And then, before I come I asked her if she wanted me to pull out or not? Who the hell am I?

But still it felt good, and in some ways a quickie makes me feel more loved than many other kinds of sex. I gave her "body drawing" for about twenty minutes afterward and passed out watching "I Love the 80's". And afterward she asked me if I minded that she was just lying there. I told her no, and it occurred to me that I really didn't mind. It's so rare that I actually take the opportunity to give in to pleasing only myself these days that I seem to have forgotten how to just "nail this chick". Well, I'm sure the answers will come...with practice. Lots and lots of practice.

After watching Kill Bill 1 & 2 with Mike this weekend we've both been on a "five point palm exploding heart technique" frenzy. He won't stop whistling the Nurse Elle Driver song or poking me in the chest. I'm trying out that three-inch punch on concrete walls. It's not going so well.

So somehow we got on the topic of actual fighting. Mike seems to think that it is only a matter of time before somebody comes to blows at work. This is coming from a guy who literally choked his cubicle mate last year for throwing a paperclip at his laptop. Yes, I suppose with temperament like that, it is eventual that a fight will break out. But I didn't think that it would ever involve me. I generally like to avoid fighting. I'm not sure why, but I think that others would be scared of me. Sort of like one would be scared if they turned a corner and were face to face with a smiling Hannibal Lector.

To this Mike agreed. After thinking about it for a moment it all made sense. I'm not a known fighter. I've never displayed any skill with my fists or feet. I'm not really in shape. But for some reason I think that most anyone who knows me wouldn't want to take me on. I just picture a bar brawl where some guy and I are back to back and simultaneously punch out our opponents. Once we do that we turn to one another for the next contestant. But once they see it's me, they get a bit scared and run to take on somebody else.

The reason is that they're not sure how clean I would fight, or how much self control I could display in such a situation. And, in truth, I can't say I disagree. Given a situation where I was in a fight with someone of greater strength or skill I could feasibly resort to attempting to eat my opponent's face or jumping up and down on his nuts. I guess it would all depend on the seriousness of the threat I perceive. If I were just getting slapped around I think I'd react violently, but with restraint. If I felt like I might be taking a trip to the hospital, I'm inclined to think that I might react fatally.

But the question was what is it about me that makes Mike think others would have to pause to consider the potential consequences of challenging me to an emotionally charged physical contest. I don't make threats. I've never drank blood, eaten raw meat, or talked about wanting to cause pain and misery in front of them. I reserve those behaviors for my wife. Maybe it's something in the eyes. When I get excited Mike has told me that I get this frightening little grin on my face. You know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where Mola Ram is gripping at the guy's chest, about to rip his heart out and show it to him? That's the face. I guess that could be a bit disconcerting.

But while this gives me a certain level of satisfaction, I have to admit that there's some part of me that wishes I was just considered a regular guy. Just another normal dude walking around. I love individuality, and most people would say that they have some parts of themselves that are a bit weird. But when you live your whole life having thoughts and behaviors that worry those around you, it can make you feel a tad bit isolated. And I'm not talking about weird like the goth, black-loving, death-obsessed weird that just annoys everyone over the age of 16. I mean the kind where you chime in in a group conversation and everyone just stops and stares at you a little worried kind of weird.

Who knows. Maybe someday I really will have a little "episode". I can see myself around age forty greeting people who knew me "before" and looking like the character Buddy on Night Court.

"But I'm feeling muuuch better now."

I've determined that I must work for some of the most imcompetent people alive. The company that has contracted my services is filled with career software and hardware engineers. Some of these people tend to take the work home with them, resulting in a personality that can be a little...off. I thought it might be fun to cover a phone conversation I had with one of these types some time ago. To set it up, I am trying to arrange for the repair of a piece of equipment they were using to be bumped up to a priority. But first I need some information so that I can fill out the required documents. If you get lost, you're probably following along just fine. The exchange went like this:

Dan: This is Dan
Me: Hey Dan this is Mike with *******. Did you get my message?
Dan: Yes, just now. (I left it three hours ago)
Me: Great. Do you think I can get that information from you?
Dan: What do you want to know? (it was all on my voicemail)
Me: Well first off, what's your pager number?
Dan: It's uh, 602, no 480, no wait...88...602480887... Oh it's 602-250-****.
Me: OK thanks. And do you know of an alternate we can contact when this priority repair is complete?
Dan: (sarcastically) No, that's my only pager.
Me: No, sorry, I mean who do you want to be the alternate point of contact?
Dan: Yeah, use Rick.
Me: Rick L*****?
Dan: Yeah, I said Rick.
Me: Fine, and do you happen to have his contact info?
Dan: You can reach him at 38**.
Me: Extension 1-38**? (we use the last five digits in-house. 1 means a 441 prefix)
Dan: Of course.
Me: Well, your prefix is 675, not 441.
Dan: I know.
Me: Ok... You don't happen to know his pager number do you?
Dan: Does he have a pager?
Me: I'm not sure. He could have a cell phone.
Dan: Well which do you want?
Me: You have both?
Dan: No.
Me: Which do you have?
Dan: Neither.
Me: Alright, I'll track him down in his office. Now this piece of equipment is used on the ***** project, not yours, right?
Dan: Doesn't the calibration lab have a TDS8000?
Me: Ummm. I…don't…know what inventory of standards the cal lab has.
Dan: Well I'd rather they used their own.
Me: I'll look into that. (pause) But this piece of equipment is used on the ***** project, right?
Dan: Manuals and Training.
Me: Excuse me?
Dan: Manuals and Training.
Me: The project is called “Manuals and training” or the bench is being used to develop manuals and train people?
Dan: Yes, its Manuals and Training
Me: I'll write that down. So this is used in association with the ***** project, right?
Dan: Yes.
Me: Great! Ok, so then this will be charged to department PB105 then, correct?
Dan: Well I'm PB430?
Me: You're PB430?
Dan: Yes.
Me: Wow. So what are you doing in room R1111?
Dan: Working on Manuals and Training.
Me: Of course you are. So are you saying that the charge for this priority calibration should be charged to department PB430?
Dan: No, I told you the project is *****.
Me: Alright. Sorry, I think I'm beginning to understand now. So PB105.
Dan: Ask the cal lab.
Me: Well actually, I'm filling out this priority request form for the cal lab to use.
Dan: But they'll know who to charge the repair to.
Me: Oh, this unit has been broken before?
Dan: Yes, last time I sent it in.
Me: Oh, same problem?
Dan: Yes.
Me: And you’re saying that they should have a record of what department the repair was charged to last time.
Dan: Well they'd better.
Me: Yes. I'd bet they do. But since this is a ***** subproject, the charges would fall to PB105 I expect.
Dan: Maybe. Ask the cal lab.
Me: I will. So do you understand that they have to send this off-site the department that uses this equipment would pick up the overnight shipping charges?
Dan: What department?
Me: PB105.
Dan: I don't know. I'm PB430.
Me: Yes, but the charges of shipping go to the using project's parent department. In this case that would be PB105.
Dan: Well alright. (pause) I’m PB430.
Me: I'll call Rick and let him know too.
Dan: …
Me: …
Dan: …
Me: So then. I think I have everything I need to complete this priority request form. Do you have any questions?
Dan: When will it be back?
Me: Well that's difficult to say since it's a repair and not just a calibration. It would depend on the problem, but once I submit the priority paperwork it will go “next on bench” if the cal lab accepts it.
Dan: Why wouldn't they accept it?
Me: Well I'm not sure why. I've never seen them reject a priority yet. I'm sure it will go through. But I'll keep in contact with them to get a better estimate.
Dan: Ok.
Me: Well thanks for your help. I'll go put this request in.
Dan: Ok.
Me: Alright, thanks.
Dan: …
Me: Bye.
Dan: -click-

To this day I'm not sure how I got through this phone call without laughing or crying. This may not have made any sense to anyone else, but I just had to throw it out there. And, come to think of it, I have no fucking clue if that piece of shit got fixed or not.

This morning I delivered a piece of equipment to one of my customers in their lab and saw something that actually made me stop in wonder. I was just walking past an engineer's desk when I saw that the background on this guy's computer monitor was a close-up shot of the World Trade Center just as United Airlines Flight 175 was exploding into the south tower with the north tower smoking behind it. I had to stop and stare.

Like most Americans, I have become only slightly accustomed to seeing the footage or photographs of that moment. It always gives me pause. But these days instead of feeling horrified and furious and everything else I felt that day, I find myself just remembering the feelings. That leads me to believe that all of those "We will never forget" stickers on the backs of trucks may not be entirely correct. But still it is an unsettling picture. I stood there watching. It wasn't a patriotic 9/11 montage or a screensaver. It didn't switch over to pictures of firemen or soldiers. It didn't give me a feeling of pride or purpose. It just pissed me off. Who the fuck is this guy to have this kind of picture as his background? He even removed the icons on his desktop so that everyone passing by gets the full view. And it's not like he has his own office or even a cubicle. This is a desk located in the center of this bustling lab.

Anyone who knows me knows that my opinions on politics are many, but that I take great measures to avoid discussing them. And I have no intentions of spilling out any of my partisan views on this blog. But this isn't about politics. It's about having a reminder of a horribly dark moment displayed prominently by someone who obviously thought we'd all appreciate it. But then I got to thinking about other distressing images that have been on display in my past.

When I was in technical school in the Air Force, one of my last classrooms had a picture of a man's hand with his dead, blue ring finger severed at the ring. It was meant as a warning to all electronics students that wearing conductors while working could cause you to lose a finger. It was a nauseating picture, and I kept my head pointed away from it for four days while I worked. But I got the point. I removed my ring. Should I believe that this guy wants to keep this as a visual warning to all who walk down the center corridor? If so, what can I remove to accommodate?

Not three weeks ago my contractor won a new contract with the government for the design and production of some new gadget. The gadget is going to be much smaller than others, so it's easier to carry by a soldier, but just as useful. It was a huge win for them, I'm talking many many millions of dollars. So in celebration, banners were posted all around touting new slogans for this equipment. One of the taglines read "size matters". It was on an eight foot tall banner in the main lobby with a picture of a soldier doing some soldiery thing. Two days later, the banner was gone.

Obviously this was seen as an inappropriate motto by someone here. I can't decide if it was a group of delicate little ladies who couldn't handle the play on words or a guy with a needle dick who felt a pang of painful reality when he passed it every day. Actually, I'm guessing it was this guy's wife. She doesn't need to be reminded that not all penises are the size of a tampon.

But back to the point. Even though I thought it was a funny, if not overused and stupid slogan, I could understand how some might be offended, resulting in its removal. How is it that this picture is looked upon by everyone in the lab and nobody else is saying anything? Is the environment such that it wouldn't be worth disturbing the peace of the lab? I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm offended by this guy's choice of background, but even engineers have to have heard the word "tact" before. What's next, backgrounds of a serial killer's victim's disembodied heads?

When Viagra first came into being I thought to myself "now this is just what we need. I've often thought that Americans aren't having enough sex." And with the incredible boom in Viagra sales across the country, you'd think that only 15% of America has the ability to get a hard on of their own accord. I've never taken Viagra, but I hear that it has quite an effect even on men with no problems. And isn't it hilarious that Viagra is now supported by most health plans, but you can't get birth control for your daughter? More proof that it's a man's world.

But now, blazing across the nation like crack, we have Cialis. This little joy pill lasts 36 hours, and will allow a man to hold a woody for up to four hours at a time. I guess it only kicks in when the man gets stimulated somehow. But four hours? Even during a sexual marathon with Nina my batteries need recharging after about three. Doesn't it seem unnatural and unhealthy to have an erection for this long? If a man could have sex every time he got a natural hard on, he'd have abs of fucking rock. But with a four hour stiffy at the whim of a sexual thought I'm betting that the national life expectancy of American men is going to drop to about fifty very soon.

One thing that I believe about keeping romance and passion strong in a relationship is the constant presence of flirting. A little wink from across the room or the secret squeeze or breast brush work great. But imagine you've taken a Cialis pill that day, or even the day before. Now you're at a party and you've got this four-hour boner to deal with. I know that these medications have loosened the minds of people on the public discussion of erections, but I'm still not sure if anybody wants to see their friend's husband walking around with a tent pole in his khakis.

Now the commercials are a riot. One in particular shows this couple sharing a relaxing time by resting in separate bathtubs on the ledge of some hill overlooking the city sunset. And then the wife rubs her finger across her husband's forearm, signaling that she's ready to maka da love. Is that all it takes when you're on this stuff? What happens when your cat comes by to rub on your leg? I can't even think about this. Also, who the fuck has ever done this? First off, what is anybody doing with two bathtubs that aren't anchored to the bathroom? Did the man load them into his truck "just in case"? And where did the water to fill the tubs come from? This is a stupid commercial and needs to be completely rethought.

The best and most relevant commercial to my way of thinking would be as follows: An Olympic swimmer is walking from the locker rooms to the big 200 meter individual medley race. As he makes his way to the pool he spots his wife in the stands licking her lips at how hot he looks in a skintight swimsuit. Cut to the race and the announcers talking about how surprised they are that this favored Olympian is in seventh place. "He seems to have some great amount of drag somehow, Joe". Cut to the underwater camera. "Oops! There's the reason, Joe. He's must have taken a Cialis up to 36 hours ago. No hope for him now I'm afraid." Cut to the swimmer watching the medal ceremony that he should have been in when his wife comes up to him, wraps her arms around him and says "He still gets the gold in one event."

"Cialis. When you can't find any other way to give yourself a stroke"

After some make up sex that Nina and I had a couple weeks ago the subject came up of which was harder to perform: fellatio or cunnilingus. I imagine that the response to that first sentence by any reader is one of immediate resolution. "Oh that's easy. It's much harder to perform (insert whatever sexual task you perform)." Nina's was no different. But I reminded her of the varying physical requirements of a man when going down on a woman. I also pointed out the time that I refused to stop when she was blasting off and she started slamming me in the back of the head repeatedly with her pillow. it didn't hurt really but that first thump shoved my head further down and I was trying to breathe in, so I caught a mouthful of orgasming coochie in mid-inhale.

So it seems that upon further contemplation that the two should be rated in terms of difficulty to determine who is doing the most work. For comparison's sake, I'll go off of the assumption that both tasks are done adequately and for a nominal amount of time. All factors will be given a rating between 1 and 10, 10 being the most difficult.


POSITIONING: A good blowjob requires several physical factors. The giver must first be in a position to give the head. I'll assume that this is the standard kneeling position with the man standing in front of her. If a woman wants to get more flexible by trying different positions, then she shouldn't be complaining about this part. So the knees can get sore from the kneeling, and depending on height ratios she might have to compensate some other way. But women have the ability to sit and kneel in positions that men cannot for long periods of time. I'm giving the positioning a difficulty of 2.

BREATHING: Breathing can be accomplished through the nose or through the mouth either after the upstroke or by momentarily stopping with the penis still in the mouth. Breath must be held for the majority of the blowjob, making long blowjobs a breeding ground for hyperventilation. Breathing gets a difficulty of 7.

MANDIBULAR MANEUVERING: This is the tough part. Here the giver must open wide enough to take the whole girth of the penis. She must prevent the teeth from scraping or biting. She has to avoid the gag reflex when taking the full length. And she must give some amount of suction when appropriate. Skill can come only with real-world practice here. This gets a 9.

INTERMISSIONS: Men don't like a lot of variation in sensations as they get closer to coming. But when a blowjob is taking its toll on the giver most men would agree that it is acceptable for her to remove the penis for a moment to relax the jaw and catch a breath, but only if continued stimulation is applied. The preferred method is always the standard handjob. But for some men even this will cause a break in the sensation or concentration, thus delaying the orgasm. I rate this a 6.

REPUGNANCE: If a man's junk smells like his ass, chances are a woman can easily get him to clean up if a blowjob is on the line. And I'm going to go off of the assumption that most women are not repulsed by the sight of a dick. So the grossest part falls back to the obvious; come. Spit, swallow or facial is a decision that any civilized man leaves up to the woman. But most women will usually try to do what they know their man enjoys the most. However, that doesn't make the experience any less unappealing. Repugnance gets an 8.

TOTAL SCORE FOR FELLATIO - 32/50

It was about 4:00 this morning when I heard my wife yelling in her sleep. This happens every couple of weeks so I tend to not notice it until it starts getting really bad. She was shouting out "You fucker!" and "Fucking asshole!". I knew right away what was up. Nina tends to have dreams in which I get caught cheating on her. It's always some random scene where I am completely unapologetic and cruel, like telling her to chill out while still humping...whoever.

The dreams have been getting worse lately. It used to be she'd just roll around and moan a little before waking up and shaking it off. But now she's getting violent.

I woke up Monday of last week with a sore jaw. I don't know how I got it. I never had one from sleeping the wrong way before. And for two days my jaw was stiff to the point I couldn't open it more than half way. The stress on my jaw caused killer headaches too. Jokingly, I blamed Nina for throwing me a surprise left hook in her sleep. She denied it, of course. And while I couldn't prove that she had hit me, I also couldn't explain the sore jaw either.

So last night I tried waking Nina up when I heard her yelling as I always do. I rolled over, grabbed her side, and started gently rocking her while saying "Nina. Nina. Wake up." Without hesitation her right arm comes flailing from in front of her (she was facing away from me) around and toward me, the back of her hand popping me square in the nose, muttering "motherfucker" under her breath. It hurt and it's not exactly a welcome substitute for an alarm clock and a cup of coffee, but Nina still seemed to be asleep and having a nightmare so I still had to wake her up. I resumed rocking her, far more cautiously. With every move of hers my hand instantly recoiled. I resigned to just talking to her. After waking her up I told her it was just a dream. I didn't cheat on her. I'm not a motherfucker or a goddamned fucking asshole. She begrudgingly acknowledged this and I went back to sleep breathing through my mouth.

I haven't spoken to her about it yet this morning so I don't know what the dream was about. But I'm guessing it went something like this: Nina was cooking/cleaning/building an extension to the house when she walked into a room in our house/apartment/whatever to find me happily nailing away at whatever girl I'd been caught looking at in the past week. She gets upset. I tell her to chill/no big deal/join in/I don't love you anymore. She cries/screams/throws things. Then I wake her up and apologize.

I suppose the infidelity dreams are a step down from the past. Before I married her she used to dream about me stabbing her or throwing her off of a building or something. Really violent shit like that anyway. Her mother says that it was the same thing when she was growing up, but that she was the source of all her slumbering misery. Now I've taken the helm of the U.S.S. Do Something Terrible To Nina. But it's not always a bad dream with her, and she can say some really funny shit in her sleep. But today my face hurts, so I'll just wait until I hear the story. It's always interesting to find out who I'm fucking this week. I seem to really get around.

Let me just say that this last weekend's Olympic games have been just plain lymptastic! Actually, they've been only slightly more interesting than the constant wave of forensic/new detective/FBI shows that is normally on. These kinds of shows have been a mainstay on my tube since Nina discovered her skills in the kitchen. Don't ask. But this weekend it was all about McDonald's commercials interspersed with some competitions in Athens, Greece.

With the past two days of swimming and gymnastics (with the occasional spice of women's volleyball) behind me, I can start forming my permanent memories of the 2004 Olympic Games. Everybody has these memories. These are the memories that play out like the MasterCard montages of American pride and the spirit and joy of pure competition. You can see the flashes of the athletes straining in effort, glancing worried at the times, and pumping arms in victory. But somehow for me, it's cementing in my head like more of a bloopers reel.

Each night I would be watching these men and women who have trained their entire lives in their respective events. And so far I haven't been disappointed in their abilities to leap, stroke, jump, and slip up in the end on some fundamental move, eliminating them from the finals. Like this one Chinese gymnast who decided to show off far more than needed in the prelims. It was an honor just watching such skill on a pommel horse. But then he failed to affect a basic dismount, resulting in his elimination. That just made my week.

Nina and the others in the room kept droning on about how sad it was. "Oh, that's so sad." "I can't believe they eliminate him for one little mistake" "They should let him do it over" Not me. I say, "Thank you, oppressed foreign athlete. Thank you for an abysmal failure on global television". And then you get to see that face afterward when it starts to sink in that he just spent fifteen years in pursuit of a goal that took two seconds of arrogance to lose forever. Classic.

I know I'm not alone when I say that few things are more entertaining as when a person screws up like this. And it's not just the competition. Our own American teams are proving that blowing it is trait found throughout humanity. Go dream team! oh. Go swim team! damn. How about baseball? We're Americans! We can't possible fail at baseball, can we? shit. And this is only day three. If I were a betting man, I'd put down the deed to the house that the front-runner in the marathon trips on his own feet on the final quarter mile, breaking off his foot at the ankle. That would be tragic. But I'd probably still laugh, and, in secret, so would most everyone else I know.

So in an effort to keep my imagination sharp and push out the revelation that I can't keep my balance after a four inch vertical jump, I've tried to come up with ways we could keep these athletes on their toes. And suddenly it dawned on me: hazards! I say if Crash Bandicoot can go through so many hazards and still get the crystals, these pampered blowhards should be able to dodge a few spikes for the gold. I want spring-loaded spears in the pools. I want motion triggered poison darts pointed at the hurdlers, barbed wire around the pole vault, and landmines in the triple jump.

How about we replace the starting gun with a WWII flamethrower pointed at the starting blocks? We could add a circular saw to the center of the pommel horse. And I see no reason why we can't add a three second fuse to the shot put. I think that if the planet's top athletes thought there was a little more on the line than their reputation we'd see far fewer blunders. I mean imagine you're a sprinter. Wouldn't you be minding your footing a bit more if you knew there were a dozen chainsaw wielding cyclists behind you? Or how about a trap door to a crocodile pit directly underneath the balance rings or an acid moat surrounding the exercise floor boundary lines? Hell, with events like this I wouldn't care what drugs these guys and gals took to get stronger and faster.

One last thing for the Olympic committee to consider. What if they could randomly select one event for the entire sixteen days in which the silver and bronze platforms were equipped with flame spouts? And those spouts would be activated just as the gold medal winner's national anthem peaks. Then you get that split second to see the numbers two and three guys' faces as they realize the cost of losing just before they're engulfed in flames and singed to the bone. I just want that little extra bit of motivation from our best athletes.

Anyone who's taken even the most basic Psychology or Sociology course should be able to understand that there are certain behaviors that humans display with no instruction whatsoever. Things like smiling as a universally acknowledged sign of happiness are hardwired into our psyches as a necessary function of social interaction. The rest is learned from experience in this world and civilization. These are things like designating a separate area for the disposal of human waste that exists out of nose-shot of the group.

I mention this because there certain behaviors that I observe in public bathrooms today that give me pause to wonder about the impending doom of our species. I understand that bathroom etiquette differs from person to person, based on rearing. But I think there are some things that should be universally accepted as standard practice. The following list applies directly to men only, seeing as how women usually learn these lessons all by themselves.

1. When you need to take a dump and most of the stalls are available, under no circumstances is it acceptable to choose the stall right next to somebody else. How creepy is this? When I go potty, I try to choose the stall on the end so that I don't have anyone on my right side no matter what. But there are still these people who saddle up on my left when every other stall is open. This is cause enough for an instant pinch, wipe and bolt.
   
   
2. Loud dumping, while disgusting is understandable. But try to keep the noises restricted to your ass. Keep your fucking mouth shut! Too many times I've been enjoying a peaceful crap after lunch when some jackoff starts grunting from the strain. If it's that hard, it's not time. Change your diet and put a lid on it.
   
   
3. Speaking of jackoffs, if you're so horny that you absolutely must rub one out at work, do so in absolute silence. This is non-negotiable and failure to comply is grounds for public humiliation. Enough said.
   
   
4. No matter who you are, your penis does not weigh enough to warrant that stupid little knee bend. This is done only for the sole purpose of intimidating the other pissers in the bathroom. A guy is taking a wee wee. When he finishes, he grabs his dick and puts it away as if it is 18 inches long weighs twelve pounds, necessitating a little extra squat motion from his legs. This shit just pisses me off.
   
   
5. Wash your hands after you take a shit. And don't look at me like I'm some kind of sick bastard for not washing after taking a piss. I washed my dick this morning and I didn't get any piss on my hands. Chances are, my hand wasn't gong to find its way into your mouth anyway.
   
   
6. Don't speak. Men are not to talk to each other while pissing unless it's outdoors and involves a distance competition. And if you talk through stalls, you should be shot in the kneecaps.

It's amazing how many people go their whole lives with no idea that these basic rules of hygiene and courtesy exist. Look, we all have to go to the bathroom. And nobody is interested in how you personally experience taking a shit. So just accept these rules and follow them. We'll all get through this together by keeping our actions separate.

I have the first 200 digits of pi (3.14159...) tattooed around my left bicep. I love my tattoo. It makes sence to me, it's unique, and above all it seems to serve as beacon to the stupidest people on Earth. Yes, it's a little weird I suppose to have a bunch of numbers permanantly inked into my flesh. But it has a definite meaning and I'm getting a little tired of explaining it. If someone is really interested, that's one thing. But most people are just looking for a reason to point out my deficiency at social conformity. It's always the same fucking discourse:

"Whoa, what's that on your arm?"
"It's pi"
"You mean like math?"
"Yes that's right, like math..grumble"
"LOL OMG ROTF"
"..."
"What made you wanna get that?"

At this point I tell them whatever comes to mind to end the discussion as quickly as possible. One more person I have to hate. What the hell is it about my ink that makes people so curious and prone to mockery? Do people think that because I have numbers on me that I'm not going to beat them to death with their own severed femur should they offend me? Should I maybe have gotten a spirally tribal tattoo or some naked chick like most everyone else? Hey maybe some barbed wire would be cool, right? And ladies, how about you get a cute little butterfly right above your asscrack. That'd be original. I hate everyone.

But by far the most annoying response to my tattoo happened about six months ago in The Great Indoors (a store that kicks crateloads of asss by the way). Nina and I were picking out curtains (god.) when this little, late-forties saleswoman approaches me in wonder. Unlike the retarded masses she was most impressed with my tat and wanted to know what my inspriation was. True it's the same question as "why'd you get that?" but her intentions seemed pure. So I told her and she asked me a question I'd never heard and now wish I never had.

"Have you heard of Kryon?"

Kryon? What's this Kryon you speak of? Is he a mathemetician? Is it a band? I suppose the answer is no, I never have. Big fucking mistake. because now this woman, whose purpose here is to sell curtains don't forget, starts telling me about this angelic and, of course, invisible being who apparantly lives off of one of the rings of Saturn or something and has channeled his message of love and peace through his followers here on Earth. Holy. Living. Fuck. I'm cornered by a fucking new age cult follower.

I managed to escape with only a slightly filthy feeling. So I went home and did a little research on this Kryon. And this isn't even a good cult. The premise of it is such obvious bullshit that I can't imagine anyone would follow it. Even the Branch Davidians had at least a partly plausible credo. Honestly, you've got to check this shit out for yourself to believe it. It's the kind of thing that you'd expect to be sharing convention space with Romanticon. And the most disturbing part of this is she instinctively thought that I was a follower of this new age garbage. It was a sad moment in the life of Mike, to be sure. Still, my tattoo rocks fucking ass and it helps me spot the people I wouldn't have liked in the first place. Plus it gives me something to read while I'm trying not to come too soon.

So Nina and I have been at each other's throats off and on for a few weeks now. It's nothing that we couldn't solve, but it was altogether, let's just say, unpleasant. All of the issues were old ones, things that have been there since day one. I'm not meeting her emotional needs (needy cunt). I don't like any of the things she likes. She makes me feel like I'm in the wrong, even when I am clearly right. But there's always the good old trusty, wife not putting out enough arguement.

So after about three hours of screaming and yelling we worked everything out. I can hear the collective "Shit!" in the heads of all those reading this. During the course of the argument Nina was convinced that sex was the source of pretty much the whole thing. Understandably since the actual fight began last night when she turned down my request for a blowjob. She didn't want to. I felt rejected and unattractive. I got mad. She got upset, etc, etc... It was this who misunderstanding and a really silly reason to get into it this badly.

After about the first hour of what was actually a surprisingly short and productive fight, Nina determined that she was going to end all of these fights by simply submitting to my every sexual impulse whether she wanted to or not. Her logic being that then I wouldn't have any excuse for not meeting her emotional needs.

SCORE!!!

Now in the heat of the fight, I told her that that's not what I wanted and that I would consider it a form of punishement. I went so far as to tell her that if that was her plan that I would refrain from making any more sexual advances on her. "Bitch must think I'm a fucking slave to her pussy. I'll show her" I told myself. My "showing her" lasted about three hours, by the way. I was testing the waters of her new resolve within twenty minutes of getting into bet that night. But since she called me back for seconds, I have to assume she was slightly more than a sullen participant.

But what was I thinking telling her that? Here was my wife, the woman I love and lust, the only one who can provide my sexual satisfaction telling me that she would give it up on command from now on. And I was telling her that I didn't want that. It's true that in fights I had heard this before, but this time I feel like she was really serious. Of course I felt like a perverted, needy dick for making her feel so inadequate. But it's not like I set out to make her feel bad. I'm just horny a lot more often than she has been willing or able to provide. I'm a twice or thrice a day guy. She's, generally, a once or twice a week gal.

A few minutes later when we reached a good pausing point she got up to go to the bathroom. Just then a tiny version of me in a devil costume materialized on my left shoulder, jabbing me in the temple with his pitchfork. I couldn't deny his logic. This was exactly what I really had always wanted, unrestricted ingress to my wife's body. It's true that I won't know if she's really into it or not. But that's so bad, right? I mean on those days when I just want a quickie it's understood that she won't be getting anything out of it anyway. Plus, I'm usually pretty good about getting her off at least three times every time we have sex, so it's not like she's been lacking for pleasure herself.

So here I am basically with a pot of gold in my hands and I'm wondering if I should cash it in. I must be crazy. I just can't help but wonder what kind of impact this might have on her emotionally. But damnit, she's a grown woman and I've always tried to respect her decisions regarding her own life. Who am I to try to bump her off of this course. YES! Now I actually have a way of convincing myself that this is for her own benefit too. Saddle up, honey. Daddy's coming home!

Two weeks ago I was forced to attend a quarterly meeting of the calibration lab at work. I can't stand attending these "state of the union" meetings where we all look at the work we've done in pretty PowerPoint format and pat ourselves on the back for two hours. But since it was mandatory and last time I got a movie pass, there I was. I walked to the back of the room where there were chairs lined up against the back wall. I would have sat up at the conference table, but I don't want them to see me suppressing my yawns.

I sat next to Mike and we started placing bets to make the meeting more interesting. The most fun bet was how many times one of the supervisors in our company would blurt out in hysterical gafaws at even the most mundane of humorous comments by the calibration lab staff. I bet eight. Mike bet nine. The total count was eleven, a personal record for the king of phony abasement. I could go on and on about this worthless shithead, but I'll save the "stupid boss" rant for all the other blogs.

Before the meeting started there was another Mike who walked in. This is Mike who runs the calibration lab at my site. He's a pretty cool guy I suppose. I've never had a reason to wish any suffering on him. So he started joking around with us for sitting in the very back and how impersonal the distance made us. I commented that if the point of this meeting was group intimacy we should all just huddle around in a circle on the floor and sit Indian style while covering the quarter's accomplishments. Well as it turns out, "Indian style" sitting is not a phrase that is known universally outside of Indiana. And seeing as how Cal Lab Mike is of some Native descent, he wasn't particularly amused.

Within earshot of my comment all the air got stale. Conversations halted in unison and it was like one of those E.F. Hutton commercials (When we talk, people listen). What did I say? Isn't that how they sit? Am I the only one who grew up with terminolgy like this? I've seen westerns. The cowboys sit on stumps of some kind with their knees apart and play the harmonica. The Indians squat down on the ground with their legs crossed, well, Indian style.

Mike got over it easily enough once I told him that that's what we called it growing up. Hell the teachers would tell us to sit Indian style in a circle for book readings. But this got me to thinking about all the ways that people are trying to adjust their vocabulary to eliminate anything which might offend. I'm not one of these people who says that we're all getting too PC, but I have to wonder why socially sensitive commentary is immediately pointed out when it happens. "what do you mean he's Korean? Do you kow that he's actually FROM Korea?"

Couldn't he have just laughed it off? I mean what are the odds that I am some kind of Native American bigot and I just felt the need to put him down? And what was with the sudden change in atmosphere? You'd think I just said "Tanto, you're going to have to pack up and leave now". It's the white people who are afraid of offending it seems, since everyone around me who got quiet was white. There was a black man there. He didn't seem to think anything of it at all. He just kept talking. And why do I feel like there's something wrong with me when I say that he just went right back to talking about basketball? He was. This sucks. A black former coworker of mine didn't hesitate for a second to point out all the ways that I'm a lameass white boy.

"you know what I like about you Mike?"
"What's that"
"You're whiter than white, you know that?"
"Hey thanks! And I think you're blacker than black."
"..."

You can guess where it goes from here. I thought I was just returning a compliment. And I don't think I'm alone when I say that I can recall several times that I would be looking for somebody or trying to describe a person to someone. And if they were black then it's just understood that you have to lower your voice when you say, "Well, he a black man".

I suppose I've heard people say things like, "You know Mike, the big white guy over there". But then that never really got to me. Come to think of it, I've never really had the opportunity to be offended by the socially "ignorant" comments of my peers. Maybe I should get hurt feelings next time somebody says "kraut" or "white bread". Then when the room falls silent I can pause, look hurt, and then laugh it off in a half-hearted attempt at hiding my pain. Then I'll get to be the proud and unfairly labeled guy who is strong and mature enough to let slide the ignorant comments of those around me.

White man's burden, friends. White man's burden.

Over the course of this year I think that I've received about fifteen of those stupid fucking emails from fair-weather friends and distant relatives filled with "tell me about yourself" questions. These are the emails that have questions like "What's your favorite color?", "Have you ever been in love?", and "Have you ever cried at a movie?". Every time I get one of these I want to respond to their e-inquiries with an e-choke-hold.

First off, the email is waaaaay too long. Some of these things have 200 questions in them. It reminds me of the movie "The Game" in which Michael Douglas spends a day answering questions and gets mind-fucked to the point of suicide for the rest of the movie. I mean can't we abridge these things a little bit?

Second, why send me a bunch of questions about myself at all? I mean you're making the effort to send me an email. You obviously took the time to remove your own inane answers to this electronic inquisition before sending it. It seems to me that you must be at least a little bit interested in knowing more about me. So here's an idea: HOW ABOUT JUST SENDING ME A NORMAL FUCKING EMAIL AND ASK HOW I'M DOING YOU SKUNK-BRAINED TWATS?!?! Christ! I know that email is a little bit less personal than an actual conversation, but can't we even pretend to give a shit? I consider these emails tantamount to leaving a nickle tip for the waitress. What a slap in the face.

So to calm my nerves I've decided to remove about 95% of the retarded questions from this list and revise the rest to my liking so that I feel like I'm really learning about the person I'm emailing. Here's my revised "gettin' to know ya" list:

1. What's the nickname you've had that hurt your feelings the most?
2. Who was the first person to rip your fucking heart out and how old were you?
3. When was the last time you stole something?
4. How did you justify it to yourself?
5. Why are you such a dismal failure?
6. Who do you want to murder the most?
7. Liar! Who?
8. How often do you use racial slurs to people who cut you off on the road?
9. Why does God hate you?
10. What's your favorite color?
11. Why do you think I could possibly care what your favorite color is?

Now if someone were to send me a list of questions like this my blood pressure might lower. I may even answer them. But somehow I doubt this will ever happen. No, I'm sure that in the end I can only expect to receive more lists with "How old were you when you first made love?" in them. Made love? How about asking how old I was the first time I tried to fifth base a girl without asking first?

But even then the answer would be never. Well, it looks like I know what I'm doing tonight.

About a year ago Mike and I decided to attend a rave that Mike's buddy would be playing at. He told me that it would be in the middle of the woods up in Flagstaff Arizona. The campground environment and the fact that his friend would be spinning were the only reasons he agreed to attend. I just couldn't wait to get back to a subculture that I used to love so much in my late teens and early twenties, yet haven't revisited since my "maturing". Those were my heydays though, not high school or frat parties. Those nights when I was with friends and we were dancing, talking, smoking, tripping, laughing, joking, and generally loving life were some of the best of my life.

Let me stray off course for a moment to a related story. Recently a coworker and I were divulging our drug histories to each other. He comes from south Phoenix, kind of a ghetto, and he made it out so his experimentation was very limited. He had only one weed experience and lots and lots of binge drinking, especially in the Marines. So he was fairly shocked to hear about all the shit that I'd done, especially the acid. He had only heard of it, like most, through health class videos. You know the ones. A guy gets offered a hit after he's dumped or gets an "F" or something. He takes it and immediately starts wigging out. Usually he makes his way to the top of a building somehow and starts to see visions of devils or murderers pointing fingers at him or something horrible. He jumps. He dies. It was the acid's fault. Acid is evil and will kill you, lesson learned. Fine by me, actually. If you can't handle your high, don't ruin it for the rest of us. So because I had survived he wanted me to explain to him what it felt like to trip acid.

I told him it starts out like nothing. I mean you feel nothing. This can go on for a couple hours sometimes. But then you start to tweek, and I mean it's like you just did a quadruple espresso and you just stand there, grinding your teeth and flexing every muscle in your body. My wife jumps up and down. It feels great, but that's not what it's about. After the tweeking subsides, which is usually about 30 to 45 minutes you start to have mild hallucinations and you feel a warm buzz in the pit of your guts. This will go on for upwards of eight hours and it's here that the thoughts change and you enter a new realm that you are creating as you go. Only here does it make sense. But, like all things drug, the experience depends on the amount and purity of the shit you take.

With acid, it is true that you can potentially have a bad trip. And bad trips suck real bad. So, in order to prevent one, you keep good company and have your little adventures. You can't be afraid of tripping, because once you drop it's a little late for worries. And above all, you have either a babysitter of sorts or some way to trigger yourself into remembering that you're on drugs. For me it was a Bic lighter. I'd flick it and stare into the flame's corona, reminding myself that the world I'm in is only temporary and that I should enjoy it. Once everything dies down you fall asleep. You wake up and feel no after effects. And for me, that was about the extent of it. Everybody who's done it has their story. I never took more than a couple of hits at a time, so mine are pretty light.

But back to my rave story.

I wasn't trying to relive the past and I wasn't trying to act younger than I am. After all I still am young. I'm only 28. I still have a lot of raving left in these rhythmless feet. Before we left town I was picturing this fantastic spectacle in a clearing of the wilderness with lights and pulsing trance music, people dancing frantically with glowsticks, and a juice bar selling LSD and weed over the counter. That's what I'd grown accustomed to, and that was in lameass Indiana. This is Arizona, and the party was migrating to this location from Phoenix, so it was bound to be a trip beyond comprehension, right?

100% fucking wrong. Bummer.

I've seen more out of control baby showers. First of all, I didn't mind that I had to drive my car through an almost completely uncleared area. I thought that guaranteed us our privacy, and I suppose it did. And when we arrived we mingled and smoked some. We drank lots of beer. Normally alcohol is off limits at a rave, and I understand why completely. The sun went down and the music started thumping. The spinners were good and I really dug it. But there was something missing, aside from the acid. There was some element that is needed for it to be a rave that was sorely absent.

It was the mood. The place was so isolated that almost nobody came. But that's alright too. If the right people are there it can still be a special time. But the truth is that it was nothing but Mexican families there. I mean they brought their lawn chairs and formed a round table behind the dance area. They brought a grill and made carne asada. There were toddlers and women in their fifties. And they sure as fuck weren't planning on having Mike the gringo join their ranks. And those few of us who were there to have a rave were overwhelmed by the backyard barbecue feel of the whole thing. Mike was no help. He spent the whole event drinking and trying to hit on chicks.

So I did the only thing I could. I danced anyway. I did my weird little steps to the throbbing bass and pretended I was in some condemned warehouse celebrating my very existance. The stars were beautiful and the music was great, but it was all a futile effort. The whole event was contaminated by a lack of participants and an abundance of spectators. I got hammered and passed out in the car. Unlike acid, the next morning, I did feel something, hung over. I drove back, dropped Mike off at his car and went home to my waiting wife.

It just wasn't the same without her. Her and some hallucinogens.