As soon as I saw the headlights, I knew a masterpiece was brewing. This is the kind of masterpiece that has such masterful potential, you fear you might wreck it before you even begin. I thought of angles and counter angles, strategized and rejected said strategies until I finally decided there is nothing to it but to do it.
I should back up a little bit and explain the beauty that is now. I bailed from the apartment that I was 'renting' a few short days ago. If this were a James Bond yarn, it would be me jumping from the plane without a parachute attached to my back. It isn't a James Bond tale, so it was simply me jumping ship without a firm grasp on my immediate plans for the future. Or even that night.
The coolest boss in the world-who is simultaneously the most devout in spirit, pleasing to behold, and seemingly kinder than kin-offered her place since she was going out of town. And after a few modestly scornful glances from her beau, she set off with Mike on their Pacific Northwetern tour to take in Eddie Vedder on a Eukelele, or banjo, or some such silly stringed instrument.
So, after a few brief farewells and promises of leaving the place how I found it, and a pre-emptive admonishment from Rachelle to not sniff any panties, I set about my weekend of wall staring. The fun part comes when they get back and I haven't secured a place to stay for the night. What do I do? Campout!
So I drive over to the parking lot at work-only after pilfering some wine out of a box in Rachelle's fridge-and begin the stakeout. I struck out on calling any homies about the fun times I was in the middle of experiencing. I then resorted to the old standby, hanging with my best pal. Me. And so it was.
Roughly twenty minutes ago, I saw headlights turn the corner as I was listening to some Bob Marley in my car. I turned and who should approach the new whip but Mama Bear herself. "What are you doing?"
"Huh? Oh, just having a slumber party in the parking lot."
She shrugged and stifled a scoff. "Do you want to come in and sleep on the beds?"
It was the opposite of "Friday", where rather than pointing and saying 'no' after D-Bo asked if I wanted some, I pointed and said, "yes. That would be sweet."
And sweet it is. Like Tom Hanks in the terminal, I'm just rocking it. I might put some of the robes on and stroll around. Maybe there's some shaving in the cards, or perhaps crude, hastily executed bathing performed at the sink. Who knows? The possibilities are endless. Endless, I tell you.
So, while I was looking forward to my first car campout and a bold step into the hobo experience, I'll gladly take the semblance of civilization that is the office. And it's possible that I'll blog five times tonight as the evening unfolds.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
The side of the road
*This may or may not have actually happened
So, after a party I recently attended, I was giving a few friends a ride. The initial plan was to drop these friends at a bar and perhaps pick them up later. When I drove a two person car, this could not have been done. It would seem that I was better off when I drove a two person car.
One of the friends decided they didn't want to go to the bar after all. The person who could have otherwise driven them home was either indisposed or not picking up their phone for other reasons. I offered to drive them home, which happens to be literally over a river and through some woods and up some hills...
My newly acquired car, a Honda was ill-prepared for the hills. After a comically short effort from the car, my head gasket ruptured and we were on the side of the road. Hazard lights. Frustration. Profanities. A few small bottles of Vodka. Well, the vodka wasn't for me, but my friend had no qualms with drinking it. And he already had plenty.
It was two am, we were on the side of the road, I had a suspended license, my buddy was drunk and may or may not have had a pistol on him. And the tow truck took an hour and a half. That's a lot of exposure for two guys who would immediately be dead meat at the first sign of any law from parking attendant to CHP.
Long story short is I ditched a V8 for a Honda with a four hoping for economy and reliability. I'm now in way over my head trying to take an engine apart that may as well be Japanese. Get it?
And we may or may not have been on the side of the road waiting for the tow truck and trying to fire his gun which wouldn't fire and a I may or may not have said, "at least we didn't have to shoot anyone..." and laughed hysterically. And I may or may not have dodged a groin shot from my compatriot and nearly gotten in a drag down fight and fallen down the side of the hill...Good times.
So, after a party I recently attended, I was giving a few friends a ride. The initial plan was to drop these friends at a bar and perhaps pick them up later. When I drove a two person car, this could not have been done. It would seem that I was better off when I drove a two person car.
One of the friends decided they didn't want to go to the bar after all. The person who could have otherwise driven them home was either indisposed or not picking up their phone for other reasons. I offered to drive them home, which happens to be literally over a river and through some woods and up some hills...
My newly acquired car, a Honda was ill-prepared for the hills. After a comically short effort from the car, my head gasket ruptured and we were on the side of the road. Hazard lights. Frustration. Profanities. A few small bottles of Vodka. Well, the vodka wasn't for me, but my friend had no qualms with drinking it. And he already had plenty.
It was two am, we were on the side of the road, I had a suspended license, my buddy was drunk and may or may not have had a pistol on him. And the tow truck took an hour and a half. That's a lot of exposure for two guys who would immediately be dead meat at the first sign of any law from parking attendant to CHP.
Long story short is I ditched a V8 for a Honda with a four hoping for economy and reliability. I'm now in way over my head trying to take an engine apart that may as well be Japanese. Get it?
And we may or may not have been on the side of the road waiting for the tow truck and trying to fire his gun which wouldn't fire and a I may or may not have said, "at least we didn't have to shoot anyone..." and laughed hysterically. And I may or may not have dodged a groin shot from my compatriot and nearly gotten in a drag down fight and fallen down the side of the hill...Good times.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Safes and safety
The Chevy Impala moved through the neighborhood like a wraith. In the vehicle were two men. One was slightly more calm than the other, but both were pretty calm. "Where is this place man?", said the driver, who was a white guy about 6 feet tall and 200 hundred pounds.
The passenger was a black guy. He was about 5'10" and a buck seventy. He was working on a slush puppy he procured at the gas station they just got gas from. He was mid bite when his partner Reggie asked where the place was. After letting the slush puppy settle in his stomach he answered, "Right up here on the right. See that motor home?" Reggie nodded. "It's two houses after that. Drive past a piece. Then turn around and park about four or five houses down." The passenger, Fred, was already bringing another bite to his mouth.
With the lights off in both the car and neighborhood, the men waited. Reggie asked, "you believe Ron? About this guy having money in a safe in there?" Fred shrugged. He answered with the cold drink in his mouth, "He bever", in the way people do when their mouths are full, using the 'v' sound rather than the 't'.
"Hey man, I didn't know you knew how to get into a safe." Reggie.
"Getting into the safe is the easy part". Fred.
"Do you crack it? Or take it with you?"
"You take it with you. Then you crack it."
Reggie asked, "what if it's bolted down man?"
Fred was mid bite, so he waited to reply. After smacking his lips a few times, he did. "Well, then you gotta wait for 'em to come home."
Reggie laughed hysterically and Fred smirked as he stirred his slush puppy some more. They looked at each other. Gesturing to the house with his chin, Reggie asked, "Did Ron say if this one was bolted down?"
"We waitin', aren't we?"
Reggie began feeling out of his depth. He considered what brought him here and equally what would get him out. Fred interrupted his reverie, "How come you got a blacker name than me?"
The passenger was a black guy. He was about 5'10" and a buck seventy. He was working on a slush puppy he procured at the gas station they just got gas from. He was mid bite when his partner Reggie asked where the place was. After letting the slush puppy settle in his stomach he answered, "Right up here on the right. See that motor home?" Reggie nodded. "It's two houses after that. Drive past a piece. Then turn around and park about four or five houses down." The passenger, Fred, was already bringing another bite to his mouth.
With the lights off in both the car and neighborhood, the men waited. Reggie asked, "you believe Ron? About this guy having money in a safe in there?" Fred shrugged. He answered with the cold drink in his mouth, "He bever", in the way people do when their mouths are full, using the 'v' sound rather than the 't'.
"Hey man, I didn't know you knew how to get into a safe." Reggie.
"Getting into the safe is the easy part". Fred.
"Do you crack it? Or take it with you?"
"You take it with you. Then you crack it."
Reggie asked, "what if it's bolted down man?"
Fred was mid bite, so he waited to reply. After smacking his lips a few times, he did. "Well, then you gotta wait for 'em to come home."
Reggie laughed hysterically and Fred smirked as he stirred his slush puppy some more. They looked at each other. Gesturing to the house with his chin, Reggie asked, "Did Ron say if this one was bolted down?"
"We waitin', aren't we?"
Reggie began feeling out of his depth. He considered what brought him here and equally what would get him out. Fred interrupted his reverie, "How come you got a blacker name than me?"
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Weight loss contests and speed
I have a big mouth. It's no secret. Sometimes my ego writes checks my body can't cash. Such was the case about two weeks ago when the owner of the company I work for and I were smack talking weight loss. And when I say we were smack talking, I mean I was smack talking. Anyway, we were talking bet when Rudy pointed out, with the wisdom of a sage, that I had nothing to bet with. Someone suggested "fun bet". I said, "I don't do fun bets". Like 'The Princess Bride', we were at an impasse. I said finally, "how about this? If I drop thirty by July 4, I get a hundred dollar bonus." He said, "Ya, ok."
For one thing, there really is no reason he should benefit from my weight loss, so it was bold to suggest that I get a bonus for bettering myself. Bold happens to be my middle name, however, and I figured the claim was outrageous enough that he'd agree. And he did, so here we are.
Naturally, the first thing I did was ponder how I could cheat in this contest. I joked about taking Meth for a couple weeks for that extra high octane slimming effect. I quickly discarded the idea as I considered the fact that there are no two week meth users. I considered using a scale that I purposefully un-balanced to give me a slight ten pound edge. If no one was paying attention, that could work. It could also backfire though, if any witnesses wanted me to verify the feat on any of our other ten scales.
So I mulled and plodded, feeling somewhat discouraged by the clear asymptotic weight loss, trending toward none after a couple weeks of aggressive shedding. And on a Tuesday afternoon, this doctor fellow came in and we got to talking. He heard about the little contest. Because I told him. He asked if I wanted to win. I kinda shrugged the remark off, thinking he was asking about my personal feelings or some latent, competetive, disposition. He asked again, "Do you want to win?". Now he had a look of mischief that I was all too familiar with and I said, "Ya". He said, "I could prescribe you some 'Phentermine', and the pounds will fall off." I said, "What is that? Speed?" He looked at me, smiled, smirked, and said "Ya".
So, this sounded like a legitimate way to cheat marginally in the contest and earn an extra hundred bucks, or a net of 80 after buying the pharmaceutical grade speed. Now, don't go thinking I considered this some legitimate way to relive drug days or anything. I've never taken any of the street drugs associated with cleaning aggressively. But in my mind it sounded intense enough that it might just work.
To tell the truth, it doesn't really amp you up that much. I'm a little disappointed. I kinda hoped to conquer the world on the shoulders of modern chemistry. Caffeine gives me more energy. And, ironically, my sleep has improved since taking this stuff. Pfft. Whatever.
I was running laps in the apartment, grinding my teeth, and talking to myself like the micro machine man wondering if this stuff was going to have any effect. I took a look in the mirror and my pupils were, uh, perhaps a bit small in diameter. And I was hopping from foot to foot. Hmm. Whatever.
For one thing, there really is no reason he should benefit from my weight loss, so it was bold to suggest that I get a bonus for bettering myself. Bold happens to be my middle name, however, and I figured the claim was outrageous enough that he'd agree. And he did, so here we are.
Naturally, the first thing I did was ponder how I could cheat in this contest. I joked about taking Meth for a couple weeks for that extra high octane slimming effect. I quickly discarded the idea as I considered the fact that there are no two week meth users. I considered using a scale that I purposefully un-balanced to give me a slight ten pound edge. If no one was paying attention, that could work. It could also backfire though, if any witnesses wanted me to verify the feat on any of our other ten scales.
So I mulled and plodded, feeling somewhat discouraged by the clear asymptotic weight loss, trending toward none after a couple weeks of aggressive shedding. And on a Tuesday afternoon, this doctor fellow came in and we got to talking. He heard about the little contest. Because I told him. He asked if I wanted to win. I kinda shrugged the remark off, thinking he was asking about my personal feelings or some latent, competetive, disposition. He asked again, "Do you want to win?". Now he had a look of mischief that I was all too familiar with and I said, "Ya". He said, "I could prescribe you some 'Phentermine', and the pounds will fall off." I said, "What is that? Speed?" He looked at me, smiled, smirked, and said "Ya".
So, this sounded like a legitimate way to cheat marginally in the contest and earn an extra hundred bucks, or a net of 80 after buying the pharmaceutical grade speed. Now, don't go thinking I considered this some legitimate way to relive drug days or anything. I've never taken any of the street drugs associated with cleaning aggressively. But in my mind it sounded intense enough that it might just work.
To tell the truth, it doesn't really amp you up that much. I'm a little disappointed. I kinda hoped to conquer the world on the shoulders of modern chemistry. Caffeine gives me more energy. And, ironically, my sleep has improved since taking this stuff. Pfft. Whatever.
I was running laps in the apartment, grinding my teeth, and talking to myself like the micro machine man wondering if this stuff was going to have any effect. I took a look in the mirror and my pupils were, uh, perhaps a bit small in diameter. And I was hopping from foot to foot. Hmm. Whatever.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Drunk dialing the boss
It's 11Pm. You have to be up in five hours. Your phone rings. Your heart races. Fearing the worst, you check your phone as your boyfriend leans over to see what the problem is. You laugh, and return the text. Confused, your boyfriend asks, "What was that about?"
"Oh, that was just Corey from work..."
If I were narrating this, an appropriate song would play out as I got to that last part and a split screen would show empty bottles of Sky Vodka. Ya, that and some straws leaning to the side of about three Long Island Iced Tea glasses. Just another Saturday night. The loneliest night of the week.
Some of you may have noticed the review of my boss' coolness on the Facebook page. That I totally wrote. And wasn't her hacking into my stuff like she was some Mission Impossible flunky. And when I say hacked, I might mean that I didn't sign out. On the office computer. At the front desk. Hey, If you don't roll the dice, you aren't in the game. Pfft.
So, somewhere along the way on Saturday I figured out that Rachelle left an update on my facebook deal. I promptly responded by calling her, or so she says, and pouring forth with a gem of Stewart proportions...
Sometimes if you want to know if the noodle is cooked, you gotta throw it against the wall. To hear her tell it, it was like a full frontal assault. I say there may be some wishful thinking, Freudian slips, or otherwise a projected disposition here. No biggie. I'm big enough to manage the delicate balance between overt criminal unwanted advances and complete disinterest. It would appear that balance lies at Rod Stewart. Ha!
Btw, I'm blogging this at work. In every one's face. Hella risky Indeed. Gotta walk the knife edge.
"Oh, that was just Corey from work..."
If I were narrating this, an appropriate song would play out as I got to that last part and a split screen would show empty bottles of Sky Vodka. Ya, that and some straws leaning to the side of about three Long Island Iced Tea glasses. Just another Saturday night. The loneliest night of the week.
Some of you may have noticed the review of my boss' coolness on the Facebook page. That I totally wrote. And wasn't her hacking into my stuff like she was some Mission Impossible flunky. And when I say hacked, I might mean that I didn't sign out. On the office computer. At the front desk. Hey, If you don't roll the dice, you aren't in the game. Pfft.
So, somewhere along the way on Saturday I figured out that Rachelle left an update on my facebook deal. I promptly responded by calling her, or so she says, and pouring forth with a gem of Stewart proportions...
Sometimes if you want to know if the noodle is cooked, you gotta throw it against the wall. To hear her tell it, it was like a full frontal assault. I say there may be some wishful thinking, Freudian slips, or otherwise a projected disposition here. No biggie. I'm big enough to manage the delicate balance between overt criminal unwanted advances and complete disinterest. It would appear that balance lies at Rod Stewart. Ha!
Btw, I'm blogging this at work. In every one's face. Hella risky Indeed. Gotta walk the knife edge.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Party time
Now we're talking! I have a bottle in my lap and I'm listening to Billy Idol. If you think the life in free fall is some nebulous, ethereal type metaphor, think again. The ironic thing is that I have a job interview in the next couple days...At a real job. And no bull, the dude said "the women who work here are intimidating." I said, "huh? What? Like they'll kick my ass?" He was like, "no, they're really good looking. Most guys can't keep it together." Really? Sounds like a big problem I'll just have to battle through. He goes, "One of the women was Miss Utah. Don't worry Rudy. I'll keep it together. I invented big league inverted.
So this is actually hilarious. I was messaging my main man deej and we decided we had to move to an island. I'm ready to bail. He's ready to bail. So I got online and was looking into how I could jump on a banana boat and get to an island. It occurred to me that one of my dad's customers offered him a job in the Cayman islands a few years ago. He probably knows something about island life right? Gave him a shout. He didn't have any action on the island because he opened a store around here. I didn't even know what kind of store it was, I just, bold as brass asked him, "Can you hire me?" He thought about it and asked me to pop in.
The way I have it figured, I just have to keep a straight face when I meet the smokes who work there. Billy Idol didn't trip off of hot chicks. Neither will I. Oh, and just so you know, Rudy didn't say anything dirty or anything, just that the girls were good looking, so don't go thinking my boss is a creep. Just giving a guy fair warning. Appreciate it.
So, I was in the act of finding a way out of the country and may have stumbled into a job with beauty queens in Roseville. Could be something positive. Funny that I got the best news I've had lately and I grabbed a bottle from the gay guy downstairs and am just taking it to the dome. 750ml down the hatch. Pfft.
So this is actually hilarious. I was messaging my main man deej and we decided we had to move to an island. I'm ready to bail. He's ready to bail. So I got online and was looking into how I could jump on a banana boat and get to an island. It occurred to me that one of my dad's customers offered him a job in the Cayman islands a few years ago. He probably knows something about island life right? Gave him a shout. He didn't have any action on the island because he opened a store around here. I didn't even know what kind of store it was, I just, bold as brass asked him, "Can you hire me?" He thought about it and asked me to pop in.
The way I have it figured, I just have to keep a straight face when I meet the smokes who work there. Billy Idol didn't trip off of hot chicks. Neither will I. Oh, and just so you know, Rudy didn't say anything dirty or anything, just that the girls were good looking, so don't go thinking my boss is a creep. Just giving a guy fair warning. Appreciate it.
So, I was in the act of finding a way out of the country and may have stumbled into a job with beauty queens in Roseville. Could be something positive. Funny that I got the best news I've had lately and I grabbed a bottle from the gay guy downstairs and am just taking it to the dome. 750ml down the hatch. Pfft.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Odyssey
I've been on a musical odyssey for the last day or two. It happens. After rediscovering Marc Antony and side stepping to Santana's later stuff, I went down the hall to some of his older stuff. From there I stumbled into some other guitarists, one of whom was an Irish guy named Gary Moore. Never heard of him before. Dude had his axe on lock.
And so, after the age of Moore, I stumbled onto some other less notable stuff, but in the mix was 'ol Gary and BB King doing the thrill is gone. Got back to Santana and he played with Tower of Power for a show. One of the Tower tunes was "diggin on James Brown". Finally, I said fuck the dumb shit and got into some James Brown...
It's a good thing that was documented. In case you didn't know, that was James Brown and mother effing Luciano Pavaratti singing It's a Man's World. Ya, and I watched living in America from Rocky four too and went apeshit America all over everyone I saw. Who was no one, so I just felt a little patriotic. Had a thought too. People get down on America and hate it for the bad things of the past. And you can't argue about it. There was some messed up stuff. But what if you judged your parents or someone else you loved by the same standard? I'd hate my parents with the same standard that people put on the Stars and Stripes. However, I choose to love my country good and bad, acknowledging the bad crap for what it was but still embracing what it stands for and my countrymen. So take that Godless commies. And take this...
It didn't end there, and still hasn't ended, and yes I started drinking at 2 today. It's now 12.23a so put that in your pipe and smoke it. Gotta give Santana some love before I forget and assume I already did...
Actually, Santana gets double love so...
Ok, he get's triple love because I like this one too...
And somewhere in the mix, I got into some Billy Idol. He wins. He is what Charlie Sheen is trying to be, but Idol doesn't even know what's going on. Just effortless ownage, or hegemony. You're welcome Pete. Or, thank you I mean. I could probably show you better than I could tell you, so odyssize with me...
I put the acoustic version there so your brain wouldn't melt off your face or whatever is supposed to happen. Winning? Yes. I think so.
Apparently, the warm bacardi hug is a good companion to odysseys. I mean, Conan did it so it has to be the thing to do, right? Oh, and Thornan. You're welcome for that one Deej.
And so, after the age of Moore, I stumbled onto some other less notable stuff, but in the mix was 'ol Gary and BB King doing the thrill is gone. Got back to Santana and he played with Tower of Power for a show. One of the Tower tunes was "diggin on James Brown". Finally, I said fuck the dumb shit and got into some James Brown...
It's a good thing that was documented. In case you didn't know, that was James Brown and mother effing Luciano Pavaratti singing It's a Man's World. Ya, and I watched living in America from Rocky four too and went apeshit America all over everyone I saw. Who was no one, so I just felt a little patriotic. Had a thought too. People get down on America and hate it for the bad things of the past. And you can't argue about it. There was some messed up stuff. But what if you judged your parents or someone else you loved by the same standard? I'd hate my parents with the same standard that people put on the Stars and Stripes. However, I choose to love my country good and bad, acknowledging the bad crap for what it was but still embracing what it stands for and my countrymen. So take that Godless commies. And take this...
It didn't end there, and still hasn't ended, and yes I started drinking at 2 today. It's now 12.23a so put that in your pipe and smoke it. Gotta give Santana some love before I forget and assume I already did...
Actually, Santana gets double love so...
Ok, he get's triple love because I like this one too...
And somewhere in the mix, I got into some Billy Idol. He wins. He is what Charlie Sheen is trying to be, but Idol doesn't even know what's going on. Just effortless ownage, or hegemony. You're welcome Pete. Or, thank you I mean. I could probably show you better than I could tell you, so odyssize with me...
I put the acoustic version there so your brain wouldn't melt off your face or whatever is supposed to happen. Winning? Yes. I think so.
Apparently, the warm bacardi hug is a good companion to odysseys. I mean, Conan did it so it has to be the thing to do, right? Oh, and Thornan. You're welcome for that one Deej.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Cats still suck
 |
| This is almost right, but a cat would watch the victim drown, then chase the butterfly |
| But cats always do |
| Yep. This is the one, especially if I'm trying to type something |
But I don't abuse animals. I'll tell you though, that it's been fourth down and I've been in field goal range a couple times with this cat. The conditions wouldn't allow me to kick the field goal, but it was on the table. I'm tempted in the most profound ways dealing with this damn cat. Everything is a potential tool for retribution. Got an airsoft gun. Think I haven't chambered a round and taken aim before? Think again. Oh, I have. But I always wuss out. I'll tell you what. If this damn cat crawled into a dryer, the door would find itself shut and the air fluff cycle engaged.
But that's the thing with this hell cat. It's like a mutant virus or something. You know how people squirt their cats to keep them at bay? Ya? Well this damn creature is impervious to water. I hosed her down like a burning pile of money the other day and she didn't flinch. I though I had a nice opportunity to teach a lesson when she crawled in the sink, conveniently, as I went to brush my teeth. Turned the water on, and like Megamind, found my maniacal laughter to be premature. She shrugged it off like it was nothing.
She knocks everything over. Just noise. Knock the screen door off of it's track and over. Noise. And a bent sliding screen door. Knocks the screen for the kitchen window out. Noise. And I gotta get the cat as well as replace the screen. It's like "Bitch! If there is a screen in the way, you don't get to go out there!" Nope. Has no meaning to her. She's just like, "meow". Oh, that covers it. Guess we're good then. Meow. Give me a break.
And in case any think this is just some anomalous bastardized mutant cat, being significantly different from the population at large, think again. Anyone ever hear of a cat saving a drowning anything? No? Waking a sleeping homeowner in a fire? No? Doing anything cool at all, other than just looking like a miniature tiger? No? Of course not. In the history of civilization, there has not once been an instance of a cat doing anything productive.
Finally, the Egyptians were big on cats, right? Ya, well they enslaved my people to build stupid pyramids. That's probably the curse that follows the cat to this day. "Hey Pharoah, think we can let my peeps get out of here?" "Meow" "Oh, so no then?" "How about after some frogs and stuff come out of the sky?" "Meeoooow". And on it went until Egypt was a shambles. And they have only just now had revolution. Yet the cat remains my nemesis. "Woof! Sucka!"
| This is a cool animal. Give me one of these any day |
Thursday, May 5, 2011
I'm in a mariachi band dude
Unfortunately, the band is tearing apart at the seams. The bassist was too funky and I was too seductive. And too funky. For some reason, even though we turned folky stuff into something else like the BBQ turned the raw cow into a burger, it couldn't last. In truth, no one got run off, allegedly. I'm just having trouble resolving how funky that drummer was with his apparent taste for square music. Such is life.
So, I got the set list from this new group, who you may have heard about in "Everything from James Brown to Santana". Just to reiterate, one of the guys played guitar with my parents back in the day and another of the guys played with that band "Sly and the Family Stone". There is authoritative street cred here. Maybe too much. Junior gave me three cd's, each with around 20 songs. "These are the tunes. We play again on Friday." Is that how these guys roll? I'll snake it till I make it for sure, but that seemed like a lot. Especially after hearing some of the songs...
It's not really mariachi, but there are about a quarter Mexican songs. And they sound great. I'd love to learn how to play them. But real talk? I can't hear what they're doing for the life of me. It's like the music is in Spanish too. "Hey mayne, play aye mayor." Maybe that would help? Anyway, that's a portion of songs that someone is gonna have to help with.
Anyway, the band has some sick musicians and gigs lined up all over the place. There's even talk of Europe. So, when the shows get going for me, I'll for sure disclose the time and place, maybe post some stuff. I'm gonna tell you now that this will be sweet seduction of an unprecedented level. Junior is seduction on the guitar. If we'd have laid track when he came and jammed with me and Tor, it would be platinum by now. Easily. His daughter is the singer. Never heard her, but if June says she's got it, she's got it. Bam!
Note- Yes this is on the set list and if you don't like this I can't help you. Seriously, If this doesn't make you want to move to Puerto Rico and swoop up a latina lover, then you just have problems. And I was listening to this after posting and it quite playing for a second...And I almost had a Mac frisbee on my hands. Literally, the interruption was the worse thing, including but not limited to a meteor through the roof on my head, that could have happened. Just thought I'd share that. Oh, and this isn't what I meant by Mexican music. This isn't even Mexican. We got some stuff I couldn't find on youtube. Blow your mind man. I'm done.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Leroy
When I told my friends about the incident, and that a man named Leroy broke into my house, none had this guy as their mental image of the perpetrator. There is really no good reason to blog this now apart from the fact that it popped into my head and absolutely must be documented. And it was about the most random and strange thing that could happen.
So, when living with DJ and Pete on 28th street in midtown, and about the time the free fall started, I had the good fortune of meeting Leroy. In my front room. While I was sleeping, or upon waking from sleep. Good times.
My bedroom was a separate room from the front in that it had doors shutting it off from the rest of the house, but it was located in the front of the house. And being the guy with the best TV at the time was the spot for ball game watching, movie nights, etc. And there was a lazy boy like chair as well as a couch in there too.
On the night in question, Pete had some company from out of town which included, I believe, his brother from New York. During their visit, they went out drinking and doing other things that would bring a person around after hours. So, when I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I didn't think twice upon seeing a shadowed form sleeping in a chair in the dining room. Figured it was a guest of a guest or something. I passed it and went back to my slumber.
Well, after falling back asleep for probably a half hour, I awoke to a stranger sitting in the chair adjacent to me (a different chair than the one in the dining room where I saw the shadowed form). He was looking at me. And he was close. With a start, I asked, "who the fuck are you?". I expected him to say he was friends with Pete or his brother or something, but what I got was a confounding drunken utterance "shbizedabballalala".
I still figured he was a guest and so gave him another chance to figure out how to introduce himself. "Hey man, who are you and what are you doing in here?" More incoherent ramblings came from him. I was fully awake now, after twenty seconds and was probably close to it as soon as I saw the guy. After going back and forth a few times, I told the guy, "Look. You'd better start making some effing sense real effing quick if you don't want to take the uncomfortable way out of here, bouncing down the stairs". He still couldn't get it together, but I noticed, as my eyes adjusted to the dark, that he was pretty banged up.
I said "hey man, are you all right? You look like you're in pretty bad shape". He gave himself a drunk and deliberate look over and said he got run over by a car and broke himself, or something like that. So, I turned on the light and beheld his wounds. They were impressive. In addition to an internal injury I couldn't even venture a guess at, he was bleeding everywhere and had some very visible cuts on his face and arms.
I took him to the kitchen and cleaned him up. While I wiped the blood off his face, I asked his name. He said "Leroy". Huh. He didn't look like a Leroy. A Brad maybe, or Jason. Not Leroy. Fortunately for him, the incoherence of his first utterances bought him enough time to be spared what could have been a very undignified reaction by me. As it was, I was performing triage on the guy who broke into my house. And he was sobering up a little bit.
He apparently was trying to drive and wrapped his car somewhere around fifteen blocks away. I got mad at him all over again for being a jerk drunk driver and asked him if he killed anyone. He said he hit a parked car. Jokingly, I asked if he left a note. He actually pondered this and replied "No man. That's messed up though. I should have. I messed that car up pretty bad." I told him that in the aftermath, they'd be able to figure out who owned the car that did the damage and track him down for his insurance.
Leroy told me that his dad wrote songs for Frank Sinatra and pretty much advertised himself as "kind of a big deal". Even though I quoted that, he didn't say that. But he did imply it. He lived in Roseville and had a girlfriend. He managed to get a hold of her and offered me-or maybe I kind of extorted-some gas money to drop him off halfway.
After him buying my silence and cooperation, we stopped at circle K where I bought him a cup of coffee and told him how lucky he was to have gotten my help instead of in jail or at the bottom of my stairs in a heap. "You can't just go breaking into people's houses in the middle of the night and stare at them while they're sleeping. At least not around here, man." He admitted that he was a bit frightened about the potential for calamity when he figured out what was going on.
I dropped him off and handed him over to his girlfriend and her brother where they gave him that look that said "again Leroy, you need to get your drinking under control", but verbally just thanked me. And so that's what happened. It was far more dramatic at the time. But a drunk guy named Leroy broke into my house after crashing his car, walking at least two miles, and crawling up my steps, and climbing into the chair next to where I slept, and gazed upon me until I woke. Good times.
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