Rick

I wanna say it was 1993.  Me and pops were living on Jeffrey avenue.  It was early summer or late spring.  Another sunny day in California.  As was my habit, I was sleeping in on the couch.  I woke up to the sound of arguing.  At first it was just voice.  Then, I was able to distinguish two separate voices.  Now fully awake, I pieced together some of the scenario.  There were two people arguing.

"You stole my wine!"  This was my neighbor.  I recognized his yelling voice because he was always yelling at his kid with the humongous head.  I heard some indecipherable babble that was close to my front door.  Kevin, my neighbor yelled again.  "You stole my wine off of the front porch!" 

Now I could make out the counter argument, "Maaaaan, I didn't steal no wine.  What would I be doin stealin wine?"  A fair point, I thought.  "Why you got wine on the front porch anyway man?  If you don't want it took?"  There's way too much here to break down fully.  I think the main lesson here, as we'll see, is that anyone who asks a rhetorical question in their denial, or two or three, is for sure guilty. 

There was more arguing and a knock on the door.  Hmm.  Let's see what this is about.  So I opened the door and saw a cross between golden voice guy and the most interesting man in the world...

And that, my friends, is Rick Mendoza.  I had no clue who this guy was, but he looked if not homeless, borderline homeless.  He asked in a raspy kind of jive voice, "ya man, is uh, Bob around man?"  Just then my dad came from the hallway in his bathrobe (he slept in too.  We party) with this look on his face that said, "What in the blue fuck is going on out here?"  But he saw Rick and relaxed.  "Hey Rick.  Uh, come in?"

Two things happened after Rick got in the house.  First was my dad put his gun away.  Immediately following that, Rick pulled a bottle of wine out of one of his four layers of clothing.  Priceless.  So Rick asks what's going on.  My dad asked what was going on.  Rick wanted to know if he could wash my dad's car for some coin or something.  That was that.

But then somehow my cousin Jeremy ended up at the place and Rick wasn't washing a car.  I'm hazy on the details of whether or not this was later in the day or another day.  Bottom line?  It's still Rick going on.  And me.  And Jeremy.  And Rick starts talking about fornicating ugly women.  I'm 12.  Jeremy is 10 or 11.  Standard fare at the Watts house.  So he's in his cool, jive, and raspy voice.  "Man, I messed with this uuuuuggly girl.  They say put a bag over her head when they ugly.  Shiiiiit.  I'll put a bag over my head."  And that, my friends is as good as it gets.  Hope the picture I painted of the wine thieving, yet interesting in appearance guy brought it all together for you.  If not, pffft.  I got a bag over my head anyway.

Too soon?

That's the indoor pool

Front room

And the view.  Yawn

Lookie here.  Dub's got an idea.  The details are hazy, but the broad picture is I'm at the very least gonna rent one of these pads for a week or ten after my sojourn to Alaska's frigid waters.  I'm not bragging or anything.  It's just a fact.  As real as any fact can be like four months ahead of its coming to fruition.  If you recall, when I had something on  my mind, I freely admitted that not only am I not scared of islands-I seek them out.  This is how it went down...

For those of you at home, who have been paying attention, you know I'm headed out to sea.  Not gonna be fun, but will for sure be worth hearing about and make a little coin.  It's not all Donald Trump lotto like you here about on Discovery channel...yet.  But I'm thinking to myself, "self, what's the end game here?  I know we're gonna dominate this so bad that there's gonna be a life in free fall book, but what else?"  Self, I'm glad you asked.

Dub's charter service.  That's right.  I'm gonna learn about boats, ye land lubbers, sterns, aft, squalls, bilges and all that shit.  Then, I'm gonna take my happy ass to some remote island getaway-peopled with savages-but with the aesthetic value that white men and women can't resist.  And this, my friends is where I come in...

What's that?  Your daughter's afraid of sharks?  Better keep close dear.

Now, I don't know the first thing about boats and for sure can neither afford, nor will I soon be able to afford a yacht.  But every new ship has to go through it's sea trials, right?  So I'm gonna see what the island life has for me.  It'll be a good investment.  How can I realistically plot my life of fighting off pirates and dragging the Neusbaums through the Caribbean if I don't test it out first?  And it wouldn't hurt to have a Caribbean queen or six either...

So there you have it.  Long term-Captain Dub.  I wanna post Lakeside's Fantastic Voyage again so bad here.  Short term, taking a trip.  After the sea voyage, I'm going to vacay on an island.  And real talk, these places are big enough for a gaggle of free loading jerkoffs, so I don't know, take a number?  That's not a bad idea.  If fools wanted to come along, pack their bags, get on the floor and chip in, then it could be a true fantastic voyage.  Deej, you in?  I don't know who else even reads this worthless rag anymore.  Let me know if you're in.  Don't be shy.  Just do it.  I might be onto something here.  And I couldn't resist either...

And I'm spent

That's the bloody pickle that the kid whittled on Bad Santa.  Maybe literal blood didn't end up on my home made gifts, but figurative blood did.  Up here in the north, my only currency is hastily concocted art gimmicks and words.  Some of the words had good effect.  This isn't to say that any of it was disingenuous, but it was art and words all the same.  I've been hanging with the seven year old since I've been here.  I'm turning into one.  I made a card for Shelli with a picture of a tree, a flower and three snow flakes.  I was like, "The tree is Rich, the flower is you, and the snowflakes are Preston, Kendall, and Trevor,"  Wow.

Oh, and I was talking to a 'guy'.  It came up that caffeine was banned in NCAA.  Then it came up that I took ephedrine before playing.  He said, "That stuff is no good for you.  I used to make ephedrine."  Me, "Huh?  You used to make ephedrine?  o Oooooh.  I got it."

Let me introduce you to John.  Zinga linga ding dong!

And if you still don't get it, he said that if it weren't for his faculty with the law, he'd still be locked up.  Do the math.

Do you know Him?

If you aren't into the King, then you can just skip this part.  But the question remains: Do you know Him? Ya I know the portrait is too candid for preachy type stuff, but the portrait is real if anything.  There is no thing that is more real.

 
The Bible says my King is the King of the Jews.
He's the King of Israel.
He's the King of righteousness.
He's the King of the ages.
He's the King of Heaven.
He's the King of glory.
He's the King of kings, and He's the Lord of lords.
That's my King.

I wonder...Do you know Him?

My King is a sovereign King.
No means of measure can define his limitless love.
He's enduringly strong.
He's entirely sincere.
He's eternally steadfast.
He's immortally graceful.
He's imperially powerful.
He's impartially merciful.

Do you know Him?

He's the greatest phenomenon that has ever crossed the horizon of this world.
He's God's Son.
He's the sinner's Savior.
He's the peak of civilization.
He's unparalleled.
He's unprecedented.
He is the loftiest idea in literature.
He's the highest personality in philosophy.
He's the fundamental doctrine of true theology.
He's the only one qualified to be an all-sufficient Savior.

I wonder if you know Him today.

He supplies strength for the weak.
He's available for the tempted and the tried.
He sympathizes and He saves.
He strengthens and sustains.
He guards and He guides.
He heals the sick.
He cleanses the lepers.
He forgives sinners.
He discharges debtors.
He delivers the captives.
He defends the feeble.
He blesses the young.
He serves the unfortunate.
He regards the aged.
He rewards the diligent, and He beautifies the meager.

I wonder if you know Him.

He's the key to knowledge.
He's the wellspring of wisdom.
He's the doorway of deliverance.
He's the pathway of peace.
He's the roadway of righteousness.
He's the highway of holiness.
He's the gateway of glory. Do you know Him?

Well, His light is matchless.
His goodness is limitless.
His mercy is everlasting.
His love never changes.
His word is enough.
His grace is sufficient.
His reign is righteous.
His yoke is easy.
His burden is light.

I wish I could describe Him to you.

Yes, He's indescribable.
He's incomprehensible.
He's invincible.
He's irresistible.
You can't get Him out of your mind.
You can't get Him off of your hands.
You can't outlive Him, and you can't live without Him.

Well, the Pharisees couldn't stand Him,
but they found out they couldn't stop Him.
Pilate couldn't find any fault in Him.
Herod couldn't kill Him.
Death couldn't handle Him, and the grave couldn't hold Him.

I wonder if you know Him?

It's hard to say goodbye and getting harder

A good friend, and my dad's best friend recently passed away.  Daryl Fisher wrote of him, apparently in contravention of Guybert's wishes.  If you knew either Daryl, my dad Bob, or Guybert, then this is really no surprise.  Daryl described Guybert as his only 'hoodlum' friend.  While I never knew Guybert the hood-who was apparently domesticated promptly upon marrying Jan-I was witness to their banter enough to understand that promises were made and kept with a floating scale.  "Hey, let me take the 'Vette to the store.  I promise I won't punch it."  That kind of promise is one that slides all the way off the scale into non-promise territory.  The implied promise of lifelong friendship is on the other end of the scale.  So strong that they didn't have to say a word.  It was written all over their faces, and lives.

After losing both of my parents, I figured death had no hold over me.  I considered myself jaded to the point of finding this passing-or breaking through to the other side, as they would have put it in their heyday-to be a mere formality.  Like the removal of Christmas decorations when the season ends, this, another piece of scenery is merely removed.  At the end of the season.  This season.

Well, seasons come and go.  And come again.  And go again.  Good friends do not.  These friends are forever.  They are a polestar.  And when they are extinguished, a piece of our heavens dies out.  Those of us who knew G man feel the vacuum.

Guybert and his wife and his children were family.  I remember when my mom and dad split and my dad was doing some soul searching, the Pierce family took him in to their home.  I know it was done graciously because there was no taboo, hat in hand awkwardness.  There was Jan, "Oh shit!  Now I gotta deal with two of you fuckers?!"  Apparently it's no big deal for a friend to love a friend.  It is the greatest demonstration of love to live love.  These lived love to, for and with eachother.

And it was hard not to love G man.  With his lopsided grin, he would peddle the most asinine pseudo-facts.  When I bought my 66 El Camino off of him, and when I say 'I bought', I mean 'dad bought', we sat around his driveway, endlessly talking about the car.  Guybert said, "hey Coreman.  You gotta get some hub caps."  I asked, not skeptically, but for my own edification, "Why?"  He said, "You'll get a ticket for indecent exposure.  Your nuts are showing."  It literally did not stop.

It didn't even stop when I came to see him more recently, when he wore his stoic face, in the face of fate.  I'd walk through the neighborhood.  It was even money that he'd be in his garage, monitoring Park Blvd.  "Hey Coreman.  Did you hear the one...?"  Of course I heard the one Guybert.  You told me that joke when I was 6.  But I'd let it play out, and even if the punchline was expected, his grin made the wait worthwhile.  He spoke fondly of my dad.  I spoke fondly of my dad.  Jan would come out.  "What the fuck are you two doing?!"  I laugh even as I write it.  I love you too Jan.

Guybert, I'm not too jaded.  I miss you already.  And I love you.  And I feel the void where a star once dwelt.  Say hi to my dad for me.  And my mom.  I'll see you soon, when every tear is wiped from my eyes.

Strange coincidence

I've posted about being the Road Warrior previously, so I'm not gonna get into it again.  It's recommended reading, in case you missed it.  The point here, is that the day after I announced to the world that I was going on the craziest adventure yet, Jeremy put this picture on my Facebook wall.  I know this guy doesn't read the blog.  That's a fact.  But however unlikely it seemed that he'd check the portrait, it seemed far less likely that he would nail this to the day.  Welp, he nailed it to the day.  Had no clue what I was talking about when I mentioned fishing in the Bering sea and boats but no hoes.  Besides, I knew he would have photo shopped something like this if he had...

Except he would have done it justice and put my face on it.  I'll switch it out when he inevitably does.  The larger issue here is that despite the odds of this coincidence happening, Jeremy knows I'm a road warrior.  He probably tried to call me but my cell went straight to voicemail because I'm in an arctic wasteland.  Homie knew something was up, so he sent out the road warrior signal.  Basic math there.  And here we are.  Got a fish on the line, ship's ahoy, and yo ho ho and a bottle of rum sucka!

John

"Hey, is that coffee ready yet?"

The guitar played in the background.  The three were sitting in the middle of palm trees on a warm summer night.  The air was damp and the light subdued...in front of Methy John's trailer.  Just to set the scene, we three were hanging out on the porch of John's trailer, which was actually quite serene.  There were herbs as well as this fauna ;).  Basically, we were high and settling in for what I would find out was one of the more entertaining episodes of recent life.  Homeless Dave was harshing the mellow a little bit.  "Is that coffee ready yet?"

"Oh yeah.  The coffee.  Let me go check."  I checked.  I didn't start the coffee yet.  I came back to the circle and told Dave. 

He was bitter.  He wanted his coffee.  I was curious.  "Hey Dave, is coffee to a meth guy like vicodin to a heroin guy?  Is that what's going on here?"

Methy John chimed in, "yeah man.  It's kinda like that.  If you can't hook up, you get some caffeine going.  That's why you see guys at 7 -eleven with 64 ounce cups for coffee refills."  It occurred to me that that's something I would do even though I've never even seen Meth, but I just agreeably nodded and said something like 'far out man'.

"You know, it seems like a lot of people around here are on that shit."  I don't know when it became common enough knowledge that these guys were on this stuff to just readily talk about it, but I made the assumption and was right.

"Lotta that going on around here, like if you go to a store at night, a guy will ask, 'hey man, are you all right?  Do you know Christine?'"

"Christine?  Ahhh.  I see what you did there."

"Is that coffee ready yet?"

"Oh for fuck's sake Dave.  You're harshing my mellow man.  I'll go check."  The coffee was indeed ready.  And me being the excess kinda guy I am made it up to methy standards.

After sweetening and attempting to lighten my coffee, John settled in.  He settled in with the soothing monologue that has become one for the ages.  He began...

I pictured a Miami Vice like scene

"The first time I asked for coke in public was in Los Angeles, 1988.  I walked into this club and up to the bar next to this girl. I sat down and asked her, 'hey, do you know where I could get some...some coke?'.  She looked at me and said, 'sorry, I don't have any.  But that guy over there probably does'.  She pointed out this guy in a bright shirt and I walked over to him.  'Hey man, you got any coke?  That girl over there said you had some coke'.  He looked at me like who the fuck are you to be coming up to me asking for coke? 

"But he got up and went to the bathroom.  When he came back to the bar a few minutes later, he set a book of matches down on the bar and said, 'that'll be thirty'.  I gave him his thirty and left.

"I got back to the hotel room and emptied out the match book on this glass table.  It wasn't coke.  It was crank.  The only crank I'd done before was really yellowed and brownish.  This stuff wasn't.  But I could tell it was crank and I cut up a couple lines.  I snorted the first one and it was the worst tasting thing I could imagine, just burned the shit out of my nose (insert heavy metal power chord here).  Then I snorted the other line."  John was looking down as he said this and paused for a beat.  He looked at me and declared, "And then I was up."  I bet you were John.

"And then I drove.  So I take the company van-I was in LA for a sales meeting, training thing-and just started driving around.  You know, I was driving around Los Angeles looking for some hookers, scoping the scene, trying to find the party.  Anyway I had to put gas in the van cause I was driving around all night.  I had no idea where I was or where I was going, but the sun started to come up and I thought shit!  I gotta get back to the hotel.  I drove around a little longer and figured out I was in west Hollywood. 

"I somehow made my way back to the hotel and knew I wasn't gonna make the sales meeting."

I asked, and believe me-I was hanging on every word, fascinated, "So what did you do?"

All blase and ho hum, he said, "I told them I got food poisoning at dinner the night before".

"Was that it?  How'd the job go?  What the fuck man?  This is priceless!"

"I went to the rest of the meetings and worked for them for a couple years after that."

I started playing my guitar again, just feeling the mellow and marveling at the destructive forces before me.  After a few bars of some progression, I stopped.  "Hey John.  You know how to party man.  You have got to tell me more stories".  I slowly began strumming again as John smiled with what was left of his teeth.  I could tell something was gonna come out of his underbitten and lopsided grin.

"You mean like the time I woke up in my car to the sounds of waves slapping against my passenger door?"

"Yes John!  Just like that!"

"Well we were getting loaded on the beach sometime after high school.  I lived on Pismo Beach.  Anyway, I was here with this nice young lady friend I had and we were listening to the stereo in my 72 Dodge Dart.  I guess we got away from everyone and went down to the beach, you know so we could look at the stars while listening to The Doors and maybe get some action.  Well high tide came in in the morning.  I was dreaming about a helicopter or something and all of the sudden I'm awake and hear the whoosh of waves slapping my car door..."

And on it went.  If you aren't into it, that's fine.  But this really is a person and this happened. I see an independent film here, just you know, that's more of a story of redemption.  You know if the musical montages were thrown in when he was driving around and hit the club that would have been sweet.  I didn't even get started on homeless Dave.  His story is a bit simpler, I believe.  I'm sure the tale about him just beaching his $50K boat and walking away from it has some merit, but he doesn't have the artistry of John's delivery.  Dave basically pulled a Tyrone Biggums and had a $300K meth party with his inheritance and couldn't shake the habit once the money was gone.  That's just simple arithmetic...

"Hey, you got any more coffee?  John, what are we doing tomorrow?  Are you gonna pick me up and then we'll go to that site?  I gotta feed Priscilla.  What'd you do with that crescent wrench?  Can I ride this bike to go get my bin..."

"Come on Dave!  We're sitting here talking about coke in the eighties and seafaring Dodge Darts!  And you're on scrap metal?  Harshing my mellow man..."

Jesus was a fisherman, right?

Holy shit.  Doubleyu is hitting the open sea.  By open sea I mean open sea.  It's deadliest catch, dub edition.  No bullshit, I'm going on one of those boats.  It's gonna be a test of will.  It's gonna be foreign.  Every notion of self that I have or think I have is going to be called into question.  It seems that it's the life that I should know, but don't that's going to help me find my way.  I'm kinda hyped, at this point.  Just stubborn enough to say, "yes I can".  So, come along, pack your bags, get on the floor and dance.

There's not a lot I can really say about it now because I have no clue what is in store for me.  The water has always fascinated me, however, and barring an extreme disposition toward sea sickness, here we go.  After all, we just want you to feel musical pleasure.  What on earth am I getting myself into?  God help me.  And please, keep me out of the drink.

So now it's clear that there has to be an end game to this little odyssey.  I'm not saying I'm the only one who has gone through some interesting times in life.  I'm not suggesting that I'm the only person to hop on a boat in Alaska and fish.  Nor am I suggesting that I'm the only person who can whip up a decent yarn about life's little quirks.  I am suggesting, however, that I am among a small number who has had these experiences and the skill, or twisted mind to bring them to life.  One other comes to mind...uh...Hemingway, anyone?

Yep.  I said it.  Now, we know how it ended for him-and I think that's a testament to what kind of deviant has both the imagination to put this life into prose and the reckless attitude to endure some of this stuff.  Hopefully I'm not quite as twisted as he and will die of something else.  But, it's looking like I'm close.

And the reason there are so few of us is simple.  Most people who have the talent or skill or whatever to write in an even reasonably coherent fashion also have the life skills to avoid fishing vessels in Alaska.  It's a tautologous argument, like world class swimmers don't drown in kiddy pools.  It's true that Superman can't walk anymore, but isn't that shit ironic?  It doesn't happen every day.  In the same way, those of us who have skills and have been educated find jobs to keep em going.  And plod through their dreary existence, trapped in their steel coffins-gridlocked on overstuffed freeways-trying to find their way through the maze.

Somehow, against all odds, I don't find this dreary at all.  It sucks.  It's going to suck worse very soon.  But it's also just sweet sweet irony.  And I'm twisted enough to look at this as isolation therapy.  Which brings me to my next point.  The Portrait of a Life in Freefall is going to be a book.  I don't know where it's going to end, but the ground is coming quick.  The chute is gonna have to open sometime after this little excursion or it's gonna be splat.  So, with a little fine tuning here and some dramatic liberties there, and for sure some more about Methy John and homeless Dave, this little compilation will find it's way to a page near you.

Did you know there are Ethiopians and shit on these boats?  Do you have any idea how effing awesome it's gonna be to document this experience?  Well, neither do I.  But I hope it's more awesome than living it.  90 days on a god forsaken vessel working 16 hours a day.  That, my friends, is no picnic.  That's not even boot camp.  That's like if the friggin Normandy invasion lasted 90 days.  Oh, and I can't stand the smell of fish.  Don't eat it.  Don't look at it.  And up to this point, haven't particularly cared for catching it.  Cest la vie.

I'm gonna be tougher than rawhide when this is through.  My thoughts have lingered on the depths my mental toughness and apathy have sunk to.  Well, it's literally sink or swim.  And when I say literally, I mean figuratively, but somewhat literally because if I fell off the boat, those would be my two options.  I hear Bloomfield in the recesses of my mind.  As this trip comes nearer, I'm sure he will occupy a prominent position.  "Are you a friggin rat or a mouse Watts?!"  Hey Bloomer, once a rat, always a chief.

Solicitors welcome...of prostitution, that is

Hard to argue with that

 So I'm trying to have an IM war with Pete.  He called me soft for complaining about the cold.  He had no sympathy for the sound of the wind, particularly after I told him I was all bundled up with three layers in the house...where it's like 65 degrees.  Whatever.  I wear pants to pool parties.  So he suggested I do something rugged.  It actually went like this...

 me:  Ya you got dude here

 Sent at 10:11 AM on Wednesday

 Peter:  caught any salmon in your mouth yet?

 Sent at 10:15 AM on Wednesday

 me:  No.  My notions of bear like life in the wilderness are thwarted by the reality of this cold

 Peter:  get some tights

 Sent at 10:17 AM on Wednesday

 me:  Ya.  That.  Or, huddle up in my room completely layered in under armor, flannel pajamas under my jeans and a few extra shirts with a blanket around my shoulders.

 Peter:  soft

 me:  Ya.  somewhat soft

especially since it's like 65 degrees in here.

 Peter:  real soft

 me:  the wind

I hear it.  It defeats my mind

the clouds.   They don't stop

 Peter:  go do something rugged

 me:  I raped a deer

and haven't shaved

 Peter:  did you wear its head?

 me:  no

 Peter:  soft

 me:  I gave her a cigarette and a fiver

 Peter:  shoulda raped a buck

 me:  That would have been rugged.  With antlers, I might have worn it's head

 Sent at 10:22 AM on Wednesday

 me:  I guess if that didn't impress you, maybe the fact that I saw a girl on the side of the road with a cardboard sign that read ' visions of a motel' will.

 

Which brings me to my next point.  This friggin skank was on the side of the parking lot in a crowded mall, and I mean a mall that is the only one of its kind for miles and that Canadiens actually drive to-from Canada-where everyone leaving the mall passes.  In terms of product placement, this is only second to the Lane Bryant (fat woman store) being wedged between cinnabon and sees candy.  I'm actually not making that part up.  Nor am I making the part up about the motel girl.  She wasn't bad looking either.  But she did look like another couple months of whatever program she was on would suck the last little bit of the red on her life-meter away.  You know, like Street fighter two?  Where each time you get hit the little life guage at the bottom dwindles?  I suspect a little meth would be like the turbo star, or a heart from Zelda, nudging it up a little for a little stint of invincibility.

Basically, I'm just a little humbled by the boldness of this move.  That's aggressive.  I think Pete would have respected me way more if I was like, "nah bro, no salmon.  But I did catch a down on her luck hooker at the mall."  But the best part was that I was there with Shelli's dad, who's like a biker guy from the bay.  He was 100% sporting an Oakland Raiders long sleeve tee shirt with a leather vest over it and a Hulk Hogan like silver Pony tail.  It occurred to me that he was an authority on the subject, so I was like, "Did you see that shit?  That chick had a friggin cardboard sign that read "visions of a motel" on it.  Is that solicitation?"  He replied, "Well, not necessarily.  She needs a place to stay and if she has to put out, she will."  Welp, guess that covers that.  Maybe I should do some more Christmas shopping?

That's better

I don't know how long that took.  But my guess is about thirty minutes.  Went from feeling a little down and out of sorts to my old self again.  Sometimes these things happen.  If ever I'm a famous manic depressive this little episode will be a case study.  You know what else would make me feel better?  If the sound card or whatever infernal technological doohickery it is that makes a computer compute sound and play it coherently worked and I could listen to this coconut head marvel me with his rendition of Somewhere Over the Rainbow.  If you haven't heard it, listen to it.  Stat.  If you have heard it, then I know you're gonna listen to it again.

You know, I kinda feel bad for calling him a coconut head.  But I think I'd feel worse if I edited it out.  So hopefully the more sensitive among you will take it in stride.  I mean, I'm a rock head and 99% are taking a coconut over a rock any day.  So it's not really an insult, right?  And whatever his coconut is made out of, he has a heart of gold and the voice of...Oh I don't know...A cross between Jesus and Fergie?

You know, I kinda feel bad about that F bomb I dropped in that last post too.  But I gotta tell you, this cold is kinda wearing on me.  I don't like being cold.  Even when I'm warm, I feel cold.  And I can't even listen to Eddie Murphy Party all the Time because of the computer.  Nor can I listen to the final countdown or Rebel Yell-acoustic version of course.  And now that I'm thinking about it, I wanna hear Everybody Plays the Fool by The Main Ingredient.  Well guess what?  Surprise surprise...

You're welcome.  But I still can't listen to it.

And on a candid note, can I share something without being judged?  I used to judge my dad harshly when he'd look at younger women.  I'd be like, "come on man!  Get it together!"  Welp.  I went to the mall to do some Christmas shopping today.  And when I say I went to do some Christmas shopping, I mean I went along for the ride to do some shopping with someone else.  I managed to dig up a couple hot wheels for the kids.  Anyway, now that I'm a washed up old guy, I noticed that the line between teenage and adulthood is blurred.  I mean, it's aggressively blurred, like trying to read an eye chart under water with no goggles.  So, sorry pops for being so judgmental. Well, not totally sorry.  I think you had some of the McNasty days living a little too prevalently till the end.  But I do understand somewhat.  And when I say somewhat, I mean I totally understand.