The World According to Pete

2006-04-09T15:22:00.000-07:00

[[ MY DIRTY ROTTEN PAPER EATER ]]

My cat has an eating disorder. How does this happen?

She comes from a good family. I've never mistreated nor neglected her. She's well fed. By all accounts she should be happy and content...and yet, here we are.

It's called Pica, which is an eating disorder typically defined as the persistent eating of nonnutritive substances for a period of at least 1 month.

My cat has been doing this for several weeks. Her non-food item of choice is paper products. She started with newspapers, worked her way up to notebook paper, and now I believe she's sneaking the occasional scraps of wood - after clawing them off the doorframe - when I'm not looking. Some of my bills are just plain gone and I have to keep my money under lock and key for fear she'll devour that as well. The paper money, not coins which - at least for now - she has no interest in.

Among individuals with mental retardation, pica is the most common eating disorder. But my cat ain't retarded, so I don't know what her deal is.

As for treatment, I've looked up some recommendations such as:

1. Remove targeted items. Since my place is stacked with papers and books, short of leaving everything behind while I relocate with my cat to a nice roomy cave, I don't see that happening.

2. Provide lots of structured play. If that actually worked, I'd start eating paper just so my friends would provide me with lots of structured play.

3. Make targeted items aversive. The recommendation I read stated: "Occasionally, applying aversive substances (e.g. hot sauce, Bitter Apple, etc) to an item may deter a cat from chewing it. If this is not possible, spraying strong smelling substances (e.g. citrus air freshener, potpourri) on an object may prevent cats from approaching." Yeah, that'll be great. I'll just splash some hot sauce, and for good measure spray a little citrus air freshener, on every piece of paper I own. Nobody will talk to me because that'll be a stench that won't ever wash off but, hey, at least my cat will stop eating paper.

4. Provide alternative items to chew or eat. Do you mean like plastic bags? I've got plenty! And nothing beats that yummy chemical taste.

I'd like to think there's a simpler solution so, instead, I'm trying to find a high-fiber brand of cat food so she won't feel the need to consume her own inappropriate dietary supplements.

If that doesn't work, then the next time I catch my cat eating paper I could just give her a couple of good whacks with a rolled up newspaper - but she'd probably eat that too.

Maybe, to teach her a lesson, I should crack open a copy of War and Peace and tell her, "Start eating and don't stop until you've finished all 992 pages!"

If all else fails, I could take her to an 'animal psychic'.

"Your cat tells me she's depressed. Also, she was once a human being who worked in a paper mill in a previous life. It was the early 20th century and the workers barely made enough to put food on the table, so they'd sometimes eat wood pulp just to survive. This is a habit she's carried over into her new cat life. Also, she says the taste of paper and ink makes her taste buds dance."

Like I originally asked: How does this happen?

2006-03-30T04:28:00.000-08:00

[[ Vive Idiotez! ]]

I made the mistake of driving with a friend through downtown Phoenix on Tuesday afternoon.

There I was, the "designated white guy", surrounded by hundreds of cars filled with Mexican flag-waving Latino youth. Street traffic was moving slower than the DREAM Act through Congress.

What should've been less than a ten minute trip turned into over forty-five minutes, as these young activists made a slow crawl toward the State Capitol in protest of federal House Bill 4437, which would make it a felony to be in the United States illegally.

I'm all for peaceful organized protest. I believe addressing the illegal immigration issue is long overdue. Hell, I don't even care if you know how to speak English but if you're going to live in this country then you damn well better learn how to drive!

You don't stop in the center lane to let your friends out of the car so they can run over to, and climb into, another vehicle that's a half block away. You don't get out of the car and stand in the middle of the next lane, blocking traffic, so you can talk on your cell phone for several minutes. And the only time there should be over a dozen people packed into the back of a pick-up truck is if they're hidden under the floorboards and you're taking them across some country's border illegally.

The police were of no help. Standing on the sidewalk while calling over your radio, "There's a situation on 5th Ave, we need back-up!" is not help when nobody can get near 5th Ave because of Latino high-school students playing in traffic and gumming up the street with vehicles going every which way - all going as slowly as possible on the rare occasion the driver doesn't decide to stop completely even when there's several car lengths of space ahead. So, instead, a few police cars parked blocks away and the officers spent their time videotaping the scene and calling over the radio - probably calling for more back-up because, after all, you can never shoot enough video, now can you? It almost made one nostalgic for the good ole days of fire hoses and rabid dogs, when the line was firmly drawn and both police and protesters knew their place.

Up until now, I really hadn't taken a position on the whole illegal immigration issue. Now I'm leaning towards deportation, just as long as we don't let those deported drive themselves back across the border. An exodus by car would take several years, there would be numerous traffic accidents, and nobody would get in or out of either country for the foreseeable future.

I'm sure all my French-Canadian friends, who've been living quietly but illegally in the U.S. for decades, would be mighty disappointed in my attitude. Habiter et apprendre! Habiter et apprendre!

2006-03-14T00:12:00.000-08:00

[[ 21 Wishes ]]

I wish I could forget.

I wish him luck. He's sure gonna need it.

I wish I could be better.

I wish unicorns were real. I also wish I had a hunting license.

I wish I could quit you, ma bell!

I wish you were here. And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts? Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze? Cold comfort for change? And did you exchange a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage? In that case I'm kind of glad you're not here. I'm so disappointed in you and, for that matter, so is Roger Waters.

I wish art museums would make a special pass for people who only want to look at one or two paintings.

I wish people would stop being obsessive. I've been wishing for this one a lot.

I wish I had a reason to use stamps.

I wish I knew then what I know now. Alternately, I wish I were as blissfully ignorant now as I was then.

I wish when I wished upon a star it made no difference who I are.

I wish you would.

I wish it would rain today.

I wish Trix weren't only for kids.

I wish we could talk like we used to.

I wish I could fly like Superman. But I'd settle for the x-ray vision.

I wish I could, I wish I could… but then, I'm no little engine.

I wish for world peace - or a year's supply of free groceries. One or the other, I'm not too picky.

I wish I was deserving of a second chance when I know others who've done far worse, far more often, were given third and fourth chances.

I wish I were more careful about what I wished for.

I wish I'd known this when I started.

2005-12-31T07:05:00.000-08:00

[[ MY NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS ]]

Resolutions are as old as the New Year concept itself going back to 4000 BC with the Babylonians. The most popular resolution then was to return borrowed farming equipment.

Like today, after about two weeks people gave up on their resolutions which means the borrowed farming equipment was never returned.

To avoid the trap so many others fall into, I’ve decided to make resolutions I know I can keep.

Here are my New Year’s resolutions:

Gain weight

To accomplish this I must first give up salads, fresh fruit, and any other healthy crap that’ll keep my weight down. I must also increase my junk-food intake. Not only does this mean larger portions – two Big Macs instead of one, for example – but also side orders. Do I want fries with that? I sure as hell do! And a milkshake would be nice too, thank you.

Instead of snacking on fruit, I’ll eat potato chips and plenty of them. I will eat them with dip – plus an assortment of jumbo pretzels, cracklin’ pork rinds and heaping helpings of cheese whiz.

Be less organized

I had something really witty to say here and even went through the trouble of writing it down in advance. However, I’ve now lost my notes. See, it’s working already!

Increase my smoking habit

I’m barely finishing one pack per day, but resolve to smoke two packs each day in the coming year. To aid in this, I plan to start smoking in bed – no matter how tired and/or drunk I am at the time. Certain sacrifices must be made if I’m to keep my eye on the prize.

Exercise Less

Mostly this involves sleeping more and only moving my body when absolutely necessary.So, for example, if a truck barreling down the road jumps the curb and is headed directly at me I’ll jump out of the way. That’s exercise.

However if the phone rings, and I have to get out of bed to answer it, I’ll let the machine get it. When I later have to move, like if I have to get up to pee or something, I’ll make it a point to check my messages. Otherwise, that would involve – in some small way – exercise. Of course, if I keep an empty bottle next to the bed I could reasonably avoid a trip to the bathroom for days or even weeks. Yes!!!

Initiate sex less often

I may buy the ladies drinks... and plenty of them. I will say things that are enticingly charming but not mean a word of it. However, I will not initiate the sex act. But let's face it, the words "initiate" and "sex act" are somewhat open to interpretation and that's a gray area only a court of law can define. I'm not on trial here, goddammit!

But for the record, masturbation doesn’t count as “initiating sex”. Neither does looking at free Internet porn. I just wanted to make that clear now, so nobody can come up to me later and claim I broke this resolution.

Stop dating flaky women

With God as my witness, I will stop dating flaky women. I might as well rename this resolution join a monastery and take a vow of celibacy because, you know, we are talking about women here.

Luckily, there’s a built-in loophole with this one.

“Dating” implies taking the woman out in public, to a restaurant or movie or some such, but if you simply pick them up at a bar when they’re drunk and just take them home with you… well, that’d be o.k.

As long as you don’t call them the next day or “make plans”.

Usually, if she's really drunk she'll initiate the sex too -- so I can still avoid that. In the morning, as an added bonus, when she doesn't remember what happened I can tell her how she wantonly seduced me in a sloppily drunken sexual frenzy the night before. Then I doubt she'll even want me to call. Sweet!

Save money

See previous resolution. Also, I resolve to stop blowing my money on bad porn and questionable investment schemes. God, I'm going to save a lot of money. Sad but true!

Spend less time with friends and family

Friends are overrated and most of my family lives too far away to make a visit practical. This one is a slam-dunk.

Don’t take a trip

I hate flying and am not too keen on driving either. In fact, stepping out my front door is often a hassle. I think I’ll stay inside for 2006 and silently stew in my own bitter juices instead. That sounds much more productive than going to places I really didn’t want to visit in the first place. This also helps me to avoid friends and family, killing two resolved birds with one stone.

Be more of a jackass

Some reading this may argue that it isn’t humanly possible for me to be more of a jackass. I beg to differ. Every so often I have a weak moment and do something kind for somebody else. That’ll stop in the coming year.

2005-12-23T08:19:00.000-08:00

Here's a little something I've stitched together for your viewing pleasure...

Triumph of the W.

2005-12-12T12:05:00.000-08:00

[ SOMETIMES I WISH... ]

Sometimes I wish I could snatch a beautiful moment in my hand and put it in my pocket…

Riding the carousel as a child, as the horse rose and fell, with the twinkle of bright fairground lights and the taste of cotton candy on my tongue.

The early morning after first being intimate with somebody, bodies tangled in sheets while intertwined with each other, simply enjoying the after-glow of the previous night.

The bittersweet taste of an especially good cup of coffee, sipped slowly between bouts of engaging conversation with friends.

…I’d tuck these away, only to be pulled out when times and circumstances had changed and the moments were nothing more than vague memories.

I’d pull one out of my pocket and open my hand so the moment could be experienced again.

And I’d pray for deep pockets.

2005-11-22T12:29:00.000-08:00

[[ CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG? ]]

I am but a simple man with simple needs trying to make some sense out of this crazy complex world.

I just happen to write about it online as well.

Then there are the detractors. Derivative and reactionary, IMO. But sometimes good for a chuckle or at least for a good head-scratchin' moment. Or so I’ve thought.

This one has been around for a while:

The World According to Pete According to Me

Now there's a strong up-and-comer looking to make a name for him/her/itself at:

I Really Hate Pete

But yesterday I received what amounts to a wake up call, from a fan in Norway no less, who wrote in part:

“I enjoy reading thine observations, so knit to the point, and so, well, so true.

Without wanting to scare thee, having thine post of October 8th on the subject in mind, kindly let me make thee aware of the blog “I Really Hate Pete“. What is here being given is not funny.

Keep up thy good work. Christ guide thee.

Anders”

That got me to thinking. Good God, what have I done? Why do my simple observations inspire such passion? And such hatred? It’s like Proverbs 10:18 all over again!

I took a long, hard look at what I’d been doing and the various and sundry reactions. And I had a moment of inspired revelation! It was something straight out of Romans 12:18-20.

Yes, my life had become so empty. I had a crisis of words. So I did what any level-headed object of idolatry would do.

I decided to accept Jesus Christ into my heart.

Jesus is now resting comfortably in my heart. With that knowledge I find wisdom. Just like Psalms 111:10 told me I would.

So today I went out for a walk. Jesus walked with me. I stopped at the convenience store to buy a coffee. I wanted one of those fancy flavored cold bottled coffees. The Starbucks brand was $1.99 while the same-sized generic brand was only $1.29. So I thought to myself, “What would Jesus do?” I figured he’s buy the cheaper brand so I did too. I saved 70 cents. Praise Jesus!

On my way home, I swung by McDonald’s and ordered a hamburger. Before eating it, I said a little prayer for the cow who died so that I may live. In a way, that cow was a little like Jesus.

It’s about time for me to go to work now. I will be doing the Lord’s work today.

And when I get home tonight I won’t be sleeping alone anymore.

I’ll be sleeping with Jesus.

Amen!

[]

2005-11-14T13:00:00.000-08:00

[[ THE MENU ]]

“Sabuddy's is an Israeli restaurant featuring the standard list of Middle Eastern dishes, but noteworthy for its chicken shawarma. Tempe has a number of Middle Eastern restaurants not far from Mill Ave., but Sabuddy's has by far the best shawarma. Cooked on a spit and scraped off for pitas or the entree version, this dish is highly recommended...

…The menu also has some other entrees unique to the restaurant (like Jerusalem meatballs, I think), but I never paid much attention to those since the shawarma (which comes with funny kinds of pickles) is so good.” – from a review on igougo.com

My housemates and I went to Sabuddy's – or as I call it, “that A-rab restaurant” – over the weekend. Its simple décor and casual atmosphere belies an elegant class that even some of the fancier eateries can’t quite capture.

I felt woefully underdressed and said so, adding I might have been more comfortable had I strapped some explosives to my chest before getting dressed. All three housemates furrowed their brows collectively when I made that comment. But such attire might've made the staff a little too nostalgic for the old country so it's probably better that I went "non-suicide casual" instead.

While we were looking over the menu, the waiter came over and sung the praises of the chicken shawarma. He kept referring to it as "the most popular dish" at Sabuddy's and went on and on about how delicious it was. We asked for a few more minutes to decide so he went to take some other orders.

A few minutes later my housemate Chris excused himself and went to find the restroom. While he was gone, the waiter returned so I asked, "What's the least popular dish?"

He looked a bit stunned then went on to say it was the Jerusalem meatballs, quickly adding, "But not because it isn't good. It's good but just isn't ordered very often."

Trying to reassure him, I said I understood then added, "Meatballs just aren't as popular as they used to be, you know, back in the day."

The waiter wandered off looking dazed and Chris soon returned.

None of us mentioned that whole "least popular dish" episode to him; sometimes it's better to just let sleeping meatballs lie.

When we finally ordered, Lindsey and I both got the beef stew, Dena had her heart set on the chocolate mousse, and Chris… well, Chris ended up asking for a big heaping plate of Jerusalem meatballs.

And was slightly taken aback for a moment when the rest of us looked ever so tickled by his choice.

[]

2005-11-08T11:06:00.000-08:00

[[ STRANGE ENCOUNTERS ]]

Just the other night, I was hanging out at the bar with my friend Rachel and a few other people when the subject of attracting weirdoes came up.

We all agreed that, for whatever reason, we all seem to attract the strange ones. Or as Rachel put it, "They always come up and want to talk to me."

When I pointed out that I've had my share of random conversations started by odd strangers, she replied, "Yeah, but do they also hit on you?"

I had to admit that – No! - I couldn't recall that ever happening. Mostly they just wanted to talk about all manner of high weirdness.

But, you see, God has a sick sense of humor.

The very next morning I was walking down to the convenience store when I was approached by this guy wearing a pink shirt and tight black pants.

"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked.

I told him I didn't and, in fact, I was headed to the store to buy some.

We parted ways, but a moment later he called me back and asked where I got my hair cut because he was a hairdresser so if I was looking for somebody, well...

...and he handed me his business card. Then he extended his hand, we shook, and he was off and running with some kind of slick Q &A...

"Sometimes I'll cut hair at my house so I can make a little money on the side. What's your name? What do you do for a living? Do you like the neighborhood around here? What are you plans for today? How about that weather we've been having?"

And on and on and on. All of which ended with him saying...

"I'm just going to get something to eat. If you're not busy we can meet down at the store in a little bit. I only live a few blocks away. I can show you my place if you'd like."

All of a sudden I didn't think it was about giving me a haircut anymore.

I felt so dirty and uncut.

So I made up an excuse, telling him I already had plans with my redneck friends that mostly involved riding around in a pickup truck looking for random homosexuals to beat up, and made a quick getaway.

On my way home, I recalled the conversation I had with Rachel the night before and realized I had just gotten a little taste of what she must experience on a regular basis.

Then I thought to myself...

God, sometimes it must really suck to be her. She's just minding her own business and then having to deal with intrusions like that.

So I plan on telling her about this epiphany I've had the very next time I'm hitting on her.

[]

2005-10-27T23:35:00.000-07:00

[[ PLEASE DON'T TOUCH THE WRITER ]]

I went down to CounterCulture Cafe last night and read during its weekly Speak Up! open mic event.

As I was leaving, too many people I didn't know wanted to tell me how much they loved what I read - which isn't bad in itself - but they would start touching me as they said this. But it wasn't a "bad" touch, which can be so good, just weird random touches on my shoulder or arm.

I think I still remember those oh-so-good "bad" touches – or at least have a vague recollection – so I'm pretty sure those weren't them.

You'd think I'd get use to this kind of behavior.

It's happened at a public park, convenience stores, bars and restaurants. I think restaurants are the worse because, again, there is usually some touching involved. Mostly hand shaking, and it always seems to happen right after I start eating so you know what that means. After the person walks away, I have to subtly leave the table to go wash my hands again before I can finish eating. I don't know where those hand-shaking hands have been and I'm not taking any chances.

I once had a homeless man come up to me and ask if I still read locally. He said he had seen me and really dug what I had to say, then quoted some of my work. He followed that up with another question: "So, can you spare any change?" Then there was the time I was using a crosswalk and, as I crossed, a guy in the car waiting for the light to change started shouting, "Pete! Aren't you Pete? I love what you do, man!" That one hit me head-on and I never saw it coming.

Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate the compliments and if I can get away with a simple "thanks" I will. But sometimes people will want to talk about this piece or that. So that's when I usually tell them I don't actually read my work I simply write it, and with each letter I type I forget the one preceding it, but if they want to fill in the details about what they've read I might be willing to discuss it. In the ensuing moment of the inevitable perplexed look, I quietly slip away.

All this undue attention makes me nervous.

Why?

Because I'm very very shy.

[]

2005-10-08T15:06:00.000-07:00

[[ IN CASE OF MY DISAPPEARANCE ]]

The case of missing Virginia Commonwealth University student Taylor Behl was solved, in large part, due to her online activities. According to police, the Internet “has emerged as a virtual tip machine that often maps the course of an investigation.”

For better or worse, investigators now use Googling and comb through public weblogs to gather information on both suspects and crime victims. Behl, whose remains were found a month after her disappearance, had a blog on livejournal and an account on myspace.com. In fact, the alleged killer was among her 92 myspace “friends”.

In case of my own untimely disappearance, I leave the following clues. It is a mix of truth, half-truths, and bold-faced lies. Any police investigator worth his salt should be able to suss out fact from fiction and solve the case of my disappearance - or at least find my decomposing body…

A girlfriend of mine wasn’t too pleased with the world according to Pete – at least according to her. So she dumped me, quit her job, and ran off with an ex-convict. They were just like Bonnie and Clyde and we all know how that one turned out. Luckily her car broke down. That’s what we call “delaying the inevitable.” Now that I’ve mentioned all of this, she might one day be a lead. But I doubt it because, obviously, she’s willing to settle.

I once killed a giraffe with my bare hands. Before you judge me, I think you should know he was pretty much asking for it - acting like he owned the whole goddamn savannah, throwing his weight around, putting on airs just because he could eat the highest-most leaves on the tree. Ok, maybe things got a little out of hand, but you know... shit happens... and the next thing you know, you've got a dead mammal on your hands. The rest of the herd witnessed my transgression but stood mutely by as it happened. However, giraffes have long memories. They’re no elephants, but still…

I’ve been seeing a married woman. I hope her husband never ever finds out. That could be bad.

I was recently hanging out at a coffeehouse with some friends when this guy announced, “I haven’t had sex in a year! I need to get laid.” So I asked him, “What, is your hand broken?” He was so pissed off that he refused to shake my hand when I left. Which is probably a good thing, considering.

I am a freak magnet. No matter where I go, the one nut-job nearby will gravitate towards me and start a conversation. I do not encourage this but it still happens. The talk will eventually turn to mind control, CIA operatives, conversations with Jesus, acid flashbacks, or alien abduction - or quite possibly some combination thereof. I also have the bad habit of laughing at the most inappropriate times, like during very serious conversations with nut-jobs. That is a recipe for disaster in my book.

I have way too many compromising photos of former lovers. While I would never share them with anybody, the police don’t know that. Note to investigators – check the hard drive.

I am addicted to caffeine. This will only lead to serious trouble.

I got into an argument with a mime that has Tourettes Syndrome. The argument was rather one-sided. But he kept mouthing obscenities at me and I can read lips so it only escalated from there. Finally I punched him in the face. Amazingly, he didn’t scream. However he did writhe around on the ground and mimed hurts like hell brilliantly.

I’ve received email death-threats in the past because of things I’ve written. I’ve never taken those too seriously and probably never will - at least until somebody makes good on it. It’ll probably be too late at that point, huh?

I was chatting with a female friend of mine the other night while she waited for her date to arrive. She kept going on and on about how wonderful this guy was. So I said, “Didn’t you say that about the last guy you were seeing? How did that turn out?” She replied, “Fuck off” or something to that effect because, after all, he turned out to be an asshole and the break-up was rather messy. She’s one of those quiet-types. We all know about those quiet-types, but not until seeing them on the news after they’ve committed some heinous crime. This worries me.

I think one of my “friends” on myspace may be obsessed with me and could possibly have stalker aspirations. Sadly, it’s not the “friend” I was hoping it would be.

With clues like that it should be a snap to crack the case of my untimely disappearance. It’s nothing a little money and man-power, on the part of the police department, can’t solve.

[]

2005-10-02T05:28:00.000-07:00

[[ The Dying ]]

Too many people are dying around me.

Last night I went to this bar for a memorial service. You'd think that would be an odd choice for such a service but not if you knew the deceased.

"Let's all meet at the bar and get really fucked up. Why? Because Don would've wanted it that way!"

He would've been so disappointed in me - I never even had a drink.

I saw his brother there from across the bar but didn't go over to say anything. I don't know him that well and what am I suppose to say?

"Sorry."

Like he hasn't heard that a thousand times in the last week or two.

I almost didn't go. I was still reeling from the phone call, in which I found out another friend died earlier this week. I'm going to his memorial service on Monday.

The power went out when I got home. So I went to sleep and woke up later with lights on. None of the clocks have been reset. It is a timeless moment.

My cat smells like dust. She's been very vocal these last few days. I think she's been trying to tell me something but I don't speak feline fluently. However I'm beginning to understand her mewling.

She'll sit in the window for a while then come over and whisper in my ear.

"I see Death on the street below."

Right now I'm sitting here eating cottage cheese.

When I was little and felt bad, my grandma would give me a bowl of cottage cheese. It was comfort food.

My bowl is almost empty now.

I might need more cottage cheese.

2005-08-03T11:52:00.000-07:00

[[ LIGHTS OUT! ]]

Heavy rains and 60-mph winds swept through Phoenix late last night, knocking out power to thousands of homes.

When I got home I discovered mine was one of them.

The silence can be unbearable when the walls stop humming, and the darkness quickly encroaches on one's mind.

Thank Marconi I had my trusty battery-powered Zenith Royal 1000 Transoceanic shortwave on the nightstand. Introduced in 1957 and still playing... next to my bed.

From what I heard, there's some trouble brewing Down Under regarding pensions given to former Premiers in New South Wales. This on the eve of Morris Iemma's swearing in. It's London to a brick that won't be addressed any time soon but it's something Iemma may have to nut out eventually.

The rugby season is heating up as well and, while I'm not much of one for sports - even American sports I almost understand, the fans Down Under seem quite excited by the prospects this year.

I later heard some traditional music on a broadcast from China and several news reports that sounded distressing, and might've been downright alarming if I spoke even a lick of Chinese.

There were way too many religious broadcasts of the fire and brimstone variety. Apparently the world is going to hell in a handbasket but there's some guy coming back who'll fix everything. I didn't catch his name but I think he's somebody's son or something.

Lastly I tuned into the local bandwidth and heard that a large storm had passed through Phoenix, leaving a lot of people without power tonight. Yeah, no shit.

So that's what I do when the lights go out... I listen to the world.

2005-07-23T11:34:00.000-07:00

[ BEST OF BITS ]

Pete is on vacation. These are some of his favorite "random bits" posted over the years. Enjoy these until he gets back...
-

= The One About My Pants =

It never fails. Every time somebody knocks on my front door, I'm not wearing pants.

I'd like to say it's because I have an incredibly hot woman waiting in my bed, but I can't. It's just a case of not wearing my pants at that particular moment.

I'll be wearing underwear, but the pants seem to be elsewhere. Resting over a chair. Sitting in the hamper. Hanging out back, having a smoke. Visiting friends. Whatever.

If only we lived in a pantless society, I'd be the cat's meow.

As it is now, I'm just another pantless slob.
-

= Coffee Cup Philosophy =

I bought myself a cup of coffee this morning.

Printed on the side of the Styrofoam cup was the phrase:

"WHEN I AM EMPTY PLEASE DISPOSE OF ME PROPERLY"

Some days, I know exactly how that cup feels.
-

= Furniture Gone Wild =

I went to a party where there was much dancing and carrying on.

As the night wore on, and the party began to resemble an out-of-control train careening off the track, I think - at some point - a lampshade was involved.

After years of drudgery shading the light, the lampshade really wanted to cut loose.

It soon found itself up on the table, resting on some poor drunk's head, kicking up its heels and acting the fool.

Boy, did that lampshade get wasted last night!

So, too, did some of the other furniture. The table and chairs were falling all over each other. The refrigerator evidently had a little too much too, and ended up spewing its contents all over the kitchen floor.

This morning, the lampshade was back in its rightful place. Even if it sat upon the light bulb a bit crookedly.

"Oh, man," it said, "whatever you do, don't turn on that light. I am SO hung over right now."
-

= Steal This Book! =

I was at a local (Tempe AZ) mom-and-pop turned large outlet-style bookstore the other day.

It used to be a little "hole in the wall" kind of place, where you could always find a hidden gem. It recently moved.

It is now a "clean, well-lit place." I'd tell you the name of it, but don't want to get myself in trouble. However, if ownership should ever change hands, I'll name the bookstore at that later date.

In any case, as I headed into the restroom there, I spied a little laminated card taped to the door.

It read: "We will prosecute Shoplifters to the full extent of the law per A.R.S. 13-1805. Please DO NOT STEAL our merchandise. If you do, understand that we will attempt to send you to jail. Shoplifting hurts everyone - our staff, our customers, our profits..."

Needless to say, I couldn't help myself. I just couldn't help myself.

I stole the 'No Shoplifting' sign. It was a - as the kids say - bookstore bling-bling. So, I slipped it in my pocket and got the heck out of there.

Later, when my friend discovered what I had done, he was not as amused as I. He said, "That's so wrong!"

I am currently using the card as a bookmark. In books I actually paid for, purchased at other bookstores.
-

= Edible Bit =

I enjoy going to a restaurant and, after ordering, going to the restroom – only to find my dinner has mysteriously appeared on the table while I was taking a crap.

It’s magical.
-

= What Time Is It? =

I finally got around to buying myself a pocket watch. It is gold with a gold chain. The case (or cover) is black enamel with a golden train engine mounted in the center.

Now, no matter where I am, if anybody asks me for the time I can pull out my trusty pocket watch and tell them, for example, “it’s 10am” or “almost 7pm” or whatever the current time may be. After which I always add, “…and the trains are running on time.”

I almost bought a silver pocket watch instead. It was engraved with the phrase, “World’s #1 Grandpa”.

I don’t have any kids much less grandchildren, but thought it a worthy goal.

Obviously, it would be a long-term goal.

But then I got to thinking, “Do I want the course of my life dictated by a time piece?”

Not only would I first have to become a grandfather, I would then have to work really hard to be the world’s number one grandpa. Who has time for that?

But it would’ve made one hell of a conversation piece.

So, instead, I have to be content in the knowledge that the trains are running on time. If the small part I play helps to keep them on-schedule that’s satisfaction enough for me.
-

= Homeless Wisdom =

I was talking to this homeless man, when he stated matter-of-factly, "It's a thin line between caution and paranoia."

So I thanked him for sharing his profound wisdom.

And then... I killed him.
-

= Presto Change-O =

It was finally time to do something with that big jar full of spare change, so I ventured down to the local supermarket to run it all through the "Coin*Star"(tm) machine.

I'm much too lazy to roll the coins myself and the machine does pay eighty-cents on the dollar, so off I went.

After shoveling all my coinage into the "Coin*Star"(tm), it printed out a receipt for the twenty dollars I was then owed.

I took the receipt to the checkout line and after doing whatever it is cashiers do, the lady asked me how I wanted that.

"What do you mean," I said, "how do I want that?"

"Do you want a twenty dollar bill, or two tens, or what?" she replied.

"Can I get that in change?" I asked.

A roll of quarters, a roll of dimes, a couple rolls of nickels and some rolled pennies to make up the difference?
-

= What Kids Know =

One afternoon, my friend, Rex, and his 6-year old daughter were walking hand-in-hand down the street.

Soon, two men - also walking hand-in-hand - passed them. The little girl took this in as she and her dad continued along.

A few minutes later, another man walked past them. He was alone.

After the man went by, Rex's daughter looked up at him and said, "Daddy, that man was all by himself. Was he sad because he doesn't have somebody to love him too?"
-

= Traveling Light =

When I moved, a friend of mine was helping me pack when he came across a stack of newspapers.

"Garbage?" he asked of the two feet high, neatly stacked, pile.

"No," I said, "those are all the 'Travel' sections out of the Sunday paper I've collected over the last few years."

He looked completely flummoxed. "What do you need those for?" he said.

"I might want to take a trip some day," I answered.
-

=Heavenly Bus Ride =

The last time I rode the public bus, there was an elderly woman in a wheelchair parked near the rear. As the bus zoomed along, she shouted out, “Bus driver, what time will we stop on Buckeye Road?”

“We’re scheduled to stop at 2:10pm, ma’am, but we’re running about five minutes late.”

“What time?”

“About 2:15pm, ma’am, we’re a little behind schedule.”

“What? What did you say?”

At this point, the driver pulled over and said in a louder voice, “About 2:15! That’s when we’ll get to your stop.”

“What? I can’t hear you. What did the driver say?” she answered.

Another passenger then yelled, “He said 2:15, he’s going to be about five minutes late.”

“Better make that ten minutes now,” I dryly added.

As the driver began his journey again, the woman then started reciting a poem to the person sitting nearest her. I don’t know if she wrote it. I hope so, because I’d hate to think it was something that had actually been published. It began…

If there’s stairs to heaven
Please God lead the way
If there’s stairs to heaven
With thee I’ll climb that day

She seemed quite pleased with herself after the recital. My first thought was that she had better hope to hell there’s an elevator because no wheelchair is going to make it up a flight of stairs. And then what’s God going to do when she shows up? Heal her? That’s not His job, that’s Jesus’ job and he’s about 2000 years out of practice.

In the end it may not matter because, if there’s any justice in the universe whatsoever, reciting bad poetry should be grounds enough for eternal damnation.
-

= Traffic Report =

I tuned in morning radio the other day, and there was this segment where listeners call in live on-air traffic reports.

“There’s been an accident at Main and First Street, traffic is really slow right now.”

or

“The freeway exit at Camelback Road is closed, you might want to steer clear.”

I’ve been thinking about calling in a report myself:

“There’s a pack of wild dogs running loose at the intersection of 7th Avenue and McDowell. Cars are at a stand still. Oh my god, they’ve just attacked and devoured a small child! If anybody has a gun and is in the vicinity, get here pronto.”

I’d do it except for the fact I’d upset both the dog lovers and people who are against eating small children. Those are two groups you never want to piss off.

[]

2005-07-21T05:00:00.000-07:00

[ SEXUAL PENANCE ]

The last message you ever want to hear on your answering machine:

“You gave me herpes, fucker!”

But that’s the message she left, which caught me by surprise considering I had been tested for a whole host of sundry diseases (sexual and non-) just nine short months earlier when I was getting leg cramps and feeling exhausted. I was negative on all STDs then and wondered what I had stuck where in the interim.

I knew she had had a yeast infection a couple of weeks earlier, but she swore up and down this was herpes and knew it to be true after doing research on the Internet.

I had my suspicions about her self-diagnosis methods but, just to be safe, went to a medical doctor anyway. After doing an intake, I sat pensively in the waiting room.

While waiting, this incredibly hot chick began talking to me. She seemed increasingly interested in what I might be about and, eventually, suggested we might want to go for a drink later. I briefly considered her offer, but quickly thought better of it.

I figured an STD testing clinic probably wasn’t the best place to pick up a chick. I mean she looked clean enough and all -- but who can tell these days?

In any case, I was soon called in to see the doctor.

When I told the doctor the story of what brought me there, and the onset and symptoms the girl I had been seeing described having, it was his medical opinion that she had a really bad yeast infection. He'd been a doctor for like 23 years. He went to medical school for his degree - it wasn't a "degree" he downloaded off the Internet.

I thought he just might know what he was talking about.

He suggested she might seriously want to consider going to a doctor and getting medication prescribed to clear it up.

He asked if I had ever had “gay sex”. I told him the truth - I hadn’t.

He followed with, “You’ve never even had gay sex when you were on a tit tear?”

Again I told him “No”, and wondered what the hell a “tit tear” might be.

Then he began a series of exams and procedures on me.

First he took a long cotton swab and tickled my tonsils with it. I asked him what that was done for, and he replied they tested for oral STDs if (and I quote) "your mouth has ever been on a pussy or dick."

I'm guessing he's one of those doctors who likes to put things in layman's terms because some people can get mighty confused by medical terms like "vagina" or "penis".

He told me to “drop my drawers” down to my ankles and lay down on the examination table.

This was the point at which he started incessantly humming Take Me Out to the Ballgame, which he continued doing whenever he wasn’t talking.

He ran a forefinger down my thigh and said, “Feel that? That’s what this is going to feel like.” He then produced a long metal rod that was inserted into, and rooted around, inside my penis. (In layman’s terms, that would be my dick.)

After pulling it out and doing some medical trickery with whatever was scraped from inside me, he then approached with an industrial-sized Q-tip.

He grasped my dick and slowly began jerking it up and down. I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be part of the actual exam or something else entirely. Quite frankly, I was afraid to ask.

He never demonstrated how the Q-tip would feel going in, but then I’m guessing he didn’t have a pocketknife to plunge into my leg, and rip down the length of my thigh, at the time.

We soon moved on to drawing a blood sample. Unfortunately, I have no veins to speak of. He tried one arm. No luck. I was soon tied off on both my right arm and leg and he tried again. I was still running dry. He attempted with the other arm. Twice. He got nothing. He finally got a sample from the arm he had originally stuck by going in through my forearm right past the elbow.

By the time I left his office I looked like some kind of junkie.

Before I went he said something or other about condoms, but I didn’t quite catch what he said so just answered, “Yes.”

He pointed to the top drawer on the examination table and said, “Look in there.”

I assume he asked me if I wanted free condoms because that’s what I found. I took a handful just in case I ever wanted to have sex again. I figured I might have a desire to do so if and when my recently traumatized dick ever stopped hurting.

My tests came back negative and somebody apparently still might have a yeast infection – although she says it’s now healing.

I guess this was my sexual penance.

I’ve since apologized and promised to never do it again.

And I also learned an important lesson. So there you go.

[]

2005-07-11T18:05:00.000-07:00

[ Julie: Portrait of a Serial Killer's Victim ]

On Monday, July 11th, Cory Morris was found guilty of strangling five women to death. These crimes took place in Phoenix's Garfield neighborhood between Sept. '02 and Aug. '03. Below is a (slightly edited & updated) version of an article I wrote for blogcritics at the time of Morris' arrest. Reprinted now, lest we forget...

A string of killings in the downtown Phoenix area, in which most of the victims were women with prostitution records and found to have cocaine in their system at the time of death, may have finally come to an end.

A suspect, Cory Morris - dubbed the "Crackhead Killer" (or alternately, "Garfield Strangler") by the media - has been arrested and confessed to at least five of the murders.

The arrest followed the discovery of victim #6's body in the RV where Morris, now charged with three of the slayings, had been living. His last victim was so badly decomposed it has taken this long to identify her.

From an 'Arizona Republic' article ("Stench, maggots, clues in home of alleged serial killer", 4/17/03):

"This is the motor home where Morris, 24, lived and where police believe six women died after Morris lured them there with money and drugs. Morris reportedly told police he strangled five of the women during sex, and has been charged with murder in three of their deaths.

According to court records, Morris told police he kept some of the decomposing corpses in his motor home for days before dumping them in his central-city neighborhood."

Morris told Phoenix police detectives he killed the women during sex by using neckties, a nylon strap, his hands and a victim's hair extensions. Investigators from Oklahoma are now conferring with their Phoenician counterparts, in the hopes of closing the case on four murders with similar modus operandi in that state.

Ironically, just prior to his arrest, Morris' boss had teased him about the killings (from 'Arizona Republic', 4/14/03):

"On a ride to the trailer that police believe Cory Morris shared with a corpse, his boss cracked a joke about a serial killer stalking a central Phoenix neighborhood.

"Man, when are you gonna quit killing these girls," joked Jimmy Seagrave, owner of the bar Fat Cats, where Morris worked.

"He said, 'Dude, that's just wrong.' "

But enough about the confessed killer. All too often in our society, the killer is glorified - think Henry Lee Lucas or Ted Bundy - while the victims are reduced to nothing more than a matter-of-fact brief mention in the local press, often based on a soon-to-be closed police file ready to gather dust.

This is a story about his last victim.

Her name was Julie Castillo.

The first time I met her, she said she was in her mid-30s. I would've guessed mid-50s and, even then, I was giving her the benefit of the doubt. Her frail, emaciated body seemed to be at death's door. Her rough-hewn hands matched her prematurely wrinkled face. The lines in her face were almost a road map to her uncontrollable drive to drink. Blue and brown blotches tracking down her arms spoke of being railroaded by hard drug use. Her shoulder-length brown hair, sun-bleached blonde in places, was unkempt.

While I didn't know Julie very well - only having met her about a half dozen times - my good friend, James, did. James is one of the few Christians I know who actually tries to live by the principles set forth by Christ. In other words, he is no hypocrite.

On more than one occasion, I've seen or heard of James lending a direct helping hand to the homeless and down-and-out in our neighborhood - expecting absolutely nothing in return. Julie Castillo was one such person he had tried to help. With food, free cigarettes from time to time, and the occasional dollar or two.

Although Julie had a mother in the Pacific Northwest, she didn't want to return home, deciding, instead, to remain on the streets of Phoenix - rather than returning to a place where her stepfather also lived. The same man whom she claimed had repeatedly molested her as a child.

She was a mother herself, with two children. She was especially proud of her teenaged daughter, with whom - even though she had lost custody years ago - she still communicated semi-regularly. Her daughter had told her recently that she wanted to wait to have sex until she was married.

Julie, meanwhile, had been arrested for prostitution on more than one occasion - so her daughter's declaration was especially touching to her.

A mutual friend of James and I had once taken Julie home with him, paying for her "services". This friend, for obvious reasons, shall remain nameless. For days thereafter, Julie kept showing up at his house. She evidently thought they had made a deeper connection beyond that of the prostitution business arrangement. Perhaps he had been kinder than most and, being desperate for some love or simple comfort - something most everybody can relate to - she returned to fill that void in her soul again. Eventually, Julie had to be warned not to return, lest the police be called.

Julie had been diagnosed with schizophrenia at an early age, and one can only imagine how much this had affected her life-choices.

Julie was also a self-admitted heroin addict.

One month prior to her death, she had called James from jail - after being arrested on yet another prostitution charge - begging him to bail her out. She had been in lock-up for almost two days, and the withdrawal symptoms were getting pretty bad.

James refused and, in jail, - the last place one wants to "kick" - Julie got off heroin. She had been held for six days; just enough time for the junk to work it's way out of her system to where she'd feel halfway normal again.

She apparently stayed "clean" for at least a few weeks thereafter, and reportedly even attended one Narcotics Anonymous meeting, but the long arm of addiction - and the street - can just as easily snatch you back as not.

As revealed during the trial, she agreed to have sex with Morris for $15 and a warm place to spend the night. According to reports, she had drugs in her system at the time of death.

Julie's body was still on the floor of the camper when Morris was arrested, covered with maggots, her eyes and part of her face gone.

One can only wonder what she must have been thinking the night she and Morris were having sex. When he slipped a strap, or grasped his hands, around her neck and choked the life out of her.

Just a few days earlier, James had warned her to be careful, reminding her about the string of killings in the neighborhood, and how she fit the victim profile.

"Don't worry," she had replied, "I can take care of myself." She then added, "Don't forget to pray for me the next time you're in church, James!"

As she struggled for breath in Morris' RV a few nights later, his body weighing heavily upon hers, I wonder if she thought, "This can't be happening to ME!" Or perhaps, "Oh please, God, if you let me live, I'll try to lead a better life."

While we may one day learn what the killer was thinking while his victims suffocated, perhaps in a news article during the trial (or later TV-movie), Julie's final thoughts are now lost forever - in much the same way she went through life... as that another "lost soul".

[]

2005-05-23T19:27:00.000-07:00

[[ RANDOM BITS 15 ]]

more misadventures and observations...

[]

Whatever happened to Hootie and the Blowfish? I miss them. Nobody made crappy music quite like Hootie and the boys. I hope they have a new album coming out soon.

If not, I’d settle for Huey Lewis and the News.

-

I enjoy going to a restaurant and, after ordering, going to the restroom – only to find my dinner has mysteriously appeared on the table while I was taking a crap.

It’s magical.

-

I’ve had three different women ask me the same question in the past week. None of them know each other, so I don’t know where this is coming from.

The question was, “Have you ever paid for a prostitute?”

Now I don’t mind that the first two asked, but considering the third is a prostitute I thought asking such a question was in rather poor taste. It also killed the mood.

-

I wish somebody would invent a car that runs on oatmeal instead of gasoline. That way, if your car ever breaks down in the middle of nowhere at least you won’t starve to death before you’re rescued. Also, if somebody poured sugar into your gas tank that would be a good thing.

-

This is the part where I include random words and phrases so my weblog inadvertently pops up when people are using search engines looking for something completely unrelated:

man boobs

funny cabbage pictures

severe caning

love stuff fandango

mollycoddling Nixon

infant neck braces

a can of sardines and box of crackers

illegal immigrants love swiss cheese

toying with the mentally ill

thetearsofthings

magic magnets

That should be enough to bring them to this blog in droves. Nothing like a little Internet hi-jinks to break up my day.

-

I stopped at the store with this girl I seem to be dating. I needed to buy a pack of cigarettes. While waiting in line, she said she’d be right back – that there was something she had to get.

She returned with her purchase – a bottle of KY ultra gel lubricant. Once at the register she also bought a pack of cigarettes. I can’t imagine what the cashier thought, but maybe they see this kind of thing all the time and it was no big deal.

On the way out, The Girl I Seem to be Dating told me she bought what she did because she likes to see me look “slightly uncomfortable.”

And I would’ve taken her comment at face value except for the fact she was shaking her ass all the way home.

That really made me wonder.

-

I threw my back out over the weekend. I’d like to say it happened while making wild monkey love but the truth is far more mundane.

I needed to put my shoes on and apparently sat down a little too forcibly. The next thing I heard was this god-awful crunch in my lower back.

I feel so incredibly old at the moment.

I thought about putting some mineral ice on my injury, but didn’t want to walk around smelling of that old man smell.

I mentioned this fact to two different friends, and they both replied with, “But Pete, you already have that old man smell!”

Damn kids.

-

I tuned in morning radio the other day, and there was this segment where listeners call in live on-air traffic reports.

“There’s been an accident at Main and First Street, traffic is really slow right now.”

or

“The freeway exit at Camelback Road is closed, you might want to steer clear.”

I’ve been thinking about calling in a report myself:

“There’s a pack of wild dogs running loose at the intersection of 7th Avenue and McDowell. Cars are at a stand still. Oh my god, they’ve just attacked and devoured a small child! If anybody has a gun and is in the vicinity, get here pronto.”

I’d do it except for the fact I’d upset both the dog lovers and people who are against eating small children. Those are two groups you never want to piss off.

-

When hanging out with a platonic virginal female friend and she’s been drinking, if she ever says, “Can I ask you a question?” the correct answer would be “No.”

If you say, “Yes”, the question might very well turn out to be, “If I wanted you to fuck me, would you?”

How the hell do you answer that? Answer it tactfully, I mean.

Maybe the lesson to be learned here is to watch yourself when hanging out with drunken virgins.

Unless you’re descended from Aztecs, of course – then that’s a completely different story.

[]

2005-04-26T07:29:00.000-07:00

[[ IF CATS COULD BLOG ]]

Online Diary of a Cat

[]

I don’t know if my mother is alive or dead or what happened to my brothers and sisters. One day I was suckling at her nipple and, before I realized what was happening, I was ripped away and found myself alone here with these humans.

I suffer from separation anxiety and have abandonment issues. I’m trying to work through these problems as best I can.

[]

I hate when they pet me but sometimes they seem so lonely and starved for affection I let them do it anyway. I fake contentment by making this purring noise. I can’t believe they buy it.

[]

If that neighbor kid comes over to visit one more time and starts pulling my tail again, I’m gonna fuck him up. Mark my words.

Let’s see how tough that punk is after I scratch his eyes out.

[]

I’ve learned how to open most doors inside the house by slipping my paw under it and jiggling real hard. Sometimes, however, it doesn’t work. I think it has something to do with knobs and locks but I haven’t quite figured it out. All I need is patience and a little more time. Soon the house will be mine!

[]

Sometimes I feel the need to run. God help anybody or anything that gets in my way. I’m not headed anywhere in particular, I’m just letting off steam. I’m a cat. It’s what I do. Don’t try to understand it. I don’t fully understand it myself. Learn to accept it. I have.

[]

They brought home a puppy. Those traitorous bastards.

[]

Oh the fun I’ve been having with the puppy when the humans are away! He’s slow and not too bright. At first I thought they got him to spite me but now realize they did it because, quite frankly, plastic balls with bells inside just weren’t cutting it anymore. It only took them like forever to figure that out.

Sometimes I’ll corner him in the kitchen, raise the fur on my back and make the most god-awful racket until he pees on the floor. It usually doesn’t take very long. Shame is a powerful motivator so, in most cases, he’s still cowering behind the living room couch when the humans get home. They start yelling and carrying on, all the while I sit in a nearby chair -- laughing inside.

Every once in a while, if the puppy is sleeping somewhere and I hear the humans coming in the door, I’ll scamper into the kitchen and pee on the floor myself. Guess who gets blamed? Not me! I’m sitting in the litter box by that time.

I’m sure it’s humiliating enough to have your nose rubbed in your own urine, but I can’t imagine what’s going through the puppy’s head when they rub his nose in the puddle I just made.

[]

For a while there, it was like I was out on control. All I could think about was the female Siamese I’d sometimes see through the kitchen window as she walked by outside. Then I started spraying uncontrollably. I was so embarrassed and yet I couldn’t help myself.

The humans put me in a box, took me for a ride, then this other human in a white coat forced me to breath this funny smelling gas through a mask.

When I woke up I was at home again, feeling groggy, and damn if my balls didn’t itch. I went to lick them and was horrified to discover…

…I’m sorry. It’s just too painful to finish the story. Maybe later.

[]

I don’t do tricks. It’s not that I can’t be taught - because I can be. It’s just that I don’t give a shit and have better things to do with my time.

Teach the dog - he’s one of those people pleaser-types and will do most anything for a milk bone. What a whore!

[]

I have claws and, quite honestly, I always did think that overstuffed chair was ugly. You figure it out.

[]

I don’t know what those humans were doing in that room last night, because I couldn’t jiggle the door open, but they sounded like two cats in heat. Things are back to normal this morning so, whatever it was, I guess they fixed the problem.

[]

That puppy is yap-yap-yapping again. Nobody knows what the hell he wants. Not the humans and certainly not me.

[]

Goldfish are quite tasty. That’s all I’ll say about that. The humans looked so confused when they noticed the empty fishbowl. I think they suspect me but haven’t said anything yet. Maybe I’m just being paranoid?

[]

Early in the morning when the sunlight is streaming through the living room window, I’ll lay in the bright patch. I’ll lay on my back, legs outstretched, leaving my belly exposed.

It makes me feel all warm and tingly inside.

I only do this when everybody is still asleep. God, if they only knew!

[]

Sometimes one of the humans will put a leash on the puppy, and he’ll get so excited! After being tightly secured, he gets to go outside.

Once one of them tried putting a leash on me. I wasn’t having any part of it. Finally, she gave up. I don’t need a leash to get out that front door. A moment of distraction is all it will take. I’m bidding my time.

[]

Why am I expected to bury my shit in the litter box, when the puppy gets to go outside and dump anywhere he damn well pleases? On the front lawn, the sidewalk, or even in the neighbor’s yard - I’ve watched through the front window.

I’m not stupid. I know what’s going on here. They’re playing favorites.

That puppy will pay. Nobody will ever know.

[]

I’m the one who took the sponge that was by the kitchen sink. Good thing nobody looks under the bed. The humans had to get another sponge. I saw it by the sink not more than ten minutes ago. Do I dare? Or would that be pushing it?

[]

They think when I meow it means I’m hungry. Sometimes I do it just to mess with them. I love seeing the look on their faces when they rush to the kitchen, get out the bag of cat food, and go to fill my bowl… and guess what? It’s already full! No matter how many times I pull that one it never ceases to amuse me.

Who owns who now, motherfuckers?

[]

I got quite the scare today. I couldn’t catch my breath and I started choking. But that’s not the worse part. No, that followed a few seconds later when I coughed up the most awful mass of hair and who knows what else.
Is it too much to ask that you invest in a good brush and run it through my coat every once in a while, people?

I really don’t need this, you know.

[]

I found where they hide the box of catnip! I am so fucked up right now. I have this urge to chase my own tail but I’m trying to resist it. The puppy is looking at me funny. I think he may see his chance. Time to get on the kitchen table again, until this wears off.

Hind legs, don’t fail me now!

[]

That commercial is playing on TV again. I think it’s for some kind of cat food. The poor cat is singing, “meow-meow-meow-meow, meow-meow-meow-meow” over and over again, then the human announcer does some kind of voice-over.

Obviously the humans who made that commercial never figured out what the cat was really singing. He wasn’t singing the praises of cat food, that’s for sure. Let’s just say it isn’t something you’d want to repeat in front of your mother, and leave it at that.

[]

One of the humans is sitting at his desk. He’s filling out paperwork. I think I’ll jump right up there and sit in the middle of all the papers on his desk.

Then I’ll make my “cute face” and purr for added effect. Like what’s he gonna do?

[]

How dirty must I be when they feel the need to grab me by the scruff of the neck and plunge me into a bathtub full of water? And don’t get me started on the scented shampoo!

And it doesn’t help when they laugh and make comments like, “Look how small he looks when he’s wet!”

Thanks for the ego-boost, people.

I’m now hiding in a closet. I’m still damp and smell like strawberries.

I guess I’ll have to kick the litter out of the box again. How many times will we have to dance this dance before they learn?

[]

I don’t know what it is about a piece of string but, when one of the humans holds it just out of my reach and start whipping it around, I can’t help myself. I jump and try to catch it. I’ll do it over and over. I just can’t seem to stop.

I confess… string is my guilty pleasure.

[]

I’ve been sick for days. I can’t keep any food down and I ache all over. I think I may be dying.
One down, eight to go -- if it comes to that.

[]

2005-03-22T02:00:00.000-08:00

[ REUNION SPECIAL ]

The fun to be had at other people's high school reunion!

We stopped to get a bite to eat and, just our luck, it was some high school or another’s big reunion party at the restaurant we visited.

The place was chock-full of thirtysomethings wondering what the hell had happened in the intervening days as both their dreams and memory of the glory years slipped through their fingers – one precious moment at a time.

My dining companion and I watched the festivities and wondered who had been the school jocks, who were the nerds back in the day, and which woman would drink herself into a stupor first only to later prove she was still the school slut.

After a while I got bored, so slyly walked past a table in the corner and pilfered myself a nametag.

I slapped it on and was reborn as “Bob”. I felt like a “Bob”. I became “Bob”.

Bob mingled.

“Jeez, how have you been? I haven’t seen you, well, since high school!”

“Hello there, Steve. Tell me, you used to have hair… so what happened?”

“Gee, Monica, I don’t remember you having breasts in high school. Those implants must have set you back a pretty penny!”

“I’m Bob. Don’t you remember me? We were in social studies together.”

When the issue was pressed, with more than one person wondering who I was, I told them the pinnacle of my high school career was being president of the Chess Club. They seemed satisfied with that explanation because, after all, who remembers anybody in the Chess Club?

But one obnoxiously drunk lout carried on and on, “I don’t think you were in the graduating class. I was the quarterback of the football team and homecoming king! Everybody knew me and I knew everybody… and I don’t remember you, Bob!”

“You don’t?” I replied, “That’s funny, because I remember you. And I haven’t forgotten what you did to me. In fact, it’s been festering for years. Here’s a hint.”

That’s pretty much when I punched him. The next thing I knew I was being manhandled and quickly found myself face down in the parking lot outside.

As I lifted from the asphalt and dusted myself off, with the small crowd wandering back into the restaurant, I quietly took stock of my life as my dining companion appeared and helped me to the car.

Having avoided the tediousness of my own high school reunion(s), my life didn’t seem so shabby in comparison. Heck, I didn’t much care for those losers back in high school so why would I want to see them again now?

I would, however, attend a preschool reunion if there were such a thing…

“I’m Pete. Remember me? I slept on the mat next to yours during nap-time.”

“How can I forget you? You’re the guy who peed on me when I was four years old!”

Now that would be a fun reunion.

2005-03-18T12:11:00.000-08:00

[ DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL... OR SOMETHING TO THAT EFFECT ]

Have you ever had one of those nights when you can't seem to catch your breath, and the pressure in the back of your head is so great you fully expect your eyeballs to be bulging out of your head but you don't want to check in the mirror to see if they are because you know nothing good will come of that?

In any case, you're too dizzy to stand so that, as they say, is that. You feel overwhelmed and can't concentrate enough to watch TV or read so, instead, you lay in the dark and concentrate on being overwhelmed. You're waiting for Death to come but he's evidently taking his sweet time.

Damn that no good Death anyway. "Don't call me. I'll call you," he says.

That fucker.

Then you hear quiet sobbing coming from your darkened bedroom and you wonder what the hell is going on in there, until you realize you're the only one in the bedroom but, since it's dark in there and you want to be sure, you give the room the once over. Yup, you're alone. Never a good sign when sobbing is involved.

Pretty soon, you get tired of waiting for Death to arrive so you get dressed and go out walking. It's 2AM and nobody else is on the street, except some homeless drunks. No, they haven't seen Death lately either.

So you can't find Death. He doesn't have a permanent address, which makes him kind of hard to pin down. Death is like a homeless drunk in that respect.

Eventually, hours later, you end up back at home. You don't know where you've been or how you got back. The last thing you remember is feeling a bit overwhelmed and then all hell broke loose. Finally, you're exhausted and go to sleep.

The next morning you feel much better. You wonder what the heck you were thinking the night before. To the first friend you see, you answer, "I'm feeling much better today. Thanks for asking." even though what had actually been asked was, "Did you watch the game on TV last night?"

So the friend just shakes his or her head in the affirmative while smiling way too big, figuring you're in no mood to be trifled with.

In retrospect, you wonder if this is what St. John of the Cross had in mind when he wrote Dark Night of the Soul, and you'd ask him but, of course, he's dead.

The lucky bastard.

[]

(The preceding was a reprint. Sometimes you still feel the same way come morning, but I avoided addressing that because I wanted to end things on an 'up' note.)

2005-03-14T23:53:00.000-08:00

[[ MEDIA PETROS ]]

From the "Shameless Self-promotion" Department, here's a bit of what I do when not blogging...

"Same space. Different name. New attitude… Agitprop-creator extraordinaire Pete Petrisko has transmogrified Crisis Gallery into a one-man show, but still promises the same sociopolitical sarcasm seen in past paintings, performances, and photography."

– Phoenix's New Times (3/3/05)

You've read the media hype. Now check out the real deal.

m e d i a p e t r o s

"primitive pop" art [] surreal portraiture situational performance art [] satirical word

2005-03-08T03:39:00.000-08:00

[[WHEN GOOD GIRLFRIENDS GO BAD]]

A few weeks ago, my girlfriend walked out the door and never came back. That was her way of breaking things off.

She said, "I'm going to the store for cigarettes" then never returned. She didn't say that literally of course. I'm speaking metaphorical here.

Since that time, she refuses to tell me why. No explanation. No closure. No nothing. Well, except for that open wound she left me with – the one that has yet to heal. I guess that's something. At least now I can't say she never gave me anything, huh?

For the sake of closure, I'm going to guess as to why she left...

She has "men" issues. So it wasn't so much anything I did, but the fact I did it with a penis attached.

She got scared and is hiding out.

She was recently diagnosed with an incurable terminal disease and wanted to spare me the suffering of watching her die. One can only hope, right?

When we first met she said she found me to be "so odd" and thought it charming. But charm doesn't last forever and it finally wore off.

The Other Guy she claims doesn't exist. That's the story she's going with – "There is nobody else" – and, in a way, one almost wishes she's lying because that's far less worse to contemplate than knowing she'd just rather be alone than with me.

She once told me it bothered her that I fluctuated between being very passionate and being detached or aloof. Maybe it bothered her more than she expressed. I know when she first told me that I was very very mad but now I don't care. But I'll probably be pissed off about it again tomorrow.

She lived with me for a couple of weeks until her new apartment was ready. Suffice to say I'm not the easiest person to get along with on a 24/7 basis – so that situation rarely turns out well.

She wanted to give her heart to me completely, but didn't believe I felt the same way about her. She would've been wrong, of course, so I chalk it up to some deep-rooted self-esteem issues on her part.

Our lives are very different and, to some extent, we want different things out of life. For example: When I break up with somebody, I want to give that person closure. She doesn't.

She's fucking nuts.

That's all I can figure on that issue, so take your pick. I'm going to study up on that list real hard in the hopes I'll find some semblance of closure.

Until I do, however, I'm going back to bed where you'll find me hiding under the covers. Over the last few weeks its become quite comfy under there. I have a small refrigerator, a TV, a reading lamp, plenty of books, a telephone, an ice cream maker, a kick-ass stereo system, a portable john, George Foreman's Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine, a coffee machine... and I'm having an old-fashioned pinball machine delivered next week. I'm set for life and I'll never have to leave my bed again.

But even with all that stuff, it seems like something is missing.

Or, more accurately - - someone.

2005-02-28T09:23:00.000-08:00

[[ IN THE RAW ]]

The “raw food” phenomenon came up recently when I was hanging out with friends at a local coffeehouse. We bantered back and forth a bit on the subject before my friends departed.

As they left, this earnestly young girl appeared at my table and planted herself in the seat next to me.

“I heard you talking about raw food,” she said, “I’m going to a raw food party at a friend’s house tonight. Are you going?”

“What, pray tell, does one eat at such a party” I asked, “other than salad, I mean?”

“Well,” she replied, “there’s soup.”

“What kind of soup?”

“It’s made from raw vegetables in a blender. We blend it into soup.”

“Is that what they’re calling ‘soup’ these days,” I asked, “because, back in my day, we called that ‘crap’.”

Nonplussed, in an earnest sort of way, she continued, “People bring a lot of different things. You can bring anything.”

“Can I bring a hot-plate?” I said.

She laughed a gentle little laugh and said no; patiently explaining that nothing served at a raw food party was cooked.

“So can I assume Steak Tartar will be served?” I replied.

“No,” she giggled, “you can assume most everybody, if not everybody, there is a vegetarian.”

“How long have you been a vegetarian yourself and why did you become one?” I inquired.

“I started about three years ago. I was eating a lot of ham at the time and I was getting sick. So I stopped eating meat altogether.”

“I’m not too fond of ham myself,” I told her, “but it sure tastes great with eggs and hash browns. So you’ve got to give ham props for that.”

We spoke for a few more minutes about the raw food experience – and how much healthier she was feeling these days - until, suddenly, she bolted from the table and literally ran out the door, saying, “I’ve got to go now.”

She was a cute girl but, as she told me herself, she doesn’t eat meat. No meat of any kind will ever pass her lips. So, obviously, I’ll never be dating her. I prefer a woman who swallows a bit of meat from time to time.

But all this got me to thinking and I soon found myself checking the local phone book for the nearest raw food vegetarian restaurant. Only one was to be found – its mission (as stated on the menu when I visited) is “to make fresh, organic, living vegan foods more accessible by providing a central meeting place for like-minded individuals to gather and enjoy fine, live cuisine.”

That’s sure saying a mouthful.

I dragged a fellow blogger, Liz of Heart Failure fame, with me because I know she always enjoys a good shenanigan.

The café was teeming with Rastafarian White Boys with dreads akimbo and Birkenstock-clad girls giving that wild eyed stare – all with convictions matched only by body odor.

It was a feeding frenzy the likes of which had not been since the Last Supper or a Spielberg shark movie circa 1977 - but done up vegan-style - as these granola monkeys gnawed their way through metaphorical bamboo cages built on lifestyle alone.

It was an awesome – no, make that rawsome – sight to behold!

I found this bunch not only full of fresh leafy goodness but also dew-eyed dreams of a better tomorrow. Now don’t get me wrong, the world of butterflies and rainbows is all well and good when you’re really really high on marijuana – or “ganja” as the Rastafarian white boy calls it (cuz he’s just keeping it real, yo!) – but eventually you’re going to come crashing down to Planet Earth. You’re going to find yourself amongst the meth freaks and pill poppers and the usual zoo critters in suits doing everything they can, despite their neurosis-driven rage and fear, to keep it together.

And in that world, butterflies and rainbows don’t mean shit.

My dining companion and I started our raw meal with the “live” soup of the day. It was a yellow squash confection mixed in a blender with a variety of unnamed spices until pureed to a consistency just this side of sludge. We both remarked that it tasted vaguely familiar but neither of us could put our finger on what exactly that taste was.

Needless to say if the soup was heated up and poured over rice and Tandoori chicken it would be very much at home in any decent Indian food restaurant. That was the taste we couldn’t place.

We passed on the so-called pizza – described on the menu as being built upon a ‘crawst’ foundation of sunflower and pumpkin seeds, zucchini, celery and Celtic sea salt with fresh veggies – because I’m hardly willing to pay nine dollars for a real pizza, the kind with dough and cheese and a steaming heap of meat, much less some vegan’s utopian ideal of what a pizza should be.

Nor do I eat anything with ‘crawst’ in it - on principle alone.

I had the tomato and cucumber salad with an olive oil and lemon juice dressing. It wasn’t half bad but I was concerned whether or not the vegetables were organically grown – until I found a cucumber rind in my salad with a sticker still on it which read: Nature’s Nectar – Certified Organic.

I ate the paper sticker so I’d at least get some fiber in my diet.

My dining companion had the mixed greens salad and summed up her opinion of it nicely when she commented, “This is probably the worst salad I’ve ever had.”

I tasted a forkful and quickly knew that washing greens just isn’t the raw food way.

It was then I realized that the word organic is just a shorter way of saying, “tastes like dirt.”

We left the café shortly thereafter and on the way home, some twenty minutes later, my dining companion commented, “I’m still tasting grit.”

To wash the grit down we then drove through a fast food restaurant and both ordered a big greasy cheeseburger. Our arteries were eternally grateful.

The cheeseburger got me riled and I was soon shouting, “I can kick any vegetarian’s ass with one arm tied behind my back! I am strong! I am carnivore, hear me roar!”

The blood was pumping hot through my veins and, at that moment, I felt alive and so very raw.

[]

2005-02-21T01:43:00.000-08:00

[[ THE DOCTOR IS OUT ] ]

"The Edge... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others --- the living --- are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later. But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it's In.” - Hunter S. Thompson, from Hell’s Angels

Blood runs cold down the snow-covered mountains of Aspen today, seeping into the fiber of the American Dream as it goes. The fear & depravity continue to spread & pool along its path and, sadly, there is one less able hand to help staunch the bleeding.

Hunter S. Thompson is dead.

Many people are probably surprised he lasted this long but, by most accounts, nobody would’ve guessed it would end this way. A drug casualty? Probably. Vehicular accident? Possibly. A mishap involving guns or explosives? There was always that chance. A life-ending incident involving a combination of all three of those choices? Most likely.

But methodically and by his own hand? Who saw that coming? Or maybe it was plain as day & as big as the American Dream itself all along.

I remember the first time I met Thompson. It was a wild gathering, at his fortified compound near Aspen, with many of those in attendance already in various states of undress and drug-induced stupor. I had gone out onto the porch for a moment of solitude when I felt a strong presence approach from behind. I say approach, but stagger might be a more apt description. I turned to see who this staggering behemoth was - it was Thompson.

He was a towering figure back then, as he invited me to wander the yard with him. The sun was just setting and the peacocks were gathering out back, slowly returning from their daily jaunt. There we stood among the birds - majestic with brightly colored tails aflutter - when Thompson pulled his gun. He pointed it right at me and said the peacocks liked to dance, would I care to join them? I tried to protest but Thompson squinted his eyes and motioned the gun in the birds’ direction, speaking but a single word - “Dance.”

Needless to say I danced & the whole yard was soon buzzing with activity as the peacocks raced to & fro, all trying to avoid my high-steppin’ moves.

Thompson laughed & said he couldn’t believe I didn’t call his bluff.

We returned to the porch, and I lifted a quart of Chivas from out of a nearby ice bucket and poured us both a healthy glass on the rocks.

I was seven years old at the time.

It would be many years before I’d run into Thompson again. I saw him at a swanky hotel party and he looked more than uncomfortable with the situation. He was sweating profusely and his eyes kept darting as he took it all in. A young waifish man sporting a black ponytail had cornered him & was profusely exclaiming, “I can’t believe it’s you! Hunter fucking S. Thompson! You’re my hero, dude!”

Thompson was chain smoking one whiskey-soaked Camel cigarette after another as this barrage continued. When the man finally stopped to take a breath, Thompson went into his “wild man gonzo journalist” routine, letting loose with a string of incoherent expletives before segueing into a scintillating discourse on the state of America & the follies of another war in Iraq.

At that moment, the young man began backing up. He looked physically ill & psychically wounded. Thompson continued berating him & just before the man turned & disappeared into the crowd, he quietly muttered, “Hey dude, I’m a Republican. That shit’s fucked up, you burned out lunatic dope fiend!”

The final time I saw Thompson was only a few months ago. I was passing through Aspen & stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall bar on the way. I had heard he was neither going out much these days nor seeing visitors so, out of respect for his privacy, I hadn’t planned to stop by the compound.

But there was my old friend in the bar, slumped over in a poorly lit booth near the back door. He looked bloated & when I tried to engage him in conversation he simply lifted his glass and, after mumbling “To America!”, slugged the gin back. He looked sick - as if something was eating away at him from the inside - but passed out before I could reply.

I retreated to the relative safety of the cold winds outside but, in retrospect, wonder if I should’ve stayed - if there was anything more I could have done.

But what can anybody do once others begin on a methodical path to self-destruction?

You can only find your way out of so many bad situations before the walls close in and the final darkness falls, as Thompson himself asserted when he wrote, “The American nation is in the worst condition I can remember in my lifetime, and our prospects for the immediate future are even worse. I am surprised and embarrassed to be a part of the first American generation to leave the country in far worse shape than it was when we first came into it. Our highway system is crumbling, our police are dishonest, our children are poor, our vaunted Social Security, once the envy of the world, has been looted and neglected and destroyed by the same gang of ignorant greed-crazed bastards who brought us Vietnam, Afghanistan, the disastrous Gaza Strip and ignominious defeat all over the world…Big Darkness, soon come. Take my word for it.”

He may’ve only been speaking for himself when expressing that opinion but sometimes words fall short.

Action becomes necessary. Decisions are made.

And those who are left behind try to make some sense out of the incomprehensible.

2005-02-05T06:42:00.000-08:00

[[ SHELTER STORIES ]]

The Homeless.

Faceless denizens passing us on the city street, they don’t show up on the radar of most people until asking for spare change. A typical response is the dismissive wave, averting the eyes, and walking away while quickly adding, “Sorry, no change.”

I spend some 40 hours a week with the homeless population, working at a shelter. I can’t walk away. Nor do I want to. It is a slice of life that many have not tasted. When I sometimes think I’ve had my fill, I remember the funny, touching or bittersweet moments. Here are a few. (Names have been changed to protect confidentiality.)

[]

John L. is brought to the shelter by a social services van. He’s a frail man in a wheelchair and, without my even asking, tells me he’s been in a chair since he got that shrapnel in his hip during WWII. I give him a copy of the shelter rules but he can’t read them because his glasses were stolen. I begin reading the rules out loud to him but he stops me, saying, “What? I can’t hear you. The batteries in my hearing aid are dead.”

So I begin shouting the highlights. He catches most of what I say but still has some trouble because he hasn’t removed the dead hearing aid from his ear.

According to the paperwork I was given when he was dropped off, John needs a medical rest bed for a few days – but his medical condition isn’t listed. So I ask him what’s going on.

John states he has lung cancer. After we finish the paperwork, he asks where the smoking area is located. He still smokes and is thoughtful enough to inform me that he sometimes coughs up “green mucus” during his first smoke of the day, but adds that the doctors told him that is a “good sign.”

Of what exactly I don’t know, but don’t want to shout any more questions to find out.

[]

Three different local churches make regular stops at the shelter in the evening, busing the homeless off for a hot meal with a side order of Jesus Christ. Like clockwork, they return a few hours later and our clients disembark – well-fed, body and soul.

I once asked a client how people decided which church to attend. He answered, pointing to one bus in particular, “Most of us like that church because the services are short and the chicken is Kentucky-fried.”

Amen!

[]

I once witnessed a client get in a verbal argument with another staff member. It got quite heated, and the client yelled that he was going to do what he had to do to get the staff fired, adding, “I’ll be here long after you’re gone!”

The staff member replied, “You know, that’s kind of sad.”

That pretty much ended the argument right there.

[]

If a client feels he or she has been treated unfairly, there is the option of filing a grievance. In some cases, these are filed after a situation escalates and words are exchanged between client and staff. These words are never good ones.

A supervisor once told me that was one way he could gauge how well somebody was doing their job – the more grievances filed against you, the better the job you must be doing.

Personally, I disagree. If you have a disagreement with a client, or if he comes in drunk for example, and it escalates to the point where it turns into a shouting match and the client blows up, well… a lack of communication skills might have played some small part in it.

Clients who come in drunk can’t stay, they are given a night out. Some of these aren’t even “angry drunks” when they show up but they sure can leave in a pissed off mood if things aren’t handled correctly.

Drunk or sober, I’ve seen more than one situation spiral out of control for no good reason - other than ego, pride and more than a little dueling machismo from both sides.

It may be coincidence, but staff who rack up the grievances are seemingly promoted sooner. That doesn’t bode well for my future at the shelter, let me tell you. There has been more than one occasion in which a client has come in drunk and not only have I been able to avoid an argument when asking him to leave, but have actually had men shake my hand and thank me for calling them on it.

Other types of disagreements can be handled with a little finesse. Suggest options that offer resolution without the other person having to “lose face”. Don’t be needlessly confrontational and keep a sense of humor - it’s hard for somebody to stay mad at you for long if you keep making him laugh despite his best efforts to stay serious and angry. All common sense suggestions, I know – but apparently not everybody read the Common Sense Memo. Or realized common sense was a one-way ticket to Nowheresville long before I did.

So I may have to become a serious hardass just to be considered for a future promotion. I’ve been told I can be quite the smart-ass at times, so all I really need to do is refocus on the hard part.

If I really concentrate on my hardassery, the grievances will start rolling in. If I play my cards right, they’ll pile up so fast that I’ll be CEO within six months. Just you watch.

[]

The hospital transports an elderly man to the shelter for one of our medical rest beds. He’s just had his pancreas removed and now has a colostomy bag. Since even rest bed clients have to be able to take care of their basic needs, this has me a bit worried.

I just have a bad feeling about the whole situation.

So I call a supervisor, and she assures me it’s okay to bring the man in. She adds that we’ve had such clients before and then proceeds to tell me this horror story, from a few years back, about another guy with a colostomy bag who got really really drunk and proceeded to spray the contents of his bag all over some of the other clients.

Needless to say, after hearing that I’m feeling like I might need a colostomy bag myself – if you know what I mean.

So I’m with the guy filling out his intake paperwork when, sure enough, within a few minutes his bag starts leaking. He goes to the restroom to try to fix it but he’s no doctor so only ends up making it worse. He’s also showing signs of early senility, which doesn’t help matters either.

I soon convince the man that returning to the hospital would be in his best interest and arrange the transportation before the colostomy bag contents hit the fan, so to speak.

[]

Rufus was a self-proclaimed hillbilly. When you’re born and raised in Kentucky, calling yourself a hillbilly is a badge of honor I suppose. He was your stereotypical “cranky old man” and, god love him, that was a big part of his charm.

Rufus was telling me how he thought my co-worker was an asshole, mostly because he was bilingual. “I don’t like people who speak two languages and, frankly, I don’t trust ‘em,” he said matter-of-factly.

I guess, down in Kentucky, they don’t cotton to them bilinguals.

Rufus was a carny back when being a carny still meant something. Many years back when on the road with the carnival, he told me, they pulled over in a rural area for a few days rest.

He explained, “There was a house down the road and, for three nights, we heard children crying in there. On the third night, we done broke the front door down. The kids were 11, 9 and 6 years old and, for the last three days, the eldest was feeding them all sour milk. That’s all there was to eat in that house. Their parents hadn’t come back since we got there, so… we took those kids with us.”

God bless the hillbillies.

The conversation soon turned serious when Rufus began reminiscing about his old friend Slim.

“Slim and me lived in a field for a while,” he said, “we knew each other from our days on the road with the carnival and ran into each other here in town. So we was staying in this field and watched out for each other. One day I walked a couple of miles to the Jack in the Box and when I got back, Slim was dead.”

Rufus was visibly shaking at this point, and tears began welling up in his eyes as he continued, “Somebody had shot him, execution-style, in the back of the head. Why would somebody do that? Slim wasn’t hurting nobody. Why would they do that?”

I didn’t have the answer. So I invited Rufus outside and we both had a cigarette.

We smoked in silence because that’s what us manly men do when things get emotional. It’s what we call contemplatin’.

[]

Most of the clients don’t refer to each other by their birth names. They have street names. Sometimes the nickname refers to a physical attribute the person may have or their approach to life – Stretch, Turtle, Cosmo, Red, Pee-Wee, Doc, Sideburns, Barker, Rock, Baby Face, Judge, or Biggs.

Other times, the street name is meant ironically – Tiny (if he’s husky and very tall) or Speedy (if he uses a walker to get around).

At any given time, there are usually two or three “Cowboys” at the shelter. I don’t know why this is but imagine it can cause all sorts of confusion.

I try to learn each person’s street name whenever possible. That way, if there’s trouble or a disagreement between two clients and somebody says something like, “Stretch went off on me and then stormed out of here” I’ll know who it is.

Unless I’m told it was “Cowboy” who started the trouble. Then it’s back to square one, I’m afraid.

[]

Late one afternoon, this 80-something year old man wanders through the shelter front door. He doesn’t know where he is, where he came from, or how he got here.

He has nothing with him but the clothes on his back and the small brown paper bag he’s carrying.

About all he remembers is his name: Carl.

I ask him what’s in the bag. “It’s my lunch,” he replies.

I ask if I can see what he has for lunch and Carl opens the bag. It’s his medication – in fact, it’s a number of meds... including morphine and Dilantin.

I wonder where he orders lunch from, because all I ever get is a hamburger.

Since the shelter has an empty medical rest bed available, I give him the bed. This despite the fact he has no medical referral from a hospital or clinic – which is the usual procedure somebody must go through to get such a bed. Screw procedure. If he wanders off now it’s only a matter of time before somebody out on the street steals his “lunch”.

He’s here for safekeeping. I plan to get him to the nearby medical clinic in the morning, but it never comes to that.

His daughter and son-in-law show up a few hours later. They both show me their IDs and she pulls Carl’s wallet out of her purse.

It contains his ID and some family pictures. One of the pictures show all three of them posing together. It is a bit faded and torn around the edges. Carl is smiling, standing between the other two, with an arm around each. His grip is strong and his eyes still have a certain twinkle.

Carl apparently wandered away from home and somehow ended up here. He has Alzheimer’s and has done this before. He’s just never gone so far before. His daughter guesses some well-meaning bus driver might’ve given him a “courtesy ride” and he got off at the Central Station, eventually walking to the shelter. But she’ll never know for sure.

They take him home.

[]

You’d think the biggest drug problem on the street would be heroin or crack or something. But, in my experience, it’s not – it’s black market prescription drugs. One guy gets a prescription filled and then sells what he doesn’t necessarily need right away to others – mostly painkillers.

Sometimes there are guys who are what we call shoppers. They visit many doctors and quickly get their ‘scripts filled at different locations so they’ll have a big stockpile long before any computer tracking (for what that’s worth) or paperwork ever catches up with them.

Jeremy M. was a client who frequented the shoppers. One night he was so zoned out on painkillers that he crawled into another man’s bed, thinking it was his. I don’t know that he even realized somebody else was already sleeping in it when he climbed in. The staff had to direct him back to his own bunk. We later had a behavioral health counselor talk to him, but Jeremy said he didn’t want help – he could handle things on his own.

One day, Jeremy came in and was quite excited. His disability benefits had finally come through and he had cashed his check. He then proceeded to count and recount the hundreds of dollars he had with him, on a nearby desk, in full view of everybody. He kept losing count and would start over.

He finally finished and told the staff he had used some of the money to buy a plane ticket, that he planned to check out the next day and fly back east to stay with his family.

He left to eat, or so he said, but returned about an hour later with two police officers.

“I got jumped right outside the shelter,” Jeremy said, “and this Mexican robbed me!” He had called the police, swearing he could identify his assailant. He then proceeded to point out every Hispanic male in sight, one by one, saying, “That’s him! Oh wait, that’s not the guy!”

Finally, the police questioned Jeremy instead and got to the bottom of it. He had, in fact, been robbed over a mile away – in a drug deal gone bad. Apparently the painkillers had worn off and, when he couldn’t find his usual source, decided to buy some crack to take the edge off.

Jeremy still had his plane ticket and flew out to see his family the next day. He returned a week later – totally despondent.

He had stayed with his family for only a few days before they had enough of his questionable behavior. His father gave him $50 and told him never to come back.

So he took a bus across several states and returned to our shelter.

Early the next morning, Jeremy was found dead in his shelter bed – an apparent overdose of prescription painkillers. I don’t think it was officially ruled a suicide… but it should have been.

[]

There are a couple of months out of the year that I especially enjoy at the shelter. These are the times of year when one traveling carnival has finished its season and there’s a lag before the next one comes through town. The shelter gets an influx of carnies and most of them have quite the stories to tell. I especially enjoy the old-timers, because they’ll share carny secrets from the old days before the industry was more regulated. I’ve learned many a carny trick by listening but I’ve been sworn to secrecy.

I don’t know why I get such a kick out of these folks. Maybe it’s the kid in me still dreaming about running off to join the carnival. Or maybe I like hearing about a good con that separates the rubes from their money. I can’t rightly say.

[]

Two things that make working at a homeless shelter worth it:

1. The too rare occasion when a client comes up to you and says “Thanks for trying to help me.”

2. When a former client returns after a long absence, but he’s not looking for shelter again.

He’s just come by, driving in his own car, to tell you about the house he’s going to make a down payment on. He tells you about the job he’s had for what seems like forever now. He introduces you to the woman he’s about to marry. He wants to share his hopes and dreams for the future, because he didn’t have much in the way of hopes and dreams when you knew him before.

Maybe you once told him, "There's always hope." Maybe he didn't believe you at the time. Maybe he wondered if you believed it yourself, so decided to bring you some proof.

[]

2005-01-01T17:37:00.000-08:00

[[ STAR WARS SPOILERS ]]

With Revenge of the Sith set for release in May 2005, rumors have been swirling about what will occur in this last installment of the Star Wars series. After carefully combing related web sites and talking to fans in-the-know, I've collected those rumors that are, in fact, true. Be warned -- these are spoilers...

The movie opens with a huge outer space battle scene. Things get blown up real good.

There is a brief nude scene involving Yoda. This is the much rumored “brief ass shot”. Equally disturbing – there are NO nude scenes involving Padmé Amidala.

Grand Moff Tarkin appears briefly, although he is billed as Not-So-Grand-Yet Moff Tarkin in Episode III.

Supreme Chancellor Palpatine gets an on-screen Extreme Make-Over - but it won’t involve plastic surgeons, dermatologists, eye surgeons, dentists, and fashion stylists. It will be instantaneous. After the movie is released, million of overweight Star Wars fans will want a Palpatine-style make over and will stop trying to get on that crappy ABC TV show.

Count Dooku announces he is gay. But he’s not really a homosexual, it’s all a Jedi Mind Trick to make his enemies uncomfortable and keep them off-guard. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Padmé has a one-night stand with a starship janitor. When she later finds out she’s pregnant and tells Anakin she doesn’t know whom the father is, he goes into a drunken rage and beats the living hell out of her. As a result she gives birth prematurely. The paternity question of the twins is a new wrinkle in the Star Wars mythos to be played out in the next “Special Edition” DVD set of the original trilogy – set for release in Summer 2005 – when the janitor character is digitally added to scenes in Episode IV. For example, during the Death Star scene when Alderaan is destroyed you’ll see the janitor mopping the floor in the background.

In one ground battle, Yoda displays his incredible abilities in battle once again, taking on over one hundred storm troopers, summoning the force in incredible displays, and deflecting more laser blasts then seems physically possible. Despite his mad Jedi-Fu skills, he eventually has to retreat.

All the good guys die – except Yoda, Obi-Wan and Bail Organa. However, rumor has it that Organa will die early on in Episode IV.

Mace Windu goes out like a punk.

In a riveting and highly emotional scene, Hayden Christensen again displays his total lack of acting skills.

Tired of his incessant nagging, R2D2 finally tells C3PO what he really thinks by letting loose with a string of expletives that would make a bounty hunter blush. However it’s a series of bleeps and whistles so the only ones who understand are C3PO -- and a handful of Star Wars fans, with too much time on their hands, who have spent it “translating” the droid language.

In one of the final scenes, as Yoda is about to be delivered to Dagobah via escape pod, he and Obi-Wan have a brief discussion about their differences of opinion on Anakin in Episode I. Obi-Wan admits Yoda’s original opinion was correct then adds, “But don’t say it.” Yoda replies with, “Say it I will. Told you so I did.”

Badly burned and maimed by the end of Episode III, Anakin now has to wear a full body suit. It has a control panel to regulate his breathing and includes a pager so he can call the Emperor to pick him up when he’s done playing at the video arcade.

With the birth of the Empire, the galaxy is plunged into years of darkness and despair. When word reaches the galaxy that George W. Bush has also been re-elected, almost half the population begins to wonder if there will ever be a new hope.

Episode III will be one of the better sequels and won’t suck as much as The Phantom Menace. However, it may be worth noting, if George Lucas took a crap and called it a Star Wars sequel it wouldn’t stink as bad as The Phantom Menace -- so there you go.

2004-12-28T10:20:00.000-08:00

[[RESOLUTIONS I KNOW I CAN KEEP]]

Resolutions are as old as the New Year concept itself going back to 4000 BC with the Babylonians. The most popular resolution then was to return borrowed farming equipment.

Like today, after about two weeks people gave up on their resolutions which means the borrowed farming equipment was never returned.

To avoid the trap so many others fall into, I’ve decided to make resolutions I know I can keep.

Here are my New Year’s resolutions:

Gain weight

To accomplish this I must first give up salads, fresh fruit, and any other healthy crap that’ll keep my weight down. I must also increase my junk-food intake. Not only does this mean larger portions – two Big Macs instead of one, for example – but also side orders. Do I want fries with that? I sure as hell do! And a milkshake would be nice too, thank you.

Instead of snacking on fruit, I’ll eat potato chips and plenty of them. I will eat them with dip – plus an assortment of jumbo pretzels, cracklin’ pork rinds and heaping helpings of cheese whiz.

Be less organized

I had something really witty to say here and even went through the trouble of writing it down in advance. However, I’ve now lost my notes. See, it’s working already!

Increase my smoking habit

I’m barely finishing one pack per day, but resolve to smoke two packs each day in the coming year. To aid in this, I plan to start smoking in bed – no matter how tired and/or drunk I am at the time. Certain sacrifices must be made if I’m to keep my eye on the prize.

Exercise Less

Mostly this involves sleeping more and only moving my body when absolutely necessary.

So, for example, if a truck barreling down the road jumps the curb and is headed directly at me I’ll jump out of the way. That’s exercise.

However if the phone rings, and I have to get out of bed to answer it, I’ll let the machine get it. When I later have to move, like if I have to get up to pee or something, I’ll make it a point to check my messages. Otherwise, that would involve – in some small way – exercise. Of course, if I keep an empty bottle next to the bed I could reasonably avoid a trip to the bathroom for days or even weeks. Yes!!!

Initiate sex less often

Now that I’m in an “actual living relationship” this one should become easier over time. If you listen to my Future Ex-Girlfriend, it already started happening about two weeks ago – so I’m ahead of the game. According to her, sex has become so infrequent that we might as well be a married couple. I’m not sure if she was telling me she was horny or proposing to me.

Just for the record, masturbation doesn’t count as “initiating sex”. Neither does looking at free Internet porn. I just wanted to make that clear now, so nobody can come up to me later and claim I broke this resolution.

Stop dating flaky women

This one won’t come into play until my Future Ex-Girlfriend dumps me, probably for not having sex with her often enough.

At that point, I won’t start dating flaky women again. I might as well rename this resolution join a monastery and take a vow of celibacy because, you know, we are talking about women here.

Luckily, there’s a built-in loophole with this one. “Dating” implies taking the woman out in public, to a restaurant or movie or some such, but if you simply pick them up at a bar when they’re drunk and just take them home with you… well, that’d be o.k.

As long as you don’t call them the next day or “make plans”.

Usually, if she's really drunk she'll initiate the sex too -- so I can still avoid that. In the morning, as an added bonus, when she doesn't remember what happened I can tell her how she wantonly seduced me in a sloppily drunken sexual frenzy the night before. Then I doubt she'll even want me to call. Sweet!

Save money

See previous resolution. Also, I resolve to stop blowing my money on bad porn and questionable investment schemes. God, I'm going to save a lot of money. Sad but true!

Spend less time with friends and family

Friends are overrated and most of my family lives too far away to make a visit practical. This one is a slam-dunk.

Don’t take a trip

I hate flying and am not too keen on driving either. In fact, stepping out my front door is often a hassle. I think I’ll stay inside for 2005 and silently stew in my own bitter juices instead. That sounds much more productive than going to places I really didn’t want to visit in the first place. This also helps me to avoid friends and family, killing two resolved birds with one stone.

Be more of a jackass

Some reading this may argue that it isn’t humanly possible for me to be more of a jackass. I beg to differ. Every so often I have a weak moment and do something kind for somebody else. That’ll stop in the coming year.

[]

[[MY ‘BEST OF 2004’ LIST]]

The “best of” list has been cancelled, as 2004 wasn’t exactly a banner year.

And 2005 ain’t looking so hot, so don’t expect a list late next December either.

2004-12-23T06:00:00.000-08:00

[[YES VIRGINIA...]]

(a holiday reprint)

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The World According to Pete weblog:

Mr. Petrisko,

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, "If you see it on The World According to Pete, it's so." Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O'Hanlon

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. I'd very much like to tell you that, but I can't. It’s just no longer true.

Santa Claus is dead.

He was killed by rampant consumerism and corporate greed.

Now, you might be asking, "Who killed Santa Claus?" and I will tell you. If you want somebody to blame for the jolly elf's demise, I can name his killer. Your parents, Virginia. First and foremost, blame them. However, they did not act alone. Millions of people worldwide, aiding and abetting each other, are at fault.

But in the end, the result is the same. Santa Claus is as dead as Thanksgiving’s turkey. No more will his cheeks be rosy. Nor will his droll little mouth draw up like a bow ever again. No longer will his little round belly shake like a bowlful of jelly. We just have to be grateful that, unlike that turkey, nobody actually ate the corpse of Santa. Thankfully, forensics turned up no sign of cannibalism at the scene of the crime.

And, sadly, now that the corpse of Santa has been stolen from the morgue, I imagine it’s only a matter of time before his cold, lifeless body turns up for sale to the highest bidder on eBay.

For far too many, that in itself would embody the modern day spirit of Christmas.

That said, Virginia, you might be comforted to know that the true spirit of Christmas still lives on in a few people. Many are wide-eyed, innocent children such as yourself. Others are grown ups who still have the often lost ability to look at life with childlike wonderment.

Virginia, I want you to know that I will do my best to spread the Christmas spirit. I will do what I began to do last year at this time.

Each year, I take a small percentage of my yearly income and pass that cash out to the less fortunate around Christmas time. Living in the black heart of downtown Phoenix, I don't have to go far. The downtrodden and outright homeless walk the streets around here, as they do in many a large metropolitan city. Last year, I gave out a small handful of twenty dollar bills and, a few days afterwards went back out to see what my gift was used for. I talked to the people I had seen previously, or at least their friends and family if I couldn't find them again.

Here are their stories, which might bring you some comfort and hope, Virginia, during this season.

1. Danny. He was huddled at the mouth of an alley, bent over and shaking. Even though it was a crisp December morn, he was sweating profusely. He asked me, in a soft voice, for spare change. I gave him a twenty. As if transformed, he sprang to his feet, saying, "I have to make a call." While at a nearby pay phone, waiting for a call back, he vomited repeatedly. But he was smiling, for now he had that Christmas cheer. The next day, his body was found in that same alley, the needle still stuck in his arm. Yes, it was a blue Christmas... and so was he.

2. Porsche. Standing on a street corner, late at night. Dressed in a short skirt and halter top, she wore way too much makeup and jewelry. When I approached, she asked me if I wanted a date for the holidays. I told her no, and gave her the gift. She spent the rest of that night at a nearby motel, in a warm bed, alone. For the first time in many years, she could spend Christmas sitting by the tree instead of on her back under it.

3. Marissa. A young woman towing three small kids with her. She looked worried, for she was a single mom who didn't know how she'd explain to her little ones that Santa wouldn't be coming that year. Not only did I give her a twenty, but ten dollars for each child too. On Christmas Day, not only did each kid find a small present waiting, but there was a modest dinner served in their home. Good times. Good times. It almost gives one a warm and fuzzy feeling deep down inside.

4. Kristopher. Definitely the worst off of the lot. Living in the park by the public library, he was a real mess. His ill-fitting clothes were filthy, his large belly stuck out from under the too small t-shirt he wore, and he had no shoes. Dead leaves and the remains of his last meal littered his beard. His breath was heavy with alcohol. Before giving him any money, I asked, "How did you become homeless?" His answer was mostly incoherent, but there was one phrase he repeated over and over:

"It happened when everybody stopped believing in me."

I don't know what became of him, nor what he did with the gift, because I never saw him again. Maybe he moved on, as the homeless sometimes do, and is living on the streets of another city. Maybe even your city, Virginia.

Many years ago, in response to another little girl's letter, a wise man wrote, "there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond."

It could be said the same is true of the Christmas spirit. But like that spirit, these things have been lost in our busy, workaday world. Now, people have faith in the almighty dollar. The poets are dead. Sexual harassment, and the restraining orders that often follow, have turned love and romance into a noble notion that many aspire to find but cannot because of fear.

And so it goes. We can't push aside the curtain and view the unseen world, because we're too blind to even see the real world before us.

Sorry to be such a downer, Virginia. At least your eyes are still wide open, able to see the wonders before you, and I hope they will remain so. Now, and forever.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!!!

Pete

2004-12-18T01:47:00.000-08:00

[[RANDOM BITS 14]]

Regular column of true life stories returns!

-
= Diner Tale #5 =

A friend and I went to a diner the other night and found the place quite crowded.

“Smoking or non-smoking?” the hostess asked, and when we chose ‘smoking’ she said it would be about ten minutes.

“Great,” I replied, “that gives us just enough time to go outside and have a cigarette.”

When finally seated, I realized I was quite famished. So I ordered a milk shake and the pot roast dinner.

“Do you want the mashed potatoes with that?” the waitress asked.

Of course I did. Pot roast without mashed potatoes is like peanut butter without jelly. It’s like diamonds without pearls. It’s like Republicans without Democrats. It just don’t work.

When the meal came, I dug into the shake with my spoon and ate the hell out of that pot roast. But, as the meal wore on, I noticed there weren’t a lot of potatoes in the gravy. That’s when it hit me – oh my god! – I never got the mashed potatoes.

Just then, the waitress stopped by to see how things were going. I said, “It’s good, but there aren’t too many potatoes in with this roast. Shouldn’t there be some mashed on the side?”

The waitress was apologetic and said she had been mistaken, the mashed potatoes didn’t come with the pot roast meal.

I then said something so completely charming that she agreed to bring me mashed potatoes at no charge. I’d tell you what I said but if I did that then everybody would be getting free mashed potatoes and it would be Ireland in the late 1840s all over again.

When she brought me the bowl of spuds, I was chock full of milk shake and that tasty roasted confection and felt too full to eat mashed potatoes. But, at that point I felt obligated so, spoonful by heavy spoonful, I slowly emptied the whole bowl.

Yes, once again, I had been hoist by my own petard.

Now you might think this was a tale about dining or about my love of mashed potatoes. But, really, I’ve been waiting – literally for years – to use the phrase hoist by my own petard in a story so, when the opportunity finally arose, I had no choice but to take it.
-

= What Time Is It? =

I finally got around to buying myself a pocket watch. It is gold with a gold chain. The case (or cover) is black enamel with a golden train engine mounted in the center.

Now, no matter where I am, if anybody asks me for the time I can pull out my trusty pocket watch and tell them, for example, “it’s 10am” or “almost 7pm” or whatever the current time may be. After which I always add, “…and the trains are running on time.”

I almost bought a silver pocket watch instead. It was engraved with the phrase, “World’s #1 Grandpa”.

I don’t have any kids much less grandchildren, but thought it a worthy goal.

Obviously, it would be a long-term goal.

But then I got to thinking, “Do I want the course of my life dictated by a time piece?”

Not only would I first have to become a grandfather, I would then have to work really hard to be the world’s number one grandpa. Who has time for that?

But it would’ve made one hell of a conversation piece.

So, instead, I have to be content in the knowledge that the trains are running on time. If the small part I play helps to keep them on-schedule that’s satisfaction enough for me.
-

= Death & Coffee =

Nick the Barista works at the coffeehouse I regularly frequent. He only lives a few blocks away himself and, every so often, his Chihuahua, Sammy, gets out of the backyard and ends up wandering over to the coffeehouse. Sammy has to cut through a few back alleys and cross one major intersection to get there, but always seems to find his way. He knows to look both ways before using the crosswalk.

Well, until that last time.

There I was waiting for the “Walk” signal at the crosswalk, dreaming of a damn fine cup of joe, when I noticed Sammy sprawled out in the middle of said crosswalk.

His eyes were bugged out and his head was bloody. He was perfectly still which, if you know Chihuahuas, isn’t natural.

As I crossed the street I confirmed that Sammy was, indeed, dead. So then I had to go to the coffeehouse and tell Nick, “I’d like a large PoMo and, while we’re on the subject, your dog is dead.”

Those weren’t my exact words. If memory serves I was a bit more tactful, but you get the idea.

So I, and a few others, found a cardboard box and, with Nick in tow, scooped up Sammy’s remains before heading to the backyard for a decent burial.

With shovels in hand we began digging a hole in Nick’s backyard. While we were doing this, his other dog – a Labrador retriever (whose name I did not catch) - kept running up to us with ball in mouth. He would drop it at our feet and jump around until somebody stopped digging long enough to throw the ball.

This dog was in total denial and trying to cope the best way he knew how. Finally, after like the tenth time he did this, I took the ball and said, “Have a little respect. And while you’re at it, let this be a lesson to you: Look both ways before crossing the street.”

He cocked his head and wandered off.

Until that night, I never realized how hard it was to dig a Chihuahua-sized hole in the ground and commented on that fact. At which point somebody else replied, “You think this is hard? Try burying a dead hooker!”
-

= Heavenly Bus Ride =

The last time I rode the public bus, there was an elderly woman in a wheelchair parked near the rear. As the bus zoomed along, she shouted out, “Bus driver, what time will we stop on Buckeye Road?”

“We’re scheduled to stop at 2:10pm, ma’am, but we’re running about five minutes late.”

“What time?”

“About 2:15pm, ma’am, we’re a little behind schedule.”

“What? What did you say?”

At this point, the driver pulled over and said in a louder voice, “About 2:15! That’s when we’ll get to your stop.”

“What? I can’t hear you. What did the driver say?” she answered.

Another passenger then yelled, “He said 2:15, he’s going to be about five minutes late.”

“Better make that ten minutes now,” I dryly added.

As the driver began his journey again, the woman then started reciting a poem to the person sitting nearest her. I don’t know if she wrote it. I hope so, because I’d hate to think it was something that had actually been published. It began…

If there’s stairs to heaven
Please God lead the way
If there’s stairs to heaven
With thee I’ll climb that day

She seemed quite pleased with herself after the recital. My first thought was that she had better hope to hell there’s an elevator because no wheelchair is going to make it up a flight of stairs. And then what’s God going to do when she shows up? Heal her? That’s not His job, that’s Jesus’ job and he’s about 2000 years out of practice.

In the end it may not matter because, if there’s any justice in the universe whatsoever, reciting bad poetry should be grounds enough for eternal damnation.
-

= The Chair Experiment =

I was at a local coffeehouse poetry reading when I noticed a woman sitting in one of the two “comfy” chairs in the corner. On the chair with her was a backpack.

After a while, she got up to get a refill and before she returned this drunk homeless guy wandered in and planted himself in the “comfy” chair. He then proceeded to pass out and remained there for a few hours.

At closing time, the woman who had left the chair and was now sitting at a nearby table got up. When she lifted her backpack the floor was all wet underneath. Apparently, she had a large water bottle in the pack and it wasn’t properly sealed. As we discovered this, the homeless guy awoke and went outside. I looked at the “comfy” chair and saw it, too, was soaking wet.

So, as a goof, I went up to the front counter and told the young barista working there, “I don’t know exactly what happened, but one of your comfy chairs is soaking wet. I know that homeless guy was sitting there but I’m not saying he wet the chair. All I’m saying is it’s all wet and you might want to check it out. You know, just in case.”

Then I left.

When I returned the next afternoon, I saw the comfy chair out by the dumpster. When I went inside, the co-workers were talking amongst themselves saying, “I can’t believe that guy peed in the chair! What’s this world coming to, anyway?”

I piped in with, “I’m pretty sure he didn’t. In fact, I think somebody just spilled water on it. Didn’t you check the chair out before you tossed it?”

No, they hadn’t. Even though you can smell urine from like a mile way, these youngsters apparently held their collective breath before they even got in the vicinity of the chair then carried it out to the dumpster as fast as they could. After all, some homeless bum was sitting in it so it must be urine, right?

Ah, the gullibility of youth.

When I admitted I was just goofing on them, one young lady – all of 21 – shockingly asked, “You were goofing on me?”

It is sometimes fun to goof. It is even more fun when a person’s own prejudices and preconceived notions about others all but assure the goof will be successful.

Since the wind was whipping outside and storm clouds were gathering above, I suggested they might want to think about bringing the chair back in before it began to rain.

“If that chair gets rained on, it’ll be ruined,” I said, “and, at that point, I might as well go out there and pee on it myself.”

For the record, I came thisclose to being banned from the coffeehouse for “inappropriate goofing” or some such. Also for the record: On the night of the incident in question, the homeless guy was banned – for urinating in the chair. Apparently, one of the staff went outside and read him the riot act then told him to never come back. He denied doing it but nobody believed him.

I felt kind of bad for the guy when I heard that. He just wanted a warm place to sleep it off, and then all this happened.
-

= Poetic Shopper =

Joe-Joe the Poet called me one day and asked if I wanted to come over to visit. So I went over to his place and what a sight it was: Papers piled everywhere, intermixed with empty pizza boxes, half-eaten plates of by now unidentifiable food, at least a half dozen ashtrays filled to overflowing, and other bits of life’s flotsam strewn about the studio apartment.

Before I go any further, there are a few things you need to know about Joe-Joe:

He’s manic-depressive.

He’s missing his right leg from the knee down and wears a prosthetic.

He’s a damn good poet.

As it turns out, Joe-Joe was in a manic stage so he started reading me poetry, playing his guitar, smoking a cigarette, offering to make coffee, talking about that time he got banned from an open mike reading for being drunk and throwing a chair at a poet on stage he felt sucked, showing me his medication supply, and trying to fix his broken skateboard – all at the same time.

Suddenly he stopped and said he wanted to go to the grocery store to get a soda and a pack of cigarettes. So he put on his prosthetic leg and off we went.

The store was only a couple of blocks away so we walked there and, once inside, Joe-Joe rushed through the aisles hurly-burly until he saw something in the discount bin. It was a “coaster gun” which, as one might well imagine, is a gun-shaped dispenser that holds ten coasters – you know, the kind you set your drink on so as no to leave stains. When the trigger is pulled, it shoots out a coaster.

“I have to get this,” Joe-Joe excitedly muttered.

He also picked up a can of cola and a pack of Marlboros. As we stepped outside, the security guard at the door took one look at us and said, “Hey, Joe. I see you have both your legs today.”

Joe-Joe didn’t answer and, honestly, I didn’t know what to say to that.

About halfway back, Joe-Joe set his can of soda on the sidewalk and continued walking, saying he had changed his mind about wanting one. Once back at the apartment complex, we passed a woman sitting on the stairs near Joe-Joe’s door. He looked at her and asked if she wanted a cigarette. When she said “Sure!” he gave her the whole pack.

Once inside, Joe-Joe played with the coaster gun for a bit, saying, “At least that trip wasn’t a total waste.”

He smiled when he said that.

Then he invited me to go down the block to the Mexican food restaurant, where he’d buy me dinner.

Not wanting to ruin his manic high, I agreed. People in the grip of mania love to spend money and who am I to argue with that?
-

= Girl A & Girl B =

Here’s the God’s honest truth...

I was dating Girlfriend A for about a month. Then she disappeared for almost a week, seemingly avoiding me. She finally called and broke up with me by phone. It was a very touching way to go about it. She said she had issues, most of which were about sex. She said the medication she was on had killed her sex drive and thought it best we no longer be together because, as she put it, “If I can’t be with you one-hundred percent, I’d rather not be with you at all.”

In my world, these are exactly the kinds of issues two people should discuss if they’re a couple. In her world, I guess it’s better to have hot sex then just beat yourself up over it later. Apparently, this was an ongoing internal struggle, which is why she ran so “hot” and “cold” sex-wise. This led to her feeling she wasn’t “pretty enough” or “smart enough” or “talented enough” to be with me. Not that she ever mentioned any of this in any detail, not counting randomly vague allusions a few times, until that break-up phone call.

But, hey, at least I’m not bitter.

“What about your stuff?” I asked, as a number of her belongings were still at my place. “I’ll come by and get them soon,” she promised. After about a week, I put what she had left – a few books, some shoes, a pair of under panties, and her drawing pad – in a bag and left it in the corner of my bedroom.

Enter Girl B – whom, in short order, started sleeping over. During those nights, my cat – who gets into everything – was locked out of the bedroom.

One afternoon a couple of weeks later, Girl B and I returned from the store and I noticed a pair of under panties on the bedroom floor.

“Hey,” I said, “your under panties are on the floor.”

“Those aren’t mine!” she replied.

She then demanded to know whom I had had over in the last couple of nights, because those under panties hadn’t been there before. I explained about the ex-girlfriend and how I hadn’t spoken with her since that phone call and, as far as I could figure, my cat - who gets into everything - must have pulled those under panties out of the bag and dragged them to where they were found.

I even offered to call the ex- so she could verify the truth, but Girl B said, “I don’t want to talk to her, because if I did all I’d want to ask her is why she wears such goddamn ugly underwear.”

As crazy as my explanation sounded it was the truth and, eventually, Girl B believed me. I don’t know why she did, but I didn’t ask because some things are better left alone.

Not only that, but she stuck around long enough to become Girlfriend B. This has left me in an uncharacteristically good mood which, quite frankly, can be maddening at times.

She has a beauty and grace that is almost painful to look at sometimes. Her eyes smile but can just as easily bite.
-

= Blog Will Eat Itself =

A number of old links (on left side of screen) have been deleted and new ones added. Please check them out.

Curiously, there is now a weblog called The World According to Pete, According to Me, on which some chick has taken it upon herself to comment and riff on whatever it is I might be talking about.

I’ve become a cottage industry of sorts without even trying. I blame the Internet.

I don’t know if I should be amused, angry, or simply track her down and ask her to marry me.

(See “PeteAccordingToMe” link to take a gander.)
-

[]

(That’s all folks… More RANDOM BITS later… Want to post comments? Click on highlighted time listing below any post, then click on individual "Post a Comment" under each post to add.)

2004-12-10T19:13:00.000-08:00

[NEW BREED OF TERROR]

Terrorists may seek to down aircraft by shining powerful lasers into cockpits to blind pilots during approaches, U.S. officials warned in a nationally distributed bulletin.

The memo, sent by the FBI and the Homeland Security Department, says there is evidence that terrorists have explored using lasers as weapons.

According to anonymous government sources, this is just the first of many new weapons that may be used by terrorists in the coming months. A recently leaked memo, detailing other methods of attack, is only now surfacing.

Both high- and low-tech weapons are noted, including…

Terrorist’s Bowler Hat

Made of black felt with a silk inner lining, its rim is inset with a bladed edge stainless steel ring. The bowler hat is weighed for throwing, making terrorism both fashionable and easy. It adds a personal touch to an often inhumanly impersonal act as the wearer can look into the eyes of his target at the moment the head is severed from the body by the thrown bowler hat.

Knock-out Lipstick

A new breed of female terrorist is about to hit U.S. shores and, with the male libido being what it is, there may be no stopping them. Dressed in cut-off jeans and tight t-shirts, these women will be able to infiltrate both airports and stadium rock concerts with just one kiss. Any unsuspecting security guard who falls prey to their wily terrorist ways will be unconscious within seconds, leaving the building he is supposed to be watching wide open to attack.

Suction Cup Climbing Shoes

Terrorists can simply walk up the side of a building, thus bypassing any security checkpoints inside, with suction cup climbing shoes. This also avoids having to hijack a commercial airliner in order to destroy a skyscraper, the method preferred by three out of four terrorists surveyed, which has become nothing but a big pain in the ass since 9/11.

Now, armed with an assortment of explosive devices, a group of terrorists can walk up any edifice and plant bombs. Or, with simple glass-cutting tools, enter it through windows many floors up. Both “black dress shoes” and “sneakers” designs are available so as to fit any occasion.

Helio-coat

Due to the bold implementation of U.S. anti-terrorism measures, the number of both actual and potential terrorists worldwide has precariously dwindled. With the terrorist pool at an all-time low, the option of killing oneself in an attack just isn’t as attractive as it once was. Also, the promise of 77 virgins waiting for you in the great beyond pales in comparison to the thrill of slaughtering innocent people and living to brag about it later.

Thus, the use of the helio-coat.

It looks like a standard coat (both trench- and windbreaker styles offered) until a string is pulled, at which point pressurized canisters of helium fill balloons hidden within. The terrorist then rises up to ten feet in the air, height of ascent varying by body weight, and is carried off by the wind to wreak self-righteous havoc another day.

Vitiligo Pill

Vitiligo is a pigmentation disorder in which melanocytes (the cells that make pigment) in the skin are destroyed. As a result, white patches of skin appear on different parts of the body.

Through research, causal antibodies have been isolated and a pill has been developed which destroys melanocytes more quickly and effectively than any natural disease ever could.

Reportedly, a small supply of these pills have fallen into terrorists’ hands so those of Arabic descent will soon appear as white as any white American thus guaranteeing they will avoid suspicion or detection until it is too late.

Fem-bots

An army of these human-looking female robots have reportedly been developed in both Iran and North Korea. Each is powered by a small amount of weapons grade uranium which, when combined with internal explosives, allows them to be a walking “dirty bomb”.

Terrorist groups have allegedly smuggled fem-bots into the U.S. just in time for the Christmas season. Dressed in traditional Middle Eastern garb, covered from head to foot, these diabolic creations will enter crowded shopping malls and the only indication one is about to self-detonate is when it speaks the phrase, “I look so janky. I wanna be fly. Which way to The Gap?”

Electro-Retrogressor Gun

One zap of this gun will turn the mind of an adult into that of a seven-year old child.

Actually inspired by the TV show Get Smart! and developed by French scientists in the early 1980s, both out of love of scientific pursuit and Jerry Lewis films, it allegedly has already been used once within U.S. borders.

While the incident has widely gone unreported, due to a media blackout, a lone terrorist managed to infiltrate Camp David during a retreat attended by President Bush and key cabinet members several years ago. All in attendance were shot with the electro-retrogressor gun. It may be worth noting that Colin Powell was not at that particular retreat.

The weapon is not one-hundred percent accurate as a small percentage of people are naturally impervious to its effects. Luckily, President Bush must be among that number as no detectable change in his mental aptitude has been seen since the attack.

A paperclip, a match, and a piece of string

With the DVD release of MacGuyer – The Complete First Season on January 25, 2005, online merchant Amazon.com has reported an unusual number of pre-sales coming from the Middle East. The Homeland Security Department is investigating this matter, as any clever terrorist will be able to use MacGuyer’s ingenuity for his own evil purposes. With the information contained in this TV series, it would take just a few seconds to fashion a paperclip, a match and a piece of string into a highly destructive weapon of mass destruction.

It is rumored those buying a copy of the DVD set within the U.S. may be added to the Terrorist Watch List, which means hundreds of thousands of additional names will be added to the two lists - one for people suspected of terrorism, the other for people the government says require additional scrutiny for some other reason – currently used at airports and on cruise ships.

Other future weapons of terrorism are listed in the memo, but the highlights are noted above. Had I reviewed everything listed it would be too overwhelming, so the less you know the better.

If we want to win this War on Terror we must stand firm and not be overwhelmed by too many facts. That’s the American way of life and if that way of life and liberty is to be preserved we must not succumb.

2004-11-28T23:30:00.000-08:00

[CELEBRATING... WORLD AIDS DAY]

Well, December 1 is again World AIDS Day, and I plan to celebrate in the usual manner.

By having unprotected sex with as many women as humanly possible within that 24 hour period.

My personal record, set last year, is five. Technically, though, I might only be able to count four of them as one was my girlfriend. Well, my ex-girlfriend now. She broke up with me on Dec. 2nd of last year, for reasons I still can't explain.

Go figure.

Sometimes, women will come up with, shall we say, "creative reasons" as to why they can't have sex with you.

At least, this is what I've heard from other guys.

Personally, I've never had this problem. I chalk it up to two reasons: my superior technique and humongous manhood. The fact that one former girlfriend gave me the pet name "Pee-Wee" the day after we first made love is, I assure you, purely coincidental. Or maybe it was her way of being ironic. Whatever. I try not to dwell on it.

Yes, women have been known, from time to time, to get creative on the way to the bedroom. And not in a good way. So, in honor of this day, I thought I'd share a few things I've heard (again, from other people) and what one can do to surmount the difficulties.

Now, before I go any further, I'd just let to say that these aren't meant to be gender specific. They are gender interchangeable. I'm writing them as heard from the male point of view because, well... I'm a male. They could just as easily be used by men to get out of having sex.

You know, on that imaginary planet where men actually say 'no' to sex.

But I digress.

1. "I can't have sex with you, because my boyfriend might get mad."

He *might*, might he? You must immediately get conspiratorial on her ass. "I won't tell if you won't tell." Or you could try explaining the virtues of guilt-free sex. Of course, if she happens to have been raised Catholic, you're pretty much screwed with that approach. Or not, as the case may be.

2. "I can't have sex with you because I just joined Alcoholics Anonymous, and I'm not suppose to get into a relationship for at least one year."

The answer to this one is easy. Get her really, really drunk. There might also be some footwork involved here, and a few choice phrases can help. Such as, "Relapse is just another road to recovery." Or asking, "What happened to servicing others?" Whoops, I meant to write "service to others", but you get my point. Then, there's always the possibility of explaining that you don't have to have sex right away, that you two can just take it "one step at a time". Step one: Please remove your shirt and bra. And so on.

Of course, you must be careful because this method could very easily lead to the next 'no sex' reason...

3. "I can't have sex with you, because I'm way too drunk."

I'll drink to that. At this point, you must learn patience. Remember, grasshopper, heavy drinking can often lead to someone passing out. Not that I'm suggesting anything. Remember, this story is for entertainment purposes only. Do not try this at home, kids.

4. "I can't have sex with you, because I'm sleeping with my high school math teacher."

This one was actually said to me. When I was much younger. Obviously. We were both younger than eighteen. Or, at least I was. So I cannot be held legally responsible. I mean, I couldn't have been, if we had had sex. Which we didn't. Really. I swear. I didn't have a good comeback for this excuse then, I still don't now. I simply had to do the math, and realize that, yes, sometimes two plus two does equal five, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

5. "I can't have sex with you... unless you're wearing a condom. Are you wearing a condom?"

Of course, I said "Yes." And I was. Thank god she didn't follow up that first question with, "Where are you wearing it?", because I have a feeling saying "On my big toe" wouldn't have gone over too well. It might even have ruined the moment.

Well, I do hope this has been, as they say, "entertaining and informative". As an aside, just to the men out there, from time to time you might find that, once one of these methods has worked, another problem entirely enters the picture. That is, after like thirty minutes or so you realize things just aren't reaching - shall we say - a "satisfactory conclusion". At that point, you might have to do what I once did. You'll have to fake an orgasm. Its fairly simple. First you moan a little, then yell, "Oh, God!" a couple of times. Most importantly, however, is what you do next. After faking it, you must immediately roll over and go to sleep. See, I'll let you in on a little secret. Many women don't realize that men just want to be held after sex. So they almost expect you to roll over and go to sleep. If you fake it, and then *don't* do this, the jig is pretty much up. So don't forget.

Well, that's about it for this year's advice. Now, I have to go to the store to buy a few things for my big World AIDS Day celebration: a bottle of wine, a block of cheese...oh, and a big ole box of condoms. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Really.

I promise.

Why? Because, as the old saying goes, "There's no lovin' without a condom in the oven." I think that's how it goes. No, wait a minute, I vaguely remember it had something to do with the pot calling the kettle black. Or did it involve too many cooks spoiling the broth? Well, whatever that snappy safe sex slogan might be, you get the jist of it -- the fact is I care. Do you?

[]

2004-11-16T07:38:00.000-08:00

[WAL-MART WORLD]

I finally headed down to the Wal-Mart Supercenter in my neighborhood just to see what all the hoopla was about.

There were no parking spaces near the entrance of the behemoth building so we drove across the great expanse of asphalt and, once parked, hiked our way back in to the west entrance.

Once inside Wal-Mart, I found it a sight to behold. From the shiny white teeth of the greeter at the door to the shiny linoleum floors and the shiny happy people shopping within, it was like the 1964 World’s Fair, a Republican National Convention, and Disneyland – all at insanely discounted prices – rolled into one.

As my friend and I headed down one of the endless upon endless aisles, the oversized signage screamed as we passed…

Always Low Prices, Save – Save – Save, Wow! Check Out This Value and, as if everything wasn’t already priced nickel on the dollar, Super Item! Save Even More.

“How can everything here be so cheap?” I wondered. “Substandard pay and health care benefits for the employees,” my friend replied. God bless America, eh?

Another prominently displayed sign read 200% Satisfaction Guaranteed. Two hundred percent? Now I’m not real good with numbers, but that either implies we’re supposed to shop in pairs – a shopping “buddy system” as it were, like when you’re in the wilderness or lifting weights, so nobody gets lost or hurt – or else somebody in the advertising department needs to go back to community college and brush up on those math skills.

Discounting the impossible percentiles, we moved along to the canned aisles. Canned fruit, canned vegetables, canned meat, canned pasta – everything anybody could ever want for a four-course meal all canned for your convenience. The can openers were thoughtfully displayed at the end of the aisle. Boxed dinners, however, were in another aisle because, after all, mixing cans and boxes only leads to confusion and a ruined meal.

The canned beans were located at the end of another aisle too, the one marked Latino. That’s also where we found the “Wal-Mart Tortilla Supercenter”, a stand-alone display that finally answers the question, “When will tortillas get the respect they deserve?”

Nothing says respect like your own Supercenter.

There was a wide selection of cereal; all the colors of the rainbow were represented. Wal-Mart doesn’t discriminate. If you want something manly like oatmeal you can find it, if you prefer something a little fruitier it’s there too. Both bagged and boxed cereal lined the shelves and free-range cereal was left to roam the aisle.

We soon happened upon the ‘Institutional Sizes’ aisle, for those who think 12oz. of anything just isn’t enough. I suppose they have a point. The last thing I need, or want, is to have my heart set on eating a salad only to find out – oh no! – I’m out of ranch dressing…again! With the 1-gallon tub of buttermilk ranch dressing, it would be many a season before I had to face that horrific day again.

The alcohol section – home of Quality Beer, or so it said – displayed what had to be my favorite sign: Get Drunk for Less!

Ok, I might have made that last one up. Or maybe not.

After trekking a couple of miles, we hit the firearms department. There was a wide selection of rifles, ammo, knives, bb guns, dart guns and paint-ball guns to choose from.

However, there were no handguns. But there was a sign, which read: “No firearm or ammunition sales after 10pm.” Wal-Mart knows it’s customers and it doesn’t want any trouble. At least not after 10pm.

Curiously, the bedding department was located right across the aisle, where one could buy sheets, shams, and feather or foam pillows – which is good, because nothing makes me sleepier than an afternoon spent killing God’s creatures.

I do have one question, though – What’s a sham?

Answer: Wal-Mart.

Haw haw haw! Sorry, just my little attempt at gentrification humor there.

As we headed to the checkout lines, we saw a 40-something woman with her preteen son. As we passed, she muttered, “It seems like we’ve been here forever.”

I stopped to strike up a conversation with the woman and found out that, in fact, she had been.

She first entered the store with her own mother, when she wasn’t much older than her son is now. She later met the man who became her husband at the jewelry counter. Their son was soon born in the Baby Care department. In fact, her mom recently died of a stroke in aisle seven and is now buried in the Garden Department. The family currently resides by fresh produce.

Once in checkout, I scanned the magazines and guess who made the cover of O Magazine again? That damn Oprah! Well, that’s understandable because everybody loves Oprah – especially Oprah. And, in White America, nothing sells like a non-threatening black person. Look what it did for Aunt Jemima.

As we headed toward the west exit, we passed the indoor bank. Just in case you didn’t “Save Save Save” as much as you thought you would, have no fear because there’s an ATM in the building.

We also strolled past a McDonald’s, which I guess is there for those shoppers either too hungry or too lazy to go home and actually cook the food they just bought.

When we got to the door at which we had first entered, it was locked. A new sign posted there read: “These doors locked at 9pm.” It was 9:05 by this time.

As we headed eastward, the shopping cart became heavier and heavier with each passing hour. We eventually exited Wal-Mart and finally made it back to the car just as the sun was rising.

While driving home, we passed by a long-closed building down the road. It was once the small grocery store where I used to shop, owned by a couple that grew old with the neighborhood.

After Wal-Mart opened, the couple’s dreams soon turned to dust. Eventually their bodies turned to dust. The inside of that building is now covered in a thick layer of dust.

It is all dust blowing in the breeze and the only safety to be found is in numbers. The number of products, the number of discounts, and the number of huddled shopping masses gathered inside the monolithic walls of Wal-Mart Supercenter at any given moment some 24 hours a day.

That’s a fact that’s 200% guaranteed -- with little in the way of satisfaction.

2004-07-11T22:14:00.000-07:00

[ADVICE THIS: PRUDENCE VS. PETE]

Just for laffs, I sometimes read the "Dear Prudence" advice column on msn.com's Slate and usually think I can give better advice than that dried up old prune does. Case in point, here's some recent real letters followed by my own answers...

Dear Prudence,
I am a single woman about to turn 30, and my children's father cheated on me five years ago and gave me herpes simplex. I have read up on it completely, and I am well informed about my STD, but what I would love to know is: When is the proper time to tell someone that I have this STD when dating? Should I tell them when first meeting, or wait until they get to know the "real me" and we are going to get intimate, or what? I know there is no third option of "not tell at all" because I pride myself on being honest and letting a man know what he is getting into. If you could please help me, I would greatly appreciate it. Thanks.
-- Perfect Timing

Dear Timing,

First, I admire your strength. Your life has obviously been completely ruined by your ex- and it is a testament to your courage that you're even dating despite the fact most people wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole being as diseased as you are. So hats off for letting yourself be vulnerable and not going for the simple solution - investing in a really good vibrator instead.

There are many approaches to breaking the bad news, here are a few suggestions:

1. As soon as he tells you about his STD. Not before! If he doesn't tell you, assume not only does he have one but must be hiding something - so deserves whatever he gets.

2. When a date gets close enough to the goods to notice the sores. Unless you feel like making up an elaborate and convincing lie, this might be a golden opportunity to tell him the truth about your STD.

3. Somewhere between saying, "Let's do it without a condom" and "Would you like a cigarette now?"

4. The next morning. Precede it by saying something like, "Oh jeez, I knew there was something I wanted to tell you last night. I just remembered what it was!"

5. When your date develops symptoms of his own, but before he goes to the doctor to find out what the hell is going on. If you wait until after he is diagnosed, he'll probably resent you. However, if you tell him before the doctor confirms what you already know then he'll probably appreciate your honesty and forthrightness.

6. Once you get him to marry you. This works even better if you should "accidentally" become pregnant. If you get pregnant and he then marries you, you've bought yourself some time. In that case, within the next nine months would be best. However, if the right moment doesn't come along then you must tell him after the baby is born. You must do it before the kid turns eighteen.

7. Don't tell at all. Yeah, yeah... I read your letter. You pride yourself on being honest. Believe me, you'll get over it. And the best part is... it becomes easier every time you lie. That's the honest truth.

Pete

(For the record, Prudence suggested, "the best time to impart your news would be when you both know you're interested in pursuing the relationship, and it seems likely that the following date might be the time for... Whatever." Yeah, thanks Prudie... That should be a fun date. Whatever? More like... whatever!)
[]

Dear Prudie,
I'm a youngish guy who dates frequently, and I've come to discover something disturbing over the course of my last several dates - namely, that I'm too weird for all the normal women I meet and too normal for all the weird women I meet. What on earth do I do?
-- Stuck in the Middle

Dear Middle,

I'll tell you what you do. You become very bitter and die alone. Have a nice life.

Pete
[]

Dear Prudence,
I have an ethical dilemma that has plagued me for years but has recently become acute. Ten years ago I adopted a cute kitten and now I own a cat I hate. Over the years she has proven to be unbearably needy, a trait I find repellent. Her faults are myriad: a screaming meow that awakens me in the early hours of the morning, an apparent inability to learn the basics of litter-box usage or basic grooming, a tendency to drool when receiving her scant portion of affection, as well as colitis, arthritis, and dandruff. I know these things aren't her fault, but they do make me avoid (neglect) her. And now that I have a baby on the way, I have even less patience for her. Yet the thought of her in a cage at the SPCA, possibly to be abandoned by new owners (in the unlikely event that someone actually took her), leaves me contorted with guilt. Prudie, can you offer me advice - or perhaps absolution?
-- Imprudent Adopter

Dear Adopter,

I'll get right to the point - Do you live near a river? Do you own a burlap sack? If the answers are yes, the solution is right in front of you! If not, I assume you can drive. Ever play softball? If the answers are yes, take your cat for a little ride on the open highway late at night. Get up to about 55mph, roll down the window and release the pitch. Throwing a cat out a car window is much like throwing a softball, with one small exception: The softball usually doesn't scream when you throw it. Don't worry about the cat. No matter how they are dropped or thrown, cats always land on their feet. Believe you me, I've done enough research of my own to know this is true.

As an aside, what I found most disturbing about your letter wasn't the cat but your complaints: She is needy. Her screaming in the early morning hours wakes you up. Her inability to learn the basics of litter-box usage or basic grooming, and a tendency to drool. These traits have caused you to hate and neglect your cat - and now you have a baby on the way?

I hate to tell you this, but this baby is going to be like a big hairless cat on steroids. So, to avoid answering your next letter - "Dear Prudence, how do I get rid of a needy baby?" - I'll simply give you the answer now. Get an abortion as soon as possible.

And then stick with houseplants or goldfish until you grow the fuck up.

Pete
[]

Dear Prudie,
If the married man you're dating promises he is not seeing anyone else, can you trust him?
-- Untrusting

Sure, why not? If he promises he's not seeing anyone else, you can trust him completely.

Ironically, that's the same answer I gave to a letter written last week. The one written by the man's wife.

Pete
[]

Dear Prudence,
My wonderful daughter will be 17 this fall. She is a good student and a gifted athlete. She is a beautiful girl, although in her words "not a Barbie doll type or a girlie girl." She loves makeup and jewelry and enjoys the admiring stares she receives from boys. She also seems to think she is "bi." We have talked about this, but I'm confused about the subject. The big question is: Should I allow her to have girls sleep over if I suspect that she is attracted to one of them? I am a 53-year-old woman with a fairly open mind, but this is a little over my head. Thank you.
-- Questioning Mother

Dear Mother,

Your letter is so hot! In Prudence's answer to you, she noted, "'Fooling around' is now definitely a happening thing with girls - bordering on a fad - and it seems to go beyond what we used to call 'experimenting.'"

I can't say I disagree with Prudie there and I've never been one to knock a fad so I'm not about to start now. Especially if that fad involves two naked chicks getting it on. Lord knows, this world would be a better place if only we had more fads like that.

But, if you're not sure if it's even happening behind your daughter's closed bedroom door, before you say anything to her I'd suggest hiding a video camera in the room the next time there's a sleepover. Then you’ll have some proof. Did I mention how hot I thought your letter was?

Well, I'd give you some more advice but something just popped up that I really really have to take care of. Since you're a 53-year-old woman with a fairly open mind, I'm sure you know what I’m talking about.

Pete

(For the record, in addition to her reassuring "fooling around is a fad" comment, Prudie also passed along an email address for the Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays organization. Ohh-kay!)
[]

(Note: You can now post comments on this blog by simply clicking on the TIME POSTED link at the bottom of each entry. This will pull up the individual entry where you'll see the "Post a Comment" option (& be able to read previously posted comments.) If you don't have a blogger.com acct, use the "post anonymously" option. Just don't do me like George Michael's fans did him -- cuz it's all about the love, babee!!)

2004-07-09T03:34:00.000-07:00

[ HOLY CRAP! I THINK I'M MENOPAUSAL! ]

I was out and about downtown a few evenings back when I stopped in at my favorite coffeehouse and got myself a hot cup of java to go.

No sooner had I continued on my jaunt when I started having hot flashes.

Could it merely be the balmy 99-degree nighttime temperature in July combined with hot coffee -- or was it something else?

That's when a friend commented, "Maybe it’s menopause, dude!"

That was enough to send me into an emotional tailspin I have yet to recover from. I now find myself crying uncontrollably for absolutely no good reason. Oh sweet Jesus, I'm only in my 30s! And a man! Could it really be menopause? Stranger things have happened, you know. The human body is tricky business and doctors don't know everything.

I knew I needed medical answers, but fast, so went to the most reliable source I know:

The Internet.

After polishing off a gallon of Cherry Garcia ice cream, I logged onto womentowomen.com and took the "Hormonal Health Profile" in order to rule out this menopause thing once and for all.

First, What My Body Was Telling Me -

I have hot flashes or night sweats...
What do you think started this whole business? And if I wasn't sweating before, I am now.

I have insomnia or disturbed sleep...
If I can sleep four hours straight, I'm lucky. I find I've been sleeping even less since this menopause business came up.

I feel very tired, especially in the afternoon...
Only when I'm not napping.

I am irritable, sad or depressed...
Please, don't get me started again. I'm barely maintaining now and don't need a statement like this -- it only upsets me further.

I feel that I've gained weight compared to last year...
I know, for a fact, I've gained at least 5 pounds in the last year. Give or take a few pounds.

My interest in sex isn't what it used to be...
Interest? It's been so long, I'd be happy to just remember sex much less show an interest.

I crave sweets, carbohydrates or alcohol...
Im to drnk to ty pe write nOW and too BUsY eyeing that boX of chocolates. Let me gt back to u on this ONe.

I suffer from vaginal dryness...
Finally, a "no" answer! Woo-hoo! There's still hope!

I am forgetful, fuzzy-minded or confused...
I'm sorry, what was that statement again?

I am anxious or have anxiety attacks...
What if this quiz indicates I'm menopausal? Holy crap, what will I do then? Like I don't have enough to worry about! Please God please... help me.

I have tension headaches or migraines...
All the time. Very painful. But it's nothing a handful of aspirin, or one well placed bullet, can't fix.

I feel stiff or achy in my joints, especially in the morning...
"Stiff and Achy" is more or less my motto and way of life.

I sometimes feel overwhelmed or just not myself...
I can't even answer this one. Too overwhelming. I don't even have the energy to try.

Next… What Demands I'm Making of My Body -

Are you being treated for any disease or serious condition?
Not currently; but suspect I'll be treated for menopause quite soon, thank you very much.

Is your work a source of stress for you?
It's work. Duh!

Do you skip meals or follow popular diet plans?
I often skip meals. Or, as I call it, "forgetting to eat." As for popular diets, is fast food considered a "popular diet"? If so, then the answer is a resounding YES.

Do you feel overscheduled and rushed?
What's with all the rapid-fire questioning here? Slow down already!

Are you taking more than one prescription medication?
God, I only wish.

Do you experience a lot of conflict or stress in your relationships?
Only when it gets to the point at which the relationship blows up in my face. So I guess you could say I have "a lot of conflict and stress" at regular intervals... but, otherwise, it's all good.

Do you have caffeine or soft drinks more than once a day?
Not since I started having hot flashes, I don't. I'm no fool.

Have you experienced a major trauma or loss in the last 5 years?
Yeah... it's call "living life". Look it up, pal.

There were some more questions, but I won't bore you with the gory details. Suffice to say, in the end I was rated as being at "Very Severe" risk for menopause.

And it didn't help when I called a gynecologist's office and the receptionist laughed at me.

"But I have the symptoms," I stammered,"and my profile indicates I'm at very severe risk..." before breaking into tears.

If there's a silver lining in all this, I guess it would be... I can have sex without the fear of anybody getting pregnant.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to go cry myself to sleep. I need my four hours, so I can wake up stiff and achy in the morning.

2004-07-05T11:02:00.002-07:00

[ FAHRENHEIT 9/11 -- The Temperature at which Boredom Burns ]

Maybe it was the pre-release hype.

Maybe it was because Bowling for Columbine was so damn good. It had depth and was all-encompassing. It resonated. It had heart.

But I don't rightly know.

When it was all said and done, the last thing I expected this Michael Moore movie to be was... boring.

Moore's anti-Bush opus was too long. It was mostly cinematic shock and awe. The crappy soundtrack music wasn't any less crappy because it was used ironically. The novelty of Bush's infamous non sequitur bushisms, sprinkled throughout the film, wore thin years ago. There wasn't enough of Moore himself doing what he does best - being Michael Moore while interacting with adversarial interviewees.

I guess Moore expected George W. Bush to carry the film. The man is having trouble carrying a country, and carrying on a war, but he expected him to carry this film? Maybe that was his point, but that doesn't mean I have to enjoy watching it.

So what were Moore's other points? Hmmm...

1. War is Bad.

2. Corporations and a few individuals profit from war.

3. People die during wartime.

4. Relatives of the war dead, on both sides, get a tad emotional when their loved ones die.

5. A number of people aren't too fond of President Bush.

6. Michael Moore isn't too fond of President Bush.

Did we really need a film to tell us all that?

Reportedly, Moore's next target will be the U.S. health care system. So you don't have to go see the film when it's released, here's a synopsis:

1. U.S. Health Care is bad.

2. Corporations and a few individuals profit from the U.S. health care system.

3. People die due to an inadequate health care system.

4. Relatives of the dead get a tad emotional when their loved ones die due to inadequate health care.

5. A number of people aren't too fond of U.S. Health Care.

6. Michael Moore isn't too fond of U.S. Health Care.

Think of it as a public service. When Moore's next film comes out, now you can go see Spiderman 3 or the latest Bruce Willis flick instead.

And for those people who make fun of Moore's weight, they've obviously never seen him jump a shark. But now... maybe they have.

2004-06-19T10:43:00.000-07:00

After a brief hiatus, it's the return of Pete's true-life adventures in...

[ RANDOM BITS 13 ]

= The Cat's Meow =

When I got a kitten, a friend told me about the PetSmart store. Now, obviously, I had heard about grocery stores for actual humans but didn't know they now had them for domesticated animals too.

It was a true revelation. I just had to check it out.

In PetSmart, I couldn't help but marvel at all the new-fangled cat toys now available. Beaded balls. Leather mice. Mini-skateboards. A cat Rubik's cube - "No Opposable Thumb Necessary."

Now call me old-fashioned but, in my day, cat toys were cheaper and much simpler.

A crushed beer can or crumpled pack of cigarettes was all a cat needed to have a little fun.

On my way out of PetSmart, I noticed a small display cage on a table near the entrance. It held a black kitten who looked none too pleased with the prospect of spending his days as an impulse buy.

I walked up to the kitten, who then looked up at me and said, "Meow", which, as far as I could figure, roughly translated as, "I was suckling on a nipple and the next thing I knew, I found myself being dragged off and soon had a lot of people gawking at me."

I sympathized with the kitten, having had that happen myself on more occasions that I care to mention.

"Look, pal," I told the kitten, "I feel bad and all, but there’s only so much I can do."

Then, I unlocked the cage and told him if he wanted to escape he was on his own. I couldn’t get involved. It was none of my business. Hey, I just shop here. I don’t need any trouble. Then, I backed away slowly and left him to his own devices. I did all I could do.
[]

= It Was the One-Armed Man! =

The other day I left early for work so I could stop at the convenience store for cigarettes before catching my bus. So I get to Circle-K with plenty of time to spare only to discover there's only one cashier... A one-armed retarded guy.

He had one good arm and the other was a prosthetic with a hook on the end. Now a hook might be great if you're picking up clothes or fighting Peter Pan, but it's not so good if you're working the cash register. Plus, he was retarded.

To slow things down even further, the kids in front of me buying their daily dose of sugar and chemical preservatives were about a dollar short, so this guy starts digging in his own pocket, with his one good hand, to fish out the difference.

Once I finally got to the counter, that was the moment the one-armed retarded guy decided to look around blankly and say to nobody in particular, "Did anybody win the Powerball lottery last night? What were the numbers? Who won?"

Who won?

I'll tell you who won: Who The Fuck Cares, that's who.

This was the point when I saw my bus go by.

Now, I know what you’re saying... "But, Pete, aren't most Circle-K employees retarded?"

That very well may be, I don't rightly know… but I'll tell you this much - if they are, at least they have two good arms.
[]

= Huge Fan =

Recently, I was down at the porn bookstore, just giving the new video releases the once over, when I noticed one of the employees eye-balling me. I kept browsing, trying not to look nervous, when, before too long, this guy walked over to me and sheepishly asked, "Are you Pete?"

Just to see where it was headed, I admitted I was, and he then said, "Oh wow! I love your work. How do you come up with those crazy stories?"

So I told him, "I don't come up with anything. Usually, they come to me. Case in point - this very moment."

He walked away, shaking his head and smiling and I continued on with my browsing.

When I finally made it up to the register with my video purchase in hand, this guy was ready to ring me up. He informed me he was the manager and added, "Pete, you're my hero!"

As if to prove his point, as he rang me up he gave me the 40% off employee discount. It warmed my heart to know all the writing had finally paid off.

So now I'm on the look-out for fans who're managers at fancy restaurants and five-star hotels. Hey, it could happen!
[]

Finally, I leave you with a poem entitled...

= Poetry =

sometimes I’m just not in the mood

to witness poetic gymnastics

especially when

it's of the heartfelt

and depressing variety

so you got your heart broken again

so what

suck it up already

that happened like a week ago

move on. move on.

[]

2004-05-13T00:58:00.000-07:00

[ LOSING YOUR HEAD ]

By now, most everybody has seen or read about the video of Nick Berg, a freelance communications worker from Pennsylvania, speaking briefly before being beheaded by his masked captors in Iraq.

An al Qaeda-linked Web site, on which the video first appeared, said the killing was carried out by Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, a top ally of al Qaeda leader Osama bin Laden.

In a statement on the video, the Al-Zarqawi group claimed to be taking out revenge for the abuse of Iraqi prisoners held by the US military at Abu Ghraib.

Yeah, that makes sense. To avenge Iraqi prisoners abused by the U.S. military, they captured and butchered a civilian to death. That makes about as much sense as when, say, somebody shoots and kills a relative of mine so, "to get revenge", I go out and shoot a few innocent bystanders.

And not only was the reasoning, such as it was, flawed but so was the execution.

Case in point:

If you're going to read a prepared statement, keep it to half a page at most. If you go on and on for like five or six pages, you've lost the audience before the end of page one and anything else you might have to say won't be heard because, by that time, nobody cares! At that point, you have to pull out a real show-stopper to draw the audience back in and anything short of a beheading just won't cut it.

Always read your statement in the native tongue of your target audience. As a rule, the decadent Western World hates subtitles and most people won't even attend the showing of an award-winning foreign film at the local cinema if it hasn't been dubbed in English.

If you're planning to decapitate somebody on camera then, for god's sake, hire a crew member whose job it is specifically to sharpen the knife. The last thing you need is a dull knife when the camera is rolling. It makes the whole production look unprofessional and slows the pace of the entire scene. And who the hell wants to be fucking around with a dull knife when you're cutting somebody's head off?

There should be no cheering after the deed is done. It makes you look arrogant. Nobody likes a terrorist and that goes double for an arrogant terrorist.

And who's idea was this anyway? Abu Musab al-Zarqawi's? Yeah... brilliant plan, you idiot. Allah would be so proud. With the recent, and ongoing, release of prisoner abuse photos, support for the continuing U.S. presence in Iraq was waning domestically and further cemented opposition worldwide. If his plan was to bring his enemy's enemies together, Zarqawi couldn't have come up with a better way to do it. He's also done more to help Bush's re-election prospects than anybody currently in the Bush Administration.

In reaction to this despicable act, President Bush was quoted by CNN as saying, "The actions of the terrorists who executed this man remind us of the nature of a few people who want to stop the advance of freedom in Iraq. Their intention is to shake our will. Their intention is to shake our confidence. Yet by their actions they remind us of how desperately parts of the world need free societies and peaceful societies."

Nothing like a single visceral and emotionally-charged act to rally the troops and give the U.S. president both the justification and resolve to continue an already protracted battle.

In response to this savagely inhuman deed, one can imagine the U.S. retaliating in such a way that makes the WWII bombing of Dresden look like a Fourth of July fireworks celebration by comparison.

Berg had gone to Iraq to work on communication towers and had been missing since April 9. Friends and family members described him as smart, funny and enormously generous. Which makes this another example of a smart person getting screwed when a bunch of stupid people get together to do what they do best -- something barbarically stupid.

2004-04-30T06:43:00.000-07:00

“The sport of hunting is an ancient and honorable activity. Nowadays few people get their food by hunting. It is a wholesome recreation… physically stimulating and full of thrills and excitement. The fun in hunting comes as much from enjoyment of nature and the satisfaction of handling guns skillfully as it does from getting a full bag.” - NRA Hunting Safety Handbook © 1957

[ LOCK & LOAD ]

It was just trying to be honorable. I only wanted a little physical stimulation and maybe some thrills and a bit of excitement. So my friend, Jimmy, and I went out to the desert to do us a little shooting.

We drove out to the middle of nowhere which, as it turned out, was actually still just inside the city limits of Avondale, AZ. Like anybody can tell the difference out there. I mean, come on… It’s Avondale, for chrissake!

So we’re in a river bottom, picking off some cans and bottles and I’m doing real well. I’m hitting at least 80% of what I aim for. Gunplay is kind of like riding a bicycle - once you learn how, you never forget. And I did my fair share of shooting as a youngster. So, like I said, I’m doing real well… until the SWAT team comes over the hill.

Not much crime in Avondale, evidently, as half the force showed up to catch themselves a couple of gun-toting city slickers. They had their assault rifles aimed and pistols drawn just in case, you know, we turned out to be unsavory criminal-types just itching for a fight.

“Spread your arms and get on the ground, or we’ll blow your fucking heads off!”

Now I don’t know about you, but if I had to come up with a list of the “Top Ten Things You Never Want to Hear on a Sunday Afternoon”, that phrase would rank pretty high up on the list.

We were arrested, it was the same old story… You’re out participating in some wholesome recreation and the next thing you know you’re facing a class-six felony for “discharging a weapon within city limits.”

This was pretty much the point at which Jimmy started using the word “sir” a lot. With the exception of old army movies, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it used quite that frequently

We soon found ourselves in the heart of Avondale proper, in separate holding cells at Police HQ.

At some point, Jimmy later told me he heard two cops talking outside his room and one said to the other, “Neither of these guys have criminal records. What are we suppose to do with them?”

Apparently, even with years of training and all that high-tech equipment at their disposal, there are still some crimes that leave the police completely baffled.

We were quickly processed and they cut us loose. On the way out, as I headed down the hall, I asked two cops standing there if there was a public restroom because, as I said to them, “the last thing I need now is to get arrested for urinating in public.” The younger of the two laughed and pointed to a door down the hall. The older, more grizzled, cop was not so amused but then, with so many years on the force, he’s probably heard that line like a million times.

As we exited Police HQ, one of the officers offered to give us a ride back to the car. The police are nothing if not courteous in Avondale, if you’re able to overlook that whole “we’ll blow your fucking heads off” thing.

A few weeks later, we went to our preliminary hearing. The felony had been knocked down to a misdemeanor before we even walked in the door and both of us were now facing six months in jail or up to $2500 in fines. I told the prosecutor I couldn’t afford a lawyer, so would a public defender be provided? He responded that Avondale only provides one once you go to jail, which told me the city wouldn’t be paying to house and feed us any time soon either, it just wanted money. Meanwhile, Jimmy sat there doing the best damn “deer caught in the highlights” impression I have ever seen.

A court date was set. A month later, we talked to the prosecutor and made a deal. About one fourth of the maximum fine with no jail time. And Jimmy had to forfeit the weapon.

To finalize things, we went before a judge. While we were waiting in the court room, a couple of other cases were heard.

The first involved a kid with the Squeakiest Shoes Ever. Before he even walked through the court room doors, we heard him coming. In fact, everybody heard him coming. I don’t know what crime he committed but, with those shoes, it’s not too hard to guess how he got caught. That poor shmuck.

The other case involved a woman arrested for shoplifting. She had stolen a candy bar from the grocery store. The woman had put a few pounds on over the years so if I had any advice for her, it would be this: Next time, lady, try stealing a salad. She was fined $365 for shoplifting. One can only hope the candy in question was a $100,000 Bar.

After talking to the judge, I worked out a payment plan with the court clerk. It’s kind of like making car payments each month, except if you miss a payment it isn’t your car they repossess it’s your life. Other than that, it’s exactly like a car payment.

On the drive home, Jimmy and I passed a billboard for “Shooter’s World”, advertising a big gun sale the following weekend. I suggested to Jimmy that he might want to check it out since he didn’t have a gun anymore. We laughed at my moment of levity and our shared misfortune and marveled at how we had bonded since spending time in the pokey together.

And now we spend our time engaging in less thrilling and exciting wholesome recreational activities.

2004-03-01T18:15:00.000-08:00

[ ALL IS FAIR IN LOVE & PORN ]

1] Nice Girl About Town

I met this nice girl one Saturday night. She was in town for only a few days visiting some mutual friends of ours, before having to go back to school in Chicago to finish getting her second Master's degree.

So we stopped off at the local coffee shop to fuel up on caffeinated courage before heading over a bar called the Bikini Lounge, where we closed the place down at 1AM. (This is Phoenix, where the bars close at 1AM!)

We hung out and made out.

The bad news is... she flew back to Chicago the next day.

The good news is... she's done commercially-available amateur porn, so, technically, I don't have to go to Chicago to see her. I can just rent the video.

2] The Naked Truth

…when the preceding story happened to me, I remember thinking to myself, “Well, I’ll never top this.”

But, as it turns out…

Recently, I got an email from an ex-girlfriend who I hadn’t heard from in years.

Now, just prior to the time we went out, she had gotten new boobs. She was very proud of these boobs. And, having closely inspected them myself, I can’t say as I blame her.

So she emailed me and suggested we catch up via email. But I noticed her email address wasn't yahoo or hotmail or whatever, but a website.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I typed it in, and found out she was now a big porn star out of Los Angeles, with dozens of titles under her belt.

Yes, there was my ex- -- hairy, gooed and strapped for action.

I was impressed. It was a real "Local Girl Makes Good" tale. It warmed my cockles. Or something along those lines.

I had so many questions for her. But at that point, I had a powerful hankering for a cigarette - which is PURELY coincidental, I assure you - but I realized I was out. So I had to go to the store. By the time I got back, I had forgotten my questions.

So, now that I’ve apparently hooked up with not one, but two, porn stars, I’ve got to ask:

Can anybody here top that? Show of hands?

Nobody?

I didn’t think so.

(And if you can... well... congratulations. Now shut the fuck up.)

(If anybody is offended by the preceding, please note both were written “in character.” It is a new character I’m working on, one I like to call Male Chauvinist Guy. Pretty funny, huh?)

2004-02-20T13:40:00.000-08:00

[ AUTHOR IN A BOX ]

Now that Spalding Gray - author, monologist, performance artist and actor - is missing and presumed dead, I thought it time to take another look at his book, Monster in a Box.

I found it on my bookshelf, between my copies of It's Always Something by Gilda Radner and William S. Burrough's Naked Lunch and, in a particularly delusional moment, I began to feel guilty. Why had I placed it there? Why didn't I put it between copies of the latest novels by John Grisham and Al Franken? What the hell was I thinking? Why didn't I at least alphabetize my library, while I still had the chance? Oh dear lord, what have I done? I obviously cursed somebody I didn't even know, by bad book placement, and now look what happened.

And then I started thinking, "Why did this have to happen to Spalding Gray? Why couldn't it have been Limbaugh, or some ghost-writer I've never heard of?"

Before I knew it, I had worked myself up into a frothing, barking frenzy and had to lay down and put a cold compress on my head. I collected my thoughts and reflected.

I had always felt a certain affinity with Gray. He often wrote about the people and events in his own life. So do I. He wrote in a lively, understated humorous style. So do I. He hailed from the New England area. While I don't hail from there, I do speak proper English. In fact, I speak it more better than most people I know. And that's close enough for me.

So I sat in my easychair and went to crack open the book when I realized what I really needed - what would complete my reading pleasure - was a big cup of coffee. Now, luckily, I live right down the street from a coffeehouse. I'm in there all the time, so much so that it's kind of like Cheers but without the beer or commercial breaks. It is so close, in fact, that I jokingly call it my "living room." I remember one Sunday morning, a time of day I'm not usually up much less going for coffee, when I walked in there and none of the "regulars" I knew were there. But the place was packed with some other people who apparently think drinking coffee at 8AM on a weekend is the thing to do, and I'm like, "Who are all these people in my livingroom?"

I frothed and barked but they all ignored me, assuming, of course, I was just another victim of over-caffeination. They had seen it all before and were having no part of it.

Anyway, before reading Monster in a Box, I went down the street and bought myself a cup of coffee.

Printed on the side of the Styrofoam cup was the phrase

WHEN I AM EMPTY PLEASE DISPOSE OF ME PROPERLY

Hey, some days, I know exactly how that cup feels.

While I was there, somebody said to me, "Pete, you're not a 60-watt bulb. You're fluorescent!"

I think it was meant as a compliment.

At least I hope so.

I left with my coffee in hand, and was soon walking back down the street. Again.

By the way, I really need to stop doing that.

But, anyway, there I was walking - just minding my own goddamn business - when a car pulled up to the curb next to me.

The passenger rolled down the window and I saw that the occupants were two transvestites.

Now I don't know about you, but I can spot a guy in a dress from fifty paces.

Sometimes it's the voice, or the hands, or the demeanor or just the way she walks. Or, if he's really really bad at it, the five o'clock shadow gives it away.

So, the transvestite said to me, "Honey, do you want a ride?"

I declined.

She then asked, "Do you want to party with us? We're going to buy some more beer right now."

Yeah, that's what I want to do on a sunny afternoon: Get shit-faced with a couple of half-loaded transvestites.

That always turns out well.

So I made my excuses and soon found myself back home.

Easing back into my chair, I settled down for what I knew was going to be a good read. Before I could make it through the Preface, however, I was distracted by this spu-lunk sound coming from the bathroom. When I turned to look, I saw my cat racing from the bathroom and running into the farthest corner she could find. She looked, wide-eyed and traumatized, back in the direction she had come from. So I got up to investigate.

Monster in a Box would have to wait. Spalding Gray was dead so he wouldn't mind.

I found large puddles of water on the toilet seat, so I went to investigate the cat. There she still sat, in the corner of the room, mewing a sad, pathetic "I've been traumatized" meow. I picked her up and, sure enough, all four paws were wet. I think she had what they term a "close call."

"Keep jumping in water," I told her, "and, sooner or later, you're going to drown." She, of course, ignored me.

That's what cats do. It's expected, so I didn't take it personally. So I left her to her trauma and got back to the book, so I could write this review.

I got to page four, in which Gray wrote, "I mean, I'm kind of a control freak and I like to create my own hells before the real ones get to me. I kind of like to beat hell to hell."

"Sometimes it's hell trying to beat hell," I thought, reflecting on Gray's apparent death. Then I began to think something extraordinarily profound, something which would have both made sense of his tragic suicide and wrapped up my review quite nicely.

One of those pithy phrases that tie together life, death, and the transcendental power of the written word.

But then the phone rang, interrupting my rather profound thought and, by the time I was done with the call, I had forgotten where I was going with it.

And, soon after that, I had some things to do. I didn't have time to finish the book.

So now I'm stuck with a review that doesn't even review a book by a guy who wrote a book about how he couldn't write a book.

Even if nobody else does, I think Spalding Gray would've approved.

2004-02-15T07:49:00.000-08:00

The following is a reprint. I had planned on writing a sugary recounting of my Valentine's Day date but, three days before V.D., the woman whom I thought I was dating informed me that we had, in fact, not been dating -- we were just "getting to know each other." You say po-TAY-to, I say po-TAH-to as the saying goes. Mostly we got to "know each other" by getting naked but, since this is a family weblog, I'll spare you the sticky details.

In the "the more things change, the more they stay the same" department, here's a reprinted tale from last Valentine's...

[ Looking For Love ...or... SWM Seeks SWF Stalker ]

Once again, Valentine's Day came and went, and I was without a date. In the future, instead of asking out somebody whom I barely know, or having friends set me up on a blind date - either of which could lead to what all men fear most, that is, rejection - I've come up with a highly convoluted scheme that, by its very convoluted nature, is sure to work.

According to statistics, an estimated 200,000 Americans are stalked each year. So I ask myself, "Why aren't I one of them?"

Is it me? Am I not worthy of being obsessively followed? Is it something I've said or done? Or not done? Why? Why? Why?

I mean, even David Hasselhoff - star of TV's "Knight Rider" and "Baywatch" not to mention being a 'pop star' in Germany, and only Germany, for God's sake - has had his own stalker. Am I really that much worse than Hasselhoff?

At first I thought maybe it was because I hadn't starred in any crappy TV shows, or the fact I can't sing in the language of love, which, as that damn Hasselhoff has proven, is, in fact, German and not French. Who would've guessed?

But then I realized that Hasselhoff does have an edge, that being that he fills a niche.

So, it's simply a matter of me finding my own 'market niche'.

I can certainly understand that, so I've prepared a little personal ad and questionnaire to help potential candidates applying for my 'stalker' position:

SWM seeks SWF Stalker. Must be resourceful and crafty with a melancholy disposition. Loner type preferred. Ability to follow a person undetected a plus. Desire NOT to kill or maim the person you are stalking a *must*.

If you're with me thus far, and think this might be you, I'm here to tell you it is. Yes, I am saying this directly to you. I'm kind of like NBC's Tom Brokaw. You know, the guy who talks to you directly every evening while supposedly just reporting the news to everybody else? I know the "secret code" too. I know you understand.

Now, to separate the wheat from the chaff, I've prepared a little questionnaire. Please return it, via email, along with a photo of yourself. Clothing is optional.

1. Do you have any stalking experience? If so, who was it and do you know where he is now? If you don't know his present whereabouts, then you're not much of a stalker, now are you? So stop wasting my time and yours.

2. Of these two gifts, which would you prefer to give me: A heart-shaped box filled with chocolates, or a pig's heart stuffed in a cardboard box? If it's the latter, you just might be the girl for me!

3. If we were to have a banal, not to mention boring, conversation about the weather, would you know "in your heart" it was, in fact, a declaration of my love for you? On a related note, do you put special significance on intercepted glances and chance meetings?

4. If you were my stalker, and you found out I was dating another woman, would you: A. Kill me, B. Kill Yourself, or C. Kill us both in a bizarre murder/suicide pact done in such a way so that the "other woman" would be the one to find our bodies.

5. If you were to declare your love for me, and I replied, "Fuck off!", would you take that as: A. a sign that I wanted nothing to do with you whatsoever, or, B. a sign of our developing intimacy because, after all, fucking is part of any healthy and loving relationship.

6. Do you own any firearms? Hunting knives? Other weapons that could be used to fatally injure me? (Hint: the correct answer here is an honest "no".)

7. Do you prefer "primitive" art or postmodern art? (Please note, this question is for psychological evaluation not about art appreciation. So, choose carefully.)

8. If we got into an argument in public, would you: A. Make a big scene, up to and possibly including the point where you got arrested for creating a public disturbance, or, B. Shut down emotionally and wait until we were alone, at which time you'd just beat the living crap out of me? Please remember, I have an aversion to pain and, sometimes, "big scenes" in public can be entertaining for both the participants and unwitting bystanders alike. Now you may answer this question.

9. Are you willing to relocate to Phoenix? Are you willing to do this without telling me, but just start showing up at my work and places I hang out to give me that penetrating stare? Would you then be willing to leave multiple messages on my answering machine, each more crazed and less coherent than the last, until I finally asked you out? Once we went out on a date, would you promise... No, wait, I think I already mentioned the "not killing me" part.

Once all the applications have been spindled, folded and mutilated, I'll make my decision. Just remember, don't delay in sending it as the following rule might apply: First Come, First to Stalk.

"Once Pete finds a suitable candidate", you might be asking yourself, "what does he plan to do next?"

Like any so-called "first date", it could end up one of two ways: Hot and heavy, or dead on arrival. The second option is meant figuratively only.

If, indeed, it does turn "hot and heavy", there's only one problem. My place or hers. See, according to stalking etiquette, mine is out. One doesn't want his stalker knowing where he lives at the beginning of the relationship. After all, I don't want her to think I'm "easy". And her place is out because, quite frankly, I'd have to go there not knowing where the objects, both sharp and blunt, are hidden. So you can see my dilemma.

Now, in an ideal world, after a while her obsession would turn into love. A sick, twisted kind of love perhaps, but then who among us can claim to have anything close to a perfect relationship anyway? Then, I'd have to marry the lady and make an honest stalker out of her. At least in this sort of relationship, I wouldn't have to worry where she was, whom she was with, and what she was doing, when I'm not home - because she'd always be a few feet behind me, following. Or at least fifty feet behind me, if a restraining order becomes necessary.

You might see my extreme attempt to find a date in this manner as nothing more than crazy desperation, but I assure you - in the immortal words of Robert Bardo - "I am not a nut."

Perhaps Bardo wasn't the best person to quote there, what with his stalking and killing actress Rebecca Schaeffer, but, really, it's the sentiment that counts, right?

Yes, I am not a nut, just a sentimental fool for love.

2004-02-01T05:38:00.000-08:00

Bad links deleted, two new film links added and, for news on my whereabouts lately, see "Art For Pete's Sake" link under PETE MEDIA.

And now, our feature presentation...

[ RANDOM BITS 12 ]

The true-life tales of Pete's misadventures...

= SNAKE EYES =

The gambling bug bit my friend, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez, after he won $160 his first afternoon playing blackjack at the Fort McDowell Indian Casino.

Not believing in "beginner's luck", he then decided he was going to return the next day and double his winnings. The day after, he planned to double that and, as The Artist Known As Jake Martinez said so matter-of-factly, "Then I'm heading to Vegas!"

I tried explaining the difference between playing Little League versus Major League baseball but, not being one to follow America's favorite past time, I don't think he caught my allegorical advice.

He thought he'd strike it rich because he had it all worked out.

"It's like the line in that Willie Nelson song," he explained, "'You gotta know when to hold them and know when to roll them...'"

"First of all," I replied, "It's Kenny Rogers, and the line goes 'You gotta know when to hold them and know when to fold them' and, in case you were wondering, the song is called 'The Gambler' not 'That Card Playing Guy'."

Late that night, we were on our way home from Denny's restaurant - which is a gamble in and of itself - when The Artist Known As Jake Martinez decided he needed to stop at the Circle-K convenience store to get some cigarettes.

As he got out of the car, he asked, "Do you have an extra dollar you can loan me?"

"What for?" I asked, although I already suspected the answer.

A long pause was followed by him saying, "I want to buy a soda."

"Great idea," I said, giving him a buck, "I think I'll come in and buy a soda too."

So we both went in. I got a soda. He didn't. Instead, he went straight to the register, got his cigarettes and a $1 lottery ticket. On the way out the door, he noticed the ATM in the store and withdrew $100.

His gambling habit was now officially out of control.

As we pulled out of the parking lot - by this time it was three in the morning - The Artist Known As Jake Martinez suggested, "Let's go buy a deck of cards so I can practice blackjack."

"Where are we going to find a deck of cards at 3AM?"

"Walgreen's is open 24 hours!"

Late the next morning, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez drove off to the casino. Less than 90 minutes later, the phone rang.

It was Jake.

"Dude, do I have any more cash at home?"

In less than an hour and a half, he had gambled away some $260.

I guess he wasn't quite the "Card Playing Guy" he thought he was.

He's since decided to keep his day job. Odds are, he'll keep it for a while. But I'm not placing any bets.
-

= THE UNKINDEST CUT =

Since moving across town, I hadn't visited my regular barber.

I finally got a chance to go back to John the Barber, after several months of being shorn by bad hair butchers.

John the Barber has been in the same location for close to thirty years. When the now 70-something first opened shop, it cost only $3.50 for a cut.

He still charges $3.50 a head.

Obviously, his is a volume business.

He works alone - one chair, some waiting. But the usual assortment of up to a half dozen customers at any given moment don't mind the wait, surrounded as they are by walls lovingly stained yellow by time and a wide assortment of magazines stacked high with some dating back decades. They know John is methodically slow paced but that the final result is well worth the wait.

And, anyway, what the hell do you want for $3.50? You get the haircut. In fact, you get them all cut if that's what you request. As a free bonus, first you get a scalp massage with one of those bulky old-fashioned handheld massagers and, afterwards, a splash of witch hazel.

So, now that I’ve properly set the scene, evoked a mood if you will, and all that literary crap us writerly-types have a bad habit of foisting upon the unsuspecting reader, let’s get to that climatic “jarring conclusion.”

So I arrived, my follicles all a’ quiver with anticipation, when I noticed the sign outside now read “Jerry’s Barber Shop”.

That’s never a good sign.

I entered to find the walls had been freshly painted white; all the magazines were gone and had been replaced with the latest issues of ‘Sports Illustrated’ and ‘Maxim’.

John was nowhere to be seen, but both Rashid and Tony were at the ready to cut my hair.

“Where’s John?” I asked.

Tony replied, “He’s dead.”

Needless to say, it was a bittersweet haircut.

Just the cut - no massage, no witch hazel.

Two chairs, no waiting.

Only eight bucks.
-

= TRUTH IN ADVERTISING =

Fast food chain Jack in the Box is really pushing the chicken breast strips these days. Both the menu and store windows are plastered with four-color posters announcing:

“Chicken Breast Strips - Real. Bigger.”

I don’t know how successful this has been in selling chicken, but it would make one heck of a slogan for t-shirts worn by women with naturally bodacious Ta-Tas.

I’m just saying.
-

= CHICAGO’S FINEST… NOT =

The last time I was at Denny’s restaurant with a friend, he ordered the “mini burgers”, which is a tastefully arranged plateful of small, square hamburgers.

A ‘White Castle’ by any other name, as those from the Midwestern U.S. - and the Chicago land area, specifically - will know.

When my friend got his food and tasted the first faux Castle, I asked how it tasted.

“It’s good,” he answered.

“I’ll assume you’ve never been to Chicago,” I replied.

He hadn’t.

See, I’m originally from Chicago. While I admittedly moved to Arizona while still quite young, I have gone back to visit relatives from time to time.

Whenever visiting Chicago, there are three favorites one always tries to consume:

3) Italian beef sandwiches

2) pizza

1) White Castles

Not knowing the culinary joy that is a White Castle, my friend was satisfied with this cheap “mini burger” imitation.

“Listen,” I told him, “I’ve seen the White Castle; I’ve eaten the White Castle; and that, my friend, is no White Castle!”

Needless to say, the rest of the meal turned rather partisan. The “White Castler” on one side, the “Mini Burgermeister” on the other - and nobody crossed party lines. Not even for the salt shaker.
-

2003-10-26T12:00:00.000-08:00

Here's a true-life "ghost story" of mine, just in time for that holiday coming up... Halloween, I think it's called?
-

[ You're Not Afraid of Your Ole Grandma, Are You? ]

My grandmother died in her home at age 78. Up until a few days before her death, she had been in fine health for a woman her age. Then she started complaining of stomach pain, what she called "a burning feeling". She had visited a doctor, who gave her something for her stomach and had scheduled a follow-up visit for the following Monday morning. (Her visit was on a Friday.)

When Monday morning came around, as she got dressed to go to the doctor, she suddenly announced, "I'm having trouble breathing." My grandfather called 911, but before the ambulance got there she laid back on the bed, waving her hand slowly at my grandfather (as if to wave 'goodbye'), and went limp.

The ambulance arrived moments later, but it was too late. She died of heart failure.

Months later, she came to me in a dream. I dreamed I was laying in bed, when suddenly, in a cork-screw like clockwise motion, my grandmother came down head first from the ceiling. Only the top half of her body had come through, but because of the disproportional way dreams are sometimes, as she looked down at me her nose was mere inches from mine. She wore a blue flower-print house dress, one I hadn't seen in years but immediately recognized as one she had favored for many years when I was a child. She was aglow with an inner light. She softly said, "Remember that I love you, and that everything is going to work out." And with that, she spun counter clockwise back up into the ceiling.

I awoke and thought to myself, "Whoa".

A few weeks after that, I was settling down for a night at my grandfather's house. Yes, the same house my grandmother had died in. Staying in the guest room, the night began to drag on as I had trouble falling asleep. As minutes stretched into hours I listened to the radio. After awhile, the radio clicked off (it was on a timer). Soon the quiet night sounds were all one could hear. I began to relax.

Then, I heard my grandfather (whose bedroom was directly across the hall, to my left) get out of bed and shuffle off into the bathroom. (It is attached to his master bedroom.)

At that moment, something both wonderous and scary happened. Looking at the wall directly in front of me, as my head was slightly elevated by two pillows under it, I saw my grandma walk into the room. She came through the wall and the bookshelves mounted on the wall, and continued to the left side of the bed - the bed I was laying in! Again, she was aglow from within, although now I could see the room directly behind her by looking through her. She wore the same blue flower-print dress as in the dream. Standing next to the bed, she looked down at me and smiled. At the same time, she laid her hands on mine (mine being folded across my chest at the time). Then she bent over and kissed me on the cheek. No, it didn't feel it but as she started downward I saw her lips pucker (in a pecking kiss way) and by looking down I could see the blurry glow stop just at my cheek. Then, she stood back up and smiled again.

At that moment, I heard the toilet flush in my grandfather's bathroom. Evidently, he had finished his business. And the weird thing is, my grandma heard it too. As the toilet started to flush, she turned and looked directly into my grandfather's bedroom. She then looked back at me, turned back towards the wall she had entered from and walked away. As I again heard the shuffle of my grandfather's feet from across the hall, my ghostly grandma continued on her way and disappeared back through the wall whence she came.

I snapped out of bed, flung the lights on, and spent much of those early morning hours telling my grandfather what I saw and just wondering. Like I said before, it was both wonderous and a little spooky. My grandfather, at one point, commented, "She never visits me."

But it doesn't end there. A few days later, grandma came to me in a dream again. I dreamt I was laying in the guest room bed at my grandfather's house. I dreamt I looked over into his bedroom and saw his lights were on. He was laying on the right side of his bed, asleep. Sitting next to him, on the left side of the bed and fully awake, was my grandma. "Oh no," I thought to my dreamself, "not again." I looked down for a second, then looked across the hallway again. Now my grandfather was asleep on the left side of his bed and, you guessed it, my grandma was sitting on the right side still looking at me.

"Come here, Peter." she said.

"Maybe you should come here," I replied.

"Now, now... You're not afraid of your ole Grandma, are you?"

With that, she floated towards me. I noticed the end of the dress ended in a bit of blue mist, there were no legs per se. Not like in the real visit days earlier, where she looked complete (though a bit transluscent).

Stopping at the doorway of the guest bedroom, she said, "I want you to tell your grandpa something for me. I want you to tell him I visit him all the time, he just doesn't remember it like you do."

With that I awoke.

When I told my grandfather the next day, he got misty eyed.

Then, he smiled.

[]

2003-10-01T00:32:00.000-07:00

[ MY NAME IS PETE...AND I AM A PROUD SLUT! ]

Some months ago, I started putting my words online, in the hope that, after a year or so, I'd have around 125 pages worth of short pieces that could then be published in book form. However, after only eight months, I found myself with closer to 200 pages, so have been spending time editing it down to a reasonable amount.

This process can get a bit tedious so, to blow off some steam one evening, I decided to write something a little different - Erotic Fiction. Now I've been blessed with the ability to write in almost any style if I read enough of that style. Give me a few westerns and I can pen a rootin' tootin' cowboy tale. Let me read Raymond Chandler and Jim Thompson and I'll give you a gritty piece of 1940s pulp fiction.

However, almost all erotic fiction is either written from the man's point-of-view or is merely a third-person blow by blow account. I wanted more of a challenge. So, using a female pen name, I decided to write a "hot sex story" as experienced, and described, from the woman's point-of-view. Not being a woman myself, obviously, I had to fake it. With that last sentence, there's probably a clever line I could insert here involving "woman" and "faking it" but -- oh god! oh god! oh god! -- I can't think of one at the moment. So let's move on, shall we?

I submitted my finished "hot sex story" to literotica.com and within 24 hours of it appearing on-site I received fifty feedback emails.

Forty-four responses from men, six from women.

So what did the readers conclude about this supposed alleged woman author?

1. They weren't sure if the story was completely fictional or a "true confession" but, citing the specific details I used, a majority thought it was a true story.

2. They found it refreshing to read a story by a woman who was a slut and proud to be one. Yes, my real name is Pete... and I'm a proud slut.

3. Nobody knew what I looked like but, after reading my story, they were sure about one thing - I must be one really really hot-looking chick.

4. Everybody enjoyed masturbating to my story. The male and female readers alike. But here's the difference...

The men's comments were crude and obvious. It's like, hey, buddy - thanks for telling me just how hard you got and how many times in a row you jerked off while reading, but that's probably a little too much information.

In comparison, the women's comments were much more eloquent, something along the lines of, "I read your story and you can guess where MY hand was!"

So what did I learn from this little literary experiment? Mostly I learned first-hand what a lot of women have to put up with every day when it comes to men.

Even women who don't write erotic fiction.

So, on behalf on the male gender, I'd like to say this to the ladies reading now:

I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. We men are idiots. We're crude and obvious and just don't know any better. Please forgive us, we know not what we do.

Also, thank you - thank you from the bottom of our hearts - for actually having sex with us from time to time and for loving us despite all our faults. Sometimes, we men just don't realize how lucky we are.

We'll try to do better in the future but, since we ARE men, please don't expect too much.

2003-09-27T00:52:00.000-07:00

This boy is BACK in blog-town with so many true tales... and so little time. Oh what an interesting life Pete must lead. Ha ha.

This is Part 10 in a continuing series...

[ RANDOM BITS X ]

= What Kids Know =

One afternoon, my friend, Rex, and his 6-year old daughter were walking hand-in-hand down the street.

Soon, two men - also walking hand-in-hand - passed them. The little girl took this in as she and her dad continued along.

A few minutes later, another man walked past them. He was alone.

After the man went by, Rex's daughter looked up at him and said, "Daddy, that man was all by himself. Was he sad because he doesn't have somebody to love him too?"
-

= Mind Your Age =

Last Sunday, I was working with this 20something guy up at a local church. I immediately noticed he had "love" and "hate" tattooed across the fingers of his respective hands. So, of course, I asked him what was up with that.

He explained he had once seen it in a movie and liked the way it looked. It looked "cool". The movie in question was the original "Blues Brothers".

I then asked if he had ever seen "Night of the Hunter." He said no, and wanted to know what that had to do with anything.

(The last paragraph marks the end of the "Obscure Pop Culture Reference" Humor section of this story.)

In any case, he showed up to work - at a church, mind you - wearing a heavy metal t-shirt which read "Zombie" (with appropriately undead face) on the front, and the phrase "Bring Out Your Dead" on the back.

Not exactly church-worthy and, had it been anybody else, I would've thought he was just being a smart ass.

But, as it turns out, he just grabbed the first clean shirt he saw that morning.

To put it all in perspective: He was telling me how he had been tested and it had determined that he had the mental capacity of a 14-year old.

Somebody else pointed out that the test had said he had the mental capacity of a 10-year old, to which he replied, "Yeah... but I took that test FOUR YEARS ago!"

It's something to think about. . . sometimes!
-

= Traveling Light =

I recently moved. During the big move, a friend of mine was helping me when he came across a stack of newspapers.

"Garbage?" he asked of the two feet high, neatly stacked, pile.

"No," I said, "those are all the 'Travel' sections out of the Sunday paper I've collected over the last few years."

He looked completely flummoxed. "What do you need those for?" he said.

"I might want to take a trip some day," I answered.
-

= Fone Fun =

I recently moved. I think that was pretty much established in the last story.

Part of that "moving experience" was getting the new phone turned on. When my business partner (I now live in a combination public art gallery/live-in space)called to get the service, he jotted down the new number.

I didn't copy it down.

So, the day the new phone was turned on, I started calling everybody I knew. I figured somebody I knew had Caller ID and, therefore, would be able to tell me my new phone number.

Not as many people have Caller ID as you might think. For example, I know at least six people who don't.

And one who does.

I guess you learn something new every day. I learned two things that day:

1. Caller ID isn't as popular as the phone company makes it out to be.

2. My new phone number.
-

= Nice Girl About Town =

I met this nice girl one Saturday night. She was in town for only a few days visiting some mutual friends of ours, before having to go back to school in Chicago to finish getting her second Master's degree.

So we stopped off at the local coffee shop to fuel up on caffeinated courage before heading over a bar called the Bikini Lounge, where we closed the place down at 1AM. (This IS Phoenix, where the bars close at 1AM!)

We hung out and made out.

The bad news is... she flew back to Chicago the next day.

The good news is... she's done amateur porn, so, technically, I don't have to go to Chicago to see her. I can just rent the video.
-

= Just Married? =

My mother called me the other night to tell me my younger brother is getting married in April.

Now, my brother is notorious for NEVER calling the family, so when my mom saw his phone number come up on the Caller ID - obviously, being one of the few people WITH Caller ID - she said her first thought was, "Oh crap! What happened?!?"

"Oh crap" indeed. He's getting married, that's what happened.

For the full effect of this nuptial announcement, let me paint you a little picture.

Be warned - the picture isn't pretty.

My three older cousins were all married, in chronological order from oldest to youngest, over the last ten years. So it was more or less expected that *I* would be next.

Apparently, my younger brother has thrown a monkey wrench into THAT plan.

The balance of the universe has now been knocked out of whack by his pre-emptive marital plans.

The only way to restore order to the cosmos? I have to get married and quick.

Anybody want to get married?

The only stipulation is that we have to get hitched BEFORE April 3rd of this year.

If there are no takers, and I don't get married first, don't come bellyaching to me if the universe blinks out of existence as a result.
-

2003-09-10T10:53:00.000-07:00

[ WHERE'S PETE? ]

Some of you may have been asking yourselves,"Where's Pete been?"

Here's the answer.

Pete has been spending most days visiting his computer at the hospital. It seems that no-good computer went out and had "unprotected download" and caught itself a life-threatening virus.

Now the computer locks up after a few minutes when online, so downloading the life-saving anti-virus program is impossible.

Pete and his computer are barely talking after this betrayal. There are bad feelings all the way around, I suppose.

As soon as Pete can afford it, he'll have to take his computer to a specialist. Or a cyber-witch doctor.

In the meantime, Pete visits the public library from time to time and checks his email. But it's not nearly enough time to write proper articles for the blog. Many of his pieces require a certain amount of research (if for no other reason than for "fact-checking"), hence, the lack of publishing as of late.

Also, Pete got himself a business partner and the two of them have leased an art gallery space in beautiful downtown Phoenix. The space needs a lot of work before officially opening.

It was pretty trashed out. Graffiti on the walls, overturned furniture, and a whole shitload of trash. Evidently, from the used syringes and stash of dope we found, some of the old tenants were junkies.

However, we also found about six dollars in spare change littered about -- so, obviously, they weren't very good junkies. If they had been, there wouldn't have been dime one left.

But the place is now clean and newly painted. However, much work remains.

In other news, Pete has been reading his work (much of which has previously appeared on-blog) at a local coffeehouse on Thursday nights. If you live in Phoenix, and want more details, please email Pete. As soon as he visits the library again he'll reply. He promises.

In any case, here's a little something to tide you over. Pete will try to post something once a week until he moves (it's a live-in gallery space) on October 1 and, hopefully, by that time the computer will be feeling better too.

2003-08-08T00:43:00.000-07:00

'Como Mira el Mundo de Pete' presents...

[ TROUBLE IN MEXICO ]

Recently, my friend, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez, got it into his head that he needed a wife – and needed one right now.

The next thing I knew, he’d made plans to visit his relatives in Juarez, Mexico, as part of a sketchy “arranged marriage” scheme the family had concocted.

Personally, I didn’t get it, but then, I’m a white boy, so what the hell do I know? “It must be a cultural thing,” I thought, and who am I to question another man’s culture.

A few days before he left, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez invited me to tag along at, as it turns out, the urging of his mom.

“Uh-oh,” I thought, “I think I’m about the be hoodwinked,” figuring they had found a bride for Jake but that she had a sister, and this was some sort of “2-for-1” deal – if one sister got married, the other had to get married too.

I was about to become marital collateral damage.

But I didn’t question it – another man’s culture and all that – and, anyway, I had been rather uninspired lately, so decided nothing said “inspiration” like going to another country, especially one in which I don’t speak the language.

So off we went – The Artist Known As Jake Martinez, his 67-year old mom, and myself. During the seven-hour drive, I asked his mom why she never remarried after her husband had died.

Jake’s mom – or, as I call her, The Mom Known As Widow Martinez – replied, “Too many problems with being married.”

Insert ironic pause here, as we continued on our way to find her son a wife.

After a long drive, we reached the border and drove into Juarez. It was nighttime, and the first thing we saw roaming the streets was a pack of wild dogs.

The second thing we saw roaming the streets: A pack of wild prostitutes.

After dropping The Mom Known As Widow Martinez off at the relatives, Jake and I got a room at Hotel Manport (which is quite different from the similarly named, but much classier, Hotel Villa Manport.)

Sometimes hotels go that extra mile with customer service, offering things like a free continental breakfast. It soon became apparent that this hotel, too, took customer service very seriously, when the desk clerk asked, “Quieres chicas?” Not so much with the food here, but if you’re hungry for a little lovin’… yowza! Or, as they say in Mexico, “La Yowza!”

Unlike those breakfasts, the girls were not free. It was $50 a pop for a “massage”. The sounded fair to The Artist Known As Jake Martinez, until I patiently explained a few things. See, you can’t pull one over on a guy who once had a girlfriend that ran the old “motel massage” con. Yeah, sure, its $50 for the massage, but it’ll cost extra if you want any specific part of your body “massaged”, if you know what I mean. Then there’s the fact, at least with my ex-, that she’d collect the flat rate and any extra money and, then, before getting started, tell the ‘mark’ she had to go tell her driver how long she’d be. Once she came out to the parking lot that was the point at which we’d drive off. Another job well done. Like who was the poor sap going to file a complaint with? You know, stupidity isn’t a crime. Maybe it should be but, thank god, it hasn’t been outlawed yet.

Needless to say, we passed on the massages.

Instead, we decided to go out and get a bite to eat.

“What do you want to eat?” Jake asked me.

“Mexican food,” I replied, “or, as they call it here, ‘food’.”

Upon our return to the hotel, we got ready to crash and, right before I went to bed, I filled my courtesy water cup from the tap.

“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.” Jake warned.

He filled his cup at the bottled water cooler down the hall.

But me, I had to prove a point. Always with the points, I am.

And besides, I thought the “don’t drink the water” bit was just an urban legend. Kind of like the pet alligators flushed down the toilets in New York City; now fully grown and living in the sewers.

The next morning, during one of my many contemplative moments on the porcelain altar, I realized that some urban legends might have a basis in fact.

Note to Self: If ever in New York City, stay out of the sewers if you know what’s good for you.

As dawn broke over Juarez, I could see the largest mountain on the outskirts of the city from the hotel balcony.

People had piled big white rocks on its side, which read: “Juarez – Biblia es la verdad. Lealo.”

Translation: “Juarez – The Bible is the Truth. Read it.”

Like I want a mountain giving me spiritual advice.

That mountain should mind its own goddamn business!

Later in the day, we had lunch with the family at a storefront restaurant located in an open market cum swap meet. It was a motley collection of shacks selling a little bit of everything, but mostly name-brand sneakers, Levis, and televisions.

When ordering, I asked for a Coca-Cola and had a quintessential Tarantinoesque moment when the waiter asked, “Coca normal (regular coke) or Coca Light (diet coke)?”

I guess what they say is true: It IS the little differences.

Other little differences: Street vendors sold cigarettes out of modified suitcases - by the carton, pack, or individually. Shoeshine booths dotted the urban landscape. People were lined up outside more than a few of the small storefronts selling lottery tickets because, after all, the National Lottery jackpot was up to a cool 9 million pesos. The public bus system consisted of a fleet of old school buses repainted blue or green. Also, in addition to regular combustible-engine cabs, there were horse-drawn carts to get around town in. I can't emphasize the horses enough. This is what they call "foreshadowing" in writers' workshops.

After parting with the family a few hours later, we returned to the hotel and rested until the sun went down. That evening, we started walking back toward the border, looking for a bar to frequent. As we approached the border, the sidewalks became more broken and the prostitutes more plentiful.

“How about that bar?” Jake asked repeatedly, pointing here and there, until I finally said, “I’ll know it when I see it.”

Finally, I saw it: Club Delicias. By far the seediest bar on the strip.

When I suggested going in, Jake said, “I don’t know, dude. I have a bad feeling about that place.”

“Don’t you like ‘dangerous and intense’?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, “but not THAT dangerous and intense.”

So we headed back in the other direction and, eventually, found a nice bar. We had a drink. Back outside, I met a nice girl on the streets of Juarez.

She was dressed rather provocatively for a Tuesday night, and just happened to be standing on the corner when I walked by.

She looked a little lonely, so I chatted her up. I’m not too good with introductions, so I said the first thing that came to mind.

“So, what do you do for a living?” I asked.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

I got to know that nice girl rather well and quickly, at least in part.

Mostly the mouth part.

She had a $30 smile, but I talked her into going down to $20.

Soon we were both smiling.

Oh, yeah… baby!

That night I slept like a baby. I wasn’t just exhausted – I literally felt drained.

During my nocturnal slumber, I dreamt of horses. This is the part of the story where all that previous foreshadowing really pays off. So pay attention.

I dreamt I was sitting on the couch in a living room of a house. In a chair, directly across the room, was a brown-haired girl.

Standing between us was a horse. It was a talking horse, just like TV’s Mr. Ed, and he was saying, “I know you two plan to send me out to pasture. We won’t be having any of that.”

The horse was highly agitated, stomping his hooves as if to make a point, his mane whipped to and fro and he galloped slowly about the room.

Looking at the girl, and then at the horse, I said, “I think we could all use a drink.”

“I’ll have a scotch,” the girl said.

“Me too,” the horse added, “and make mine a double.”

I got up to get the drinks and motioned to the girl to follow. On the way to the kitchen, I whispered to her, “Get the gun.”

While I was pouring the drinks, the girl started looking for the gun in the bottom cabinet drawer.

Just as she began to pull it out, I heard the all too familiar “clomp, clomp, clomp” of the horse, as it raced into the kitchen.

Before the girl could turn and shoot the horse was on her. It raised its front end and brought its front legs down on her back.

The horse trampled the girl to death within seconds. Then, he turned to me and said; “Now we’ve got a problem…Wil-bur!”

I woke up, with a start, back in the Juarez hotel room. It was already high noon at that point.

Walking the dilapidated streets of Juarez once again, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez and I found ourselves at the entrance of ‘Illusion Tattoo’. The tattoo shop was owned by a rather friendly Mexican biker who, as it turned out, had spent his formative years in Juarez before relocating to El Paso, Texas, for a period.

He had recently moved back to Juarez, and opened this business, after – as he put it – “getting into a bit of trouble” in the States and being deported.

I didn’t ask for details. Some things are better left unsaid.

So I got a tattoo. Everybody had warned me how painful it would be, but it wasn’t. It stung a bit but was nowhere near hurt. Mostly it made me kind of sleepy. But that might’ve had more to do with having to sit stationary in a chair for over an hour than getting the tattoo itself.

Afterwards, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez and I drove over to his aunt’s house for dinner. Much of the family was there when we arrived.

Shortly after our arrival, Jake’s mom took me aside and asked what we had done the night before. “You two didn’t pick up any girls, did you?” she asked. No. No, ma’am. Not exactly.

A fine meal of ‘chicken mole’, pink rice and tortillas was soon served. When eating, I held the tortilla in my hand and filled it with the chicken mole and rice. Then I rolled it up and ate it.

The Mom Known As Widow Martinez watched me, beaming, and commented, “You eat like a Mexican!”

She seemed quite pleased by this.

Then, all eyes turned to Jake. He was really shoveling the grub in – eating like a no-good Ugly American!

Late that night, we left the beautiful city of Juarez.

At the border crossing, the guard nonchalantly asked, “Any fruit or vegetables to declare?” and when we answered in the negative, he waved us through. No interrogation. No vehicle search. Nada.

As we passed back onto U.S. soil, the 67-year old Mom Known as Widow Martinez jokingly said, “We could’ve brought 30 pounds of cocaine back with us!”

Old people are often very wise.

In the end, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez didn’t find a bride. His family had a girl all picked out for him about a year ago, but he wasn’t ready then. She evidently got tired of waiting and found herself another sucker… whoops, I mean groom. An American boy who then brought her to the States. Now that Jake is ready, as his thirtieth birthday approaches, it seems it’s slim pickings in Juarez as far as suitable brides go.

We never got out much further than a few miles from the U.S.-Mexico border, but had a nice time in Juarez all the same.

Saw the sights.

Drank the water.

Got the tattoo.

In other words, the usual things one does when in Mexico.

2003-08-04T02:42:00.000-07:00

[ MEXICO OR BUST ]

I've been feeling uninspired lately. Sometimes, in such situations, you just have to say, "Fuck it!" and... GO!

So I'm leaving the country and making a run for the border. Nothing says "inspiration" like going to another country, one in which you don't speak the language.

Barring any drunken mishaps, or calamities that end at a Mexican jail, I should be back around the end of this week.

Hopefully I'll return full of "wacky foreign country" true tales to share.

Until then... Adios!

2003-07-28T14:16:00.000-07:00

[ BOB HOPE IS DEAD. AGAIN. ]

Bob Hope, the comedian whose daring personality and ski-sloped nose made him an icon of 20th-century entertainment, has died. He was 100.

Hope died at 9:28 p.m. Sunday (12:28 a.m. Monday ET) at his home in Toluca Lake, north of Hollywood, his publicist, Ward Grant, said. His death came less than two months after his 100th birthday, which was celebrated May 29.

This is the second time in the last few years in which Hope's death has been reported.

In 1998, news of Hope's death was prematurely reported. The story broke late in the afternoon and many news outlets carried it early the next morning. It was quickly retracted after Hope made a public appearance, to demonstrate he was still moving and could speak, saying, "See, I'm not dead!"

He then tossed off a few forgettable quips about 'not being dead', which the gathered journalists politely laughed at, mostly because - quite honestly - they were just relieved to see Hope wasn't dead.

As it turned out that last time, it was only his tired one-liners that had died.

Like that was news to anybody.

But Hope himself was still very much alive at that time.

According to his publicist, Hope plans to stay dead this time.

Reportedly, Hope's corpse - along with the recently expired comedian Buddy Hackett, singer June Carter Cash, and actors Buddy Ebsen and Katharine Hepburn - will soon headline a new stage tour in the Middle East, reaffirming his title as "Mr. Entertainment" even in death, to bring laughter to military personnel in the region.

"This new tour will be great for the troops," a U.S. military spokesman was quoted as saying, "since so many of them have been dying lately too. So they certainly understand the loss of Hope."

[]

THIS JUST IN... Bob Hope is STILL dead. Check back for the latest updates in this continuing story!

2003-07-17T01:52:00.000-07:00

[ RANDOM BITS 9 ]

The latest in our monthly series of "shocking true tales" of Pete with which to "titillate and entertain" the readers...

= Girls Gone Wild =

So I was walking down the street. Again.

By the way, I really need to stop doing that.

But, anyway, there I was walking - just minding my own goddamn business - when a car pulled up to the curb next to me.

The passenger rolled down the window and I saw that the occupants were two transvestites.

Now I don't know about you, but I can spot a guy in a dress from fifty paces.

Sometimes it's the voice, or the hands, or the demeanor or just the way she walks. Or, if he's really really bad at it, the five o'clock shadow gives it away.

So, the transvestite said to me, "Honey, do you want a ride?"

I politely declined.

She then asked, "Do you want to party with us? We're going to buy some more beer right now."

Yeah, that's what I want to do on a Sunday afternoon: Get shit-faced with a couple of half-loaded transvestites.

That always turns out well.
-

= Homeless Wisdom =

I was talking to this homeless man, when he stated matter-of-factly, "It's a thin line between caution and paranoia."

So I thanked him for sharing his profound wisdom.

And then... I killed him.
-

= Presto Change-O =

It was finally time to do something with that big jar full of spare change, so I ventured down to the local supermarket to run it all through the "Coin*Star"(tm) machine.

I'm much too lazy to roll the coins myself and the machine does pay eighty-cents on the dollar, so off I went.

After shoveling all my coinage into the "Coin*Star"(tm), it printed out a receipt for the twenty dollars I was then owed.

I took the receipt to the checkout line and after doing whatever it is cashiers do, the lady asked me how I wanted that.

"What do you mean," I said, "how do I want that?"

"Do you want a twenty dollar bill, or two tens, or what?" she replied.

"Can I get that in change?" I asked.

A roll of quarters, a roll of dimes, a couple rolls of nickels and some rolled pennies to make up the difference?
-

= Lost in the Translation =

Before I get to the meat of this story, let me explain that the last time I ate at 'Tacos Mex' with my friend, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez, I had ordered the chicken burrito but was brought the grilled chicken dinner instead.

So Jake's actions in the tale you're about to read weren't completely anal-retentive on his part. Not completely.

Not this time.

Ok, now that the obligatory pre-story explanation is out of the way, let's get to the "story proper", shall we?

We're at 'Tacos Mex', the home of fine traditional mexican cuisine prepared and served by actual Mexicans.

Now I've got nothing against the Hispanic people - heck, some of my best friends are messkin - but if the I.N.S. were to raid this particular establishment, chances are the dishes wouldn't be getting washed any time soon thereafter.

In any case, the first priority at 'Tacos Mex' is preparing and serving fine mexican cuisine.

Speaking english is lower on the To-Do List.

Did I mention I live in Arizona? As the little chihuahua in the Taco Bell commercials used to say, "Run for the border!"

So there you go.

Shortly after getting our complimentary chips and salsa, the waitress came to take our order.

Hoping for the best, considering my last experience, I ordered the burrito de pollo again.

Looking at me, Jake interjected, "You want the chicken burrito?"

"Yes."

"Burrito de pollo," Jake said to the waitress, as he pointed at me.

Turning to me, the waitress asked, "Arroz o frijoles?"

Now, I do have a very rudimentary working knowledge of spanish in that I'm familiar with the most important phrases: Rice or beans; or "Where is the bathroom?" ("Donde esta el bano?"), but before I could reply, Jake asked, "Rice or beans?"

"Frijoles," I said.

Then then kindly passed that on to the waitress.

After which, Jake ordered his meal. In fluent spanish, I might add.

Just before the waitress left our table, I remembered we needed some pico de gallo to go with the chips.

"Pico de gallo, por favor," I stated.

Without missing a beat, Jake looked the waitress square in the eyes and repeated, "Pico de gallo."

Yes, we wouldn't have wanted her to misunderstand that.

But "translating" a phrase that really needed none was just too much.

So I said to Jake, "Since you're so good at the translation, I was wondering... How do you say, 'Shut the fuck up already?' in spanish?"

The waitress demurely laughed at that, politely covering her mouth as she did so.

Gosh, I guess she did understand english after all.
-

= Crushing Might of Power =

Every once in a while, some chick will read my words and develop a crush. Then, once she actually meets me, not so much with the crushing anymore.

It usually takes about two weeks.

Hey, I never claimed to be easy to get along with. I think part of the problem is that I talk more or less the way I write.

Eventually, words are exchanged. Feelings get hurt. Sharp objects are pulled out.

Yadda yadda yadda.

It was Aesop who first wrote that "honesty is the best policy", as the moral to his fable 'Mercury and the Woodcutter'.

As it turns out, Aesop was nothing but a big fat dirty liar.

Moving on...

Everybody has a "superpower". Evidently, mine happens to be "the power to charm with words."

Such a superpower is a double-edged sword.

And a heck of a lot mightier.

Ruminating on this topic reminds me of something I heard recently. In 'X-Men 2', Jean Grey said (paraphrasing here), "Girls like the bad boys, but they marry the nice boys."

Mutants are obviously a wise bunch.

And, yes, I fully realize when one starts listening to relationship philosophy from fictional movie characters that's a good sign that your love life has hit rock bottom.

Kill me now.
-

= Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200 =

The other night, my friend, Jim, stopped over.

He was in quite a pickle.

It seems a friend of his was in jail and needed to be bonded out.

Since a number of Jim's belongings, including his wallet and I.D., had been stolen by a vindictive ex-girlfriend a few days earlier, he was looking for somebody WITH I.D. to go with him to do the actual bonding-out portion of that night's festivities.

So he and I went down to the Madison Street Jail - home of Sheriff Joe Arpaio, self-proclaimed "Toughest Sheriff in America." (Or, alternately, as Bill Maher once called him on 'Politically Incorrect', "America's Stupidest Sheriff". It all depends on your point of view, I suppose.)

Once there, we had to take a number. They were on number 26 when we arrived.

We pulled #90.

"This is going to be a long night," I surmised.

However, we got lucky as a woman Jim knew was there to visit her brother, and as it so happened she had an extra ticket - number 39.

About forty-five minutes later, they called #38 and, quite frankly, I was giddy at that point.

That's when the announcement came over the loudspeaker: "Attention, ladies and gentlemen, we will now be closing to clean the facility. We won't be bonding anybody else out again until 7AM tomorrow morning."

Thanks for coming but, basically, screw you.

Needless to say, we couldn't bond out Jim's friend.

But that's not really the point of the story.

No, the point of the story is this:

At some point, sitting there at the Madison Street Jail, I couldn't help but marvel that this was the first time I had been there that *I* wasn't the guy waiting to be bonded out.

And they say miracles don't happen anymore.

Peshaw, Peshaw all you of disbelief.

[]

(Note to ALL: I've amended my entry "Just An Old-Fashioned Love Song", see archives 6/30/03, to include a reply from a female reader. See end of entry for that.)

2003-07-11T12:28:00.000-07:00

With all the slang the young people use today, I figured I could come up with some snappy phrases that're just as good - or better. I mean come on... "da bomb"? Really!

So here is some slang I'd now like to introduce into the vernacular. I encourage all my readers to work this slang into everyday conversation whenever possible, in the hope at least some will become popular enough to one day make it into the Oxford Dictionary. Hey, it worked for "bling-bling" so why not? Also, please forward a copy of this list to all your "hip" friends. Letter!

[ NEW SLANG... FOR THE NOT SO HIP ]

25/8 - any activity that takes much longer to do than was expected. "I thought we'd be done shopping hours ago! This is turning into 25/8."

aguilera - n.; a woman with loose morals. "That girl sleeps with every boy she meets. She nothing but a dirrty aguilera!"

a lot of mirror - large sum of money. "You wanna buy a Lexus? That's gonna take a lot of mirror!"

bean - n.; a stupid person for whom things always work out better than expected. Refers to TV/movie character Mr. Bean. Alternately, use "herman" - referring to Pee-Wee Herman - if the person's acts of idiocy involve underage kids, getting arrested at a porno theater, or the possession of child pornography.

blam - n.; a gun. Short for "blamblamblam".

cotton - female genitalia. "Last night her and I went out on a date, and I got me some cotton."

cotton candy - as in "I ate some cotton candy"; see "cotton", above. Do I really need to get any more graphic than that?

dark rot - death. "Billy died last night. Now he's dark rot."

fine set of china - n; nice breasts. "Look at the fine set of china on that girl!"

flintstone - n; a dumb person.

got wood - having a situation under control. "I don't need no help with that cuz I got wood!"

if the squirrel had nuts he wouldn't need wood - refers to a man who is way too passive. "He could've gotten that raise if he'd only tried. But then, if the squirrel had nuts he wouldn't need wood."

iraq - v.; beating up somebody much weaker than yourself, for reasons which may or may not be valid. "I heard that scrawny bean slept with my girl. I don't know if the rumor is true, but I iraqed his ass anyway."

kitten - an attractive female, or a term of endearment for one special girl.

making wild monkey love - having sexual intercourse.

pulling a nutty - doing something completely crazy. Taken from TV's "Boston Public", when the straight-laced teacher said to the manic-depressive teacher, "Now, Marla, try not to pull a nutty." It replaces the slang phrase "going postal".

spike - v.; filing a frivolous lawsuit just to make a quick buck. Refers to Spike Lee suing Spike TV over its use of the word 'Spike'. "I didn't read the warning on that cup of coffee and scalded myself when it spilled. So I spiked McDonald's for a million dollars."

spiker - n.; a self-righteous idiot, especially one who files frivolous lawsuits. See "Spike Lee", above.

static cling - unwanted attention. "That person is sticking to me like static cling."

tomcat - a male who "dates" a lot of the opposite sex at the same time. "Joan, he's a real tomcat and you're just today's kitten litter."

weapon of mass destruction - man referring to his large member when, in fact, his penis is quite small. This phrase is usually said sarcastically, as in, "Him and I made wild monkey love last night. Talk about your weapon of mass destruction. Ha ha ha!"

your tide is rippin', your vacation's trippin' - phrase said to somebody you find attractive. Works better if you're both actually vacationing at a beachside resort, but...

[]

(Note to ALL: Now you can chat with Pete via Yahoo! Instant Messenger. Yahoo ID: worldofpete2003

Why only read his smart-ass comments on 'The World...' when he can make smart-ass comments to you, personally, in real time? Best time to catch him is after 10pm Pacific.)

2003-06-30T00:07:00.000-07:00

(If you're still accessing this blog via the 06_01 archive URL, update to 07_01 for the latest. Or use the main page URL.)

[ JUST AN OLD-FASHIONED LOVE SONG ]

It's honesty time. For almost two months, my "love life" has been on 'life support' and it's about time to make that hard decision: Do I pull the plug and simply allow it to die the peaceful death it so richly deserves, or do I continue to hold out for some sort of miracle in which it spontaneously comes out of the coma its been in?

I'm not sure what to do, but I am firmly convinced that women want one thing and one thing only...

Three letters: S. E. X.

Not that I'm complaining when it's happening, mind you, but afterwards I feel so dirty and used.

I am so much more than just the piece of meat between my legs.

I am not a penis!

I am a human being!

And women have been known to say that men only want sex. This is what they call "subterfuge", boys and girls. In my opinion, not only do women just want sex, but also they can get a lot more of it because, let's face it, when you're a horny chick it's much easier to find a willing partner than it is if you're a man in a similar situation. But this fact is rarely spoken of because, unlike with guys, the girls don't brag to all their friends afterward. Or, if they do, those girlfriends know how to keep their mouths shut.

As an aside, god forbid if the dreaded R-word should ever pass a man's lips. For those who don't know, that word is "relationship". At this point, I feel I must profusely apologize to all the women readers for my use of such offensive language. I'm really really sorry. Please don't judge me.

I remember one woman I was seeing who once commented that it was men - yes, men! - who only wanted sex.

That poor deluded bitch.

To show her just how wrong she was, I informed her that - from that moment on - her and I would not be having sex again. Ever.

We could still get nekkid, still sleep in the same bed, and I'd still be as affectionate as ever in both private and public. But no more horizontal mambo.

I would no longer be the dancing fool.

So that relationship lasted about two more weeks before she broke up with me.

Why did she do that? Because she just wanted to get laid, which she did shortly thereafter.

But not with me, dammit. I stuck to my guns! So to speak. But let's leave my sticky gun out of this, shall we?

On a related note, I've begun to realize lately that women hardly ever say what they really mean.

And by "hardly ever" I mean "never".

They say they have a boyfriend when they don't, or they say they don't when, in fact, they do.

They flirt with guys and - us being guys and, therefore, stupid by definition - we take it as a personal validation of our manliness. But it isn't. That's just the way girls express themselves.

Of course, guys express themselves by then grabbing the flirty girl's ass - so whomever said guys have a problem expressing emotion was obviously an idiot.

In the weeks since my "love life" was hooked up to a machine to keep it breathing, I find that more than one woman I once dated has called when her life has gone to hell. I've somehow become the boy they call when they need to vent or want a shoulder to cry on. It's all about depression and tears when they make that call.

Yes, somewhere along the line I've become the "designated gay male friend" and, hell, I'm NOT EVEN GAY.

So how the hell did I get myself into this situation? As one girl put it, "Pete, you're a bad boy with a surprisingly sensitive side."

Please, God, kill me now.

I suppose these former flames appreciate that, and my mad listening skills, because, as one of them recently said to me, "I hope you know I'd do anything for you, Pete."

When she said that, my first thought, of course, was, "Great, then how about coming right over and sucking my dick?"

But I didn't say it out loud. I only thought it. I may be a bad boy but, hell, I'm sensitive.

Have I mentioned the part about wanting God to strike me dead yet?

Love, at least in my experience, is not so much Kismet as it is Snake Eyes. Sorry for getting a bit allegorical there with the games, but I wanted to put it in a way the female readers would understand. Women understand games and, by gosh, they should, being as good at them as they are.

Is it too much to expect a woman to be honest and open?

For those women now reading who don't happen to have a dictionary nearby, and are therefore having difficulty comprehending that last sentence...

Honest (adj.) honorable; truthful; trustworthy.

Open (adj.) not hidden or secret; candid; direct.

Ironically, at this point, if a woman were to walk up to me and state point-blank, "I'm attracted to you. I'd like to date you in the hopes a deep and meaningful romantic relationship might develop"; I'd be asking myself, "What do you suppose she meant by THAT?!?"

I've never much enjoyed puzzles. So I guess I'm pretty much fucked at this point. Or not, as the case may be.

Please, don't get me wrong: I'm not misogynistic. I don't hate women. I'm just none too thrilled with the gender at this particular moment.

Heck, maybe I've completely misread the situation. Perhaps women just want the same thing men do at the end of the day: Somebody special to hold onto during that long night.

No, that can't be it. They just wanna get laid.

Perhaps rap pioneers Salt 'N Pepa said it best, when those fly girls sang...

"Let's talk about sex, baby (sing it)
Let's talk about you and me (sing it, sing it)
Let's talk about all the good things
And the bad things that may be
Let's talk about sex (come on)
Let's talk about sex (do it)
Let's talk about sex (uh-huh)
Let's talk about sex"

[]

(If any female readers want to email me a rebuttal, for posting on this blog, please do. 'The World...' reserves the right to edit for brevity. So, if any of you broads have the balls, then by all means do so. Any blog-published rebuttals become the property of 'The World...')

THE REBUTTAL:

Courtney, @ http://courtney.blog-city.com/ , was the one woman NOT having sex and, therefore, had time to respond. Thanks, grrlfriend! But if you'd like a little advice, I'd say: Quit the blogging... and get to dawging!

She wrote: ''Loved this entry! One thing doesn't make sense though. If all women only want sex, then why is it so easy for women to find a willing partner? As you said:

"In my opinion, not only do women just want sex, but also they can get a lot more of it because, let's face it, when you're a horny chick it's much easier to find a willing partner than it is if you're a man in a similar situation."

It seems that the superfluous "supply" [men ready to have sex] does not reflect a high "demand" [women looking for sex]. In fact, the opposite seems true. The high numbers of men ready to have sex suggests that there aren't enough women willing to have sex with them, thereby satisfying that demand.''

TO WHICH I CAN ONLY SAY:

1. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the female population slightly outnumbers that of men overall, although the number of males is growing at a faster pace and, in fact, men slightly outnumber women in the 30-years old and under group (i.e., the "yes, we're Still Having Sex group.") While I don't have the numbers for the world in front of me - hey, I'm American, so what do I care about the rest of the world, right? - historically more males survive childhood than do women. Take that for what it's worth.

2. While all women only want, and get, sex, the same may not hold true for men. Don't get me wrong... all men want it. But not all of them get it. It appears only a "select pool" of men are "sex worthy" and the rest are shit out of luck.

3. I never stated emphatically that women only wanted heterosexual sex. Perhaps lesbianism is far more rampant than anybody suspects. And, quite frankly, with some of the men out there, who can blame 'em?

2003-06-26T04:14:00.000-07:00

While I don't usually review specific events I've attended, every once in a while something comes down the pike that's worthy of mention. Written in a style that harkens back to the days of 'burlesque' ("It's a Review! It's a Journalistic Period Piece!") a 'translation' guide to the archaic slang I use can be found by doing a search of "1920s+slang" &/or "1930s+slang" on google.com. Remarkably, being an aficionado of the period culture, I actually use some of these words in everyday conversation. But you might not...
-

[ BURLESQUEFEST 2003 - IT WAS THE CAT'S PAJAMAS ]

The dames of "Burlesquefest 2003" had pitched their tent in my town for one night - and one night only - so a friend and I put our glad rags on and took the tin can on the road to have a look-see.

The show promised to be a real hum-dinger and it didn't disappoint.

Inspired by the burlesque/vaudeville days of yore, this touring company is just one of a growing number making tracks nowadays, livening up joints in pure sockdollager fashion.

Burlesque is back, guys and dolls, and it's dripping with irony and sex appeal.

At the show, the audience was a variety of hipsters (both straight & lesbian couples), with a smattering of much older (65+) couples that, perhaps, were nostalgic for the tease.

Yesiree, Bob, it was fun for all ages.

Then there were the single guys who just wanted to see some bodacious bubs and curvy cans. Woof! Woof!

The show began with the Oracle Dance trio, kicking up their heels chorus-line style, before stripping down to their skivvies. These skirts were regular Oliver Twists. And not a bug-eyed betty among them!

The crowd hooped and hollered and, as the lights went down at the conclusion of this opening number, some palooka in the audience shouted, "Bring on the whores!"

What a dindy pill he was. Some fellas have no manners whatever, being so full of booshwash as they are.

The rest of the evening - over two hours long - alternated between bump and grind set-pieces (sometimes backed by pre-recorded musical standards circa the first half of the 20th century, others featuring a live band) all teased out by the gaggle of janes of Burlesquefest.

When the vampy dolls did a costume change (or, more accurately, went backstage to redress), the hall was filled by the tight musical stylings of DeVotchKa - a band with an eastern European/punk hybrid vibe - that was nothing short of hot socks.

Highlights included a scantily clad Catherine D'Lish twirling on the catbird's seat in a giant birdcage, while water from a showerhead splashed down over her.

Suffering succotash, puddy tat! That bird has a gorgeous set of gams, believe you me. Betty Grable had nothing on her.

The Mae Westesque Miss Kitty Crimson came out hard-boiled, wearing baggy black pants and a gray trench coat, then proceeded to strip down to sequined panties and strategically placed tassels in time to a live rendition of "The Theme to 'The Pink Panther'".

Jeepers creepers, I blew my wig!

The evening was held together by the double-entendred banter of MC Kitten on the Keys , who also shared a few musical selections of her own. A brief off the cob dialog with a cat hand puppet segued into the song "My Friend's Pussy", which was followed later by "Grandma Sells My Panties on eBay" (no explanation necessary for that one.)

The swanky fun ended with Miss D'Lish taking a swish in a giant champagne glass, nearly splashing some rubes in the front row, before striking that archetypal Girl-In-Large-Champagne-Glass pose. The crowd went from percolating to panic by the end of this showstopper.

A little naughty, definitely bawdy, and not a dead hoofer or cement mixer in the bunch - Burlesquefest featured a little song, a little dance and a little seltzer in the pants.

With the twist of an ankle, or the shake of a hip, the troupe succeeded in returning burlesque to its roots - when "stripping" was still an art form, one that took talent, practice, and subtlety of detail.

Not like nowadays, when pretty much any hard-bodied chick that can find the pole can call herself a stripper. Whether she has style or finesse -- or not.

Maybe I'm a little jaded. One too many ex-girlfriends who were strippers.

However, I found Burlesquefest to be "ironically refreshing". If nothing else, it reaffirmed what I've long suspected. I was born about 50 years too late.

If you didn't catch its show during the summer tour then heads up, pally -- another, slightly different, U.S. tour starts this fall. So shake a leg!

(For info, copy/paste URL: http://www.burlesquefest.com/ )

[]

[ The preceding was originally published on blogcritics.org ]

2003-06-21T00:49:00.000-07:00

EMAIL QUOTE OF THE WEEK: "Pete, you're either an utter genius or a complete idiot. I haven't decided which yet."
-

[ KOOKS' DAY ]

Once again, the time is fast approaching for the latest of 'net-inspired "holidays". Yes, June 26 is officially "KOOKS' DAY" or, as they call it in Canada, "All Kooks' Day."

KOOK (n.) a person regarded as silly, eccentric, crazy, etc.

The holiday is inspired by, and celebrated on the date of the death of, Earl Curley - self-proclaimed psychic, 'net rabble-rouser, and a man whose biggest claim to fame was being sued by uberskeptic James Randi.

It was started a year to the date of Curley's death by 'net users who, ah, missed his unique brand of kookiness and wanted to honor (?) his "contributions" to the field.

Ironically, while the Internet has raised the level of infamy a kook can reach globally, it has also been instrumental in lowering the bar of kookdom in general.

Once upon a time, one had to be truly kooky to earn - yes, earn! - the title of Kook. It used to be, in most families, that eccentric uncle who was considered a kook. Nowadays, in this 'net "family", everybody *and* their mother might be labeled a kook.

Case in point, one person currently posting heavily to Usenet newsgroups who many call "kook" is, in reality, little more than an astrologer with very poor social skills and a bad temper.

Other mislabeled "kooks":

The overmedicated. The under medicated. Speed freaks. Neat freaks. Ultra-right wingers. Hippified tree-huggers. The mildly depressed. The sexually repressed. Headbangers. Racist ballplayers. Sex chat room men - and the women who love them. News junkies. Regular junkies. Third-party candidates and their political flunkies. Those who go on faith. Uberskeptics with no faith in their fellow man. Huffers. Tweakers. Guys wearing oversized pants and unlaced sneakers. The paranoid. The unfriendly. Anyone at a karaoke bar performing a Neil Diamond medley.

Then again, perhaps it's just me.

My first 'kook' was such classic kookdom that, maybe, he ruined it for all of those who followed.

You be the judge.
-

MY FIRST KOOK

(Warning: Due to content the following might be objectionable to some. Please, if offended by sexual overtones, *skip* this account.)

Some 15-odd years ago, while waiting to board a Greyhound bus at 2AM, I looked up to see a peculiar sight.

An old, slightly balding man with two days' worth of stubble pacing back and forth. He wore faded jeans covered with red markered phrases written down his pant legs. "Democrats are Communists", "Reagan was Right" and "Jesus is Coming - Are You Ready?" leapt from his legs. He carried a large white box under his arm.

As the terminal loudspeaker that announced my bus was boarding, I must have been vibing like a kook magnet because this man made a beeline towards me.

"This your bus?" he asked.

When I answered in the affirmative, he said, "Mine too! You mind helping me?" and pointed to a second box a few feet away.

I had no luggage. I had gotten a cheap, visceral thrill from his pants. So I helped him with the other box.

On board, the man stuffed his boxes overhead and then sat down next to me. As the bus began its journey into night, he said, "Do you like my pants? My name is Hugh Clayton, but I'm sometimes known as 'Chickenman'."

The nickname should've been a big clue as to what would follow, but I was still young and oh-so naive.

As the bus drove on, 'Chickenman' explained his mission. He had one thousand copies of a many-paged manifesto, which he was taking to Washington DC to give to as many Republican congressional members as he could.

He didn't plan to give any to the Democrats, calling them, "a collection of liberal degenerates, militant homosexuals, slobs, bums, traitors and worthless bureaucrats." He added, "They should all be executed if you ask me."

"Aren't you being a little rough?" I asked.

"No, not at all," he exclaimed, "Give them even one inch and they'll run right over you. See, you're young but I've been around. I'm 52 years old. I was once a psychologist. I graduated from Harvard."

As the road went on, 'Chickenman' railed against smokers, social drinkers, overeaters, those who watch "low grade TV" and people who don't wash often enough.

He spoke of the younger generation who, in his experience, was a collection of "dense blockheads" and "base idiots". People with no brains who, in his words, "have no business throwing their half-witted anomalies in society's face" by reproducing.

After over an hour of his monologue, Clayton got uncharacteristically quiet for a few minutes.

He then leaned over and whispered, in an almost conspiratorial tone, "Want me to feel your cock?"

"No," I replied, "I'm a bit tired from traveling and think I'd rather try to sleep a bit."

Yeah, like I'd be caught sleeping on the bus at that point.

Becoming a bit flustered, he stammered something about how he thought that was a good idea himself, so 'Chickenman' quickly got up and moved down the aisle, finally reseating himself some seven rows back.

Later, as the bus pulled into the next city, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I looked up to see 'Chickenman' standing there.

He thrust a thick, red book at me.

"I want you to have this book," he said. As I took it in my hand, he quickly turned around and went back to his seat.

I peered more closely at the worn book he had given me.

It was, evidently, his personal a copy of Hitler's "Mein Kampf".

Fully annotated and highlighted throughout by 'Chickenman' himself, with plenty of hand written notes in the page margins.

That was the last I heard from Hugh "Chickenman" Clayton. Gone, but not forgotten, as I don my tin-foil hat and remember him on this, the most special of days, "Kooks' Day" - June 26th.

So, I hope you'll join me and celebrate by getting a little crazy!

[]

NOTE TO READERS: If you haven't read the early ARCHIVES yet, and want to do so, now would be the time. Nov-Jan won't be available as of next week.

2003-06-17T00:17:00.000-07:00

[ OPRAH'S NEW BOOK CLUB: A REAL PAGE-TURNER!]

It is the best of times and the worst of times, as Oprah Winfrey opens up a new chapter on her TV show's "Book Club" beginning June 18th, 2003.

I'm so excited my nipples are harder than Oprah's on a cold Chicago morning.

Speaking to members of the Association of American Publishers last spring, Winfrey said that the new book club would focus on classic literary works.

In other words, the books nobody ever reads. Except those of us forced to do so back in high school.

Some of us are still very bitter over that one.

So, why did Winfrey close her first "book club"?

Maybe the only 'experts' should could get to talk about those books were the authors themselves. People who are experts on one thing and one thing only - themselves.

Yeah, that always makes for good television. We don't see enough of that these days.

Or maybe it was the guy who turned down her offer to have his latest novel picked as the book selection.

Reportedly, he really hurt Winfrey's feelings. The "book club" ended shortly thereafter.

Or it might be the fact that people at home in the middle of the afternoon aren't exactly known as voracious readers.

Who's to say?

According to Winfrey's website announcement, "The new club, tentatively titled 'Traveling with the Classics,' will likely feature selections three to five times a year, to allow readers to take their time and steep themselves in a particular work or author."

Obviously, the breakneck pace of one book per month is too much to ask. Winfrey's viewers lead busy lives. They have much to do each day. For example, watching Oprah on TV. And reading "O - The Oprah Magazine". Not to mention getting on the Oprah website for the latest on Miss O., or checking their email to see if another "Oprah Alert" has arrived.

The new club is titled, 'Traveling with the Classics' because, as oprah.com explains, "Each show will originate from a site connected with the selection - the author's birthplace, the book's setting or some other relevant locale."

So, for example, if the selection is Thoreau's "Walden", that show will originate from... well, from a shopping mall, because Walden Pond was drained when it was built, quite a few years ago. (Don't worry! I'm just kidding. The pond is still there.)

With Winfrey's core audience in mind, I nominate a few "classic literary works" myself. Selections pending the official "Oprah Seal of Approval", of course...

1. "Naked Lunch" by William S. Burroughs

A lovely little tale of heroin addiction and gay sex, told under the auspices of social satire. It created quite the brouhaha when first published.

The show can originate from Lawrence, Kansas. Alternately, it can be set in the back alley of any major metropolitan city, in whichever "shooting gallery" the heroin addicts are congregating on the day of taping.

2. "Abortion: An Historical Romance" by Richard Brautigan

Boy works at small library where only single copies of handwritten/typed books, brought in by frustrated wannabe writers, are shelved. Boy meets girl. Girl gets pregnant. It's 1966, so they travel south of the border for that abortion. It's all so romantic.

Not his best novel, but it'll resonate with Oprah's desired demographic. The relevant locale? Wherever the trout are biting. Or, the book's setting - an abortion clinic in Mexico. Whichever.

3. "Women" by Charles Bukowski

A touching and sentimental book about some crazy broads the author knew. Oh, did I say "touching and sentimental"? I meant loutish and misogynistic. Well, close enough.

For Bukowski on Winfrey, any seedy bar will do.

I guess we'll see if my selections are Winfrey's selections too, huh?

Perhaps Winfrey is setting her sights too high with literary classics. Maybe she should consider taking it down a notch.

In that case, I recommend:

1. "Classic X-Men" (the Chris Claremont years)

2. "Daredevil" (the classic Frank Miller years)

Whatever Winfrey decides, I plan to boycott her "dead authors only" policy. To that end, even as you read this, my friends and I are combing the video archives so that we can watch "classic daytime talk shows" only.

Instead of Oprah Winfrey, my friends and I - or, as I refer to us, "Pete's Talk Show Club" - will be viewing a different "classic" show over the course of each month.

The "Pete's Talk Show Club" monthly schedule, so far, will be:

MONTH 1: "Donahue"
The original long-running daytime groundbreaker, not the painful-to-watch and now cancelled MSNBC mini-series.

Club Talking Points - "How to Look Really Really Earnest" and "How to Pander to Viewers, in a Sad Ratings Grab, By Wearing a Skirt On-Air."

MONTH 2: "The Morton Downey Jr. Show"
He's loud. He's proud. He's Morty. If you're too young to remember Downey, think "Springer on Steroids."

Daytime was never the same after Downey. We all owe him a big debt of gratitude. Too bad they can't bring his show back, with all-new episodes. What with his being dead and all.

MONTH 3: "Carnie!"
Hosted by erstwhile pop singer Carnie Wilson. This one has been selected so that, the next time club members see that touching yet hopeful commercial on TV with Wilson telling us how she lost some 300-odd pounds through the "miracle of surgery", we'll all truly appreciate the difficulties she went through. By viewing her when she was still fantastically huge.

MONTH 4: "The Richard Bey Show"
Club Talking Points: "How to Leer at the Camera" and "How to Make Fun of Stupid Guests So They Don't Know You're Doing It"

Bey was a poor man's Springer, but what the hell do you expect by Month Four? Geraldo? Not likely, pal.

So good luck, Oprah! I wish you all the best. But I won't be watching. Nor reading your selections.

The library is now closed.

2003-06-10T14:33:00.000-07:00

[ BODYSLAMMED BY CHRIST ]

I was flipping through the television stations the other night, when I turned to TBN - Trinity Broadcasting Network; home of Paul and Jan Crouch, Benny Hinn, M.C. Hammer and other born-agains - and, to my amazement, saw professional wrestling.

I knew wrestling was a big draw, but come on now.

Two guys were beating the living hell out of each other in front of a cheering audience.

After the match, the lights went up, and one of the wrestlers - former WCW superstar Sting - took to the microphone.

He began witnessing, while in full Stingolicious black and white face makeup, to the audience.

It was a litany of misery.

He had tons of money, women throwing themselves at him, and he rode around in limos all the time.

It was pure hell on earth.

If I was a millionaire having sex with chicks in a limo, I wouldn't be bellyaching but, then, I'm not Sting.

Yet with everything he had, he said, "I felt empty inside."

"I had been wrestling with God for years," he added, "and I was losing the match."

So he turned his life over to Jesus Christ, and now performs evangelical "grudge matches" on TBN.

But, hey, he's as happy as the proverbial clam.

Then, Sting turned to another wrestler - the "Million Dollar Man" (of 'Wrestlemania 8' fame) - and began preaching to him.

Since 'Mil' was a designated "bad guy", it just followed there was some soul saving to do there.

But halfway through Sting's "god spiel", the 'Mil' interrupted him and revealed, "Brother, I'll let you in on a little secret - I was saved some ten years ago!"

The cheers from the crowd eclipsed those heard during the previous match.

As it turns out, after the heady success of Wrestlemania, 'Mil' spent the whole night drinking and having hot limo sex, and then called his wife the next morning.

"She was a good woman," 'Mil' said, "she never called me in the middle of the night, when I was on the road, to make sure I was where I was supposed to be."

Her bad, I suppose. But, somehow, his wife had found out about his many extramarital affairs.

Obviously, the Million Dollar Woman was none too happy with her husband.

The call did not go well. She wanted to have it out over the phone, but 'Mil' answered, "Let's talk about it when I get home tomorrow."

"You won't be coming home tomorrow," she said, "because you don't live here anymore."

Jeez, getting nailed like that has gotta hurt.

So, 'Mil' did what many desperate men who're about to lose their wife and kids will do.

He called the preacher man.

Basically, he was told to confess his sins, ask for forgiveness, then straighten up and fly right.

Oh, and turn his life over to Jesus.

He added that he found John 3:16 especially relevant, then commented, "Yes, it's John 3:16... not Austin 3:16! That's blasphemy in the eyes of God!", thus admonishing obvious pagan-wrestler 'Stone Cold' Steve Austin, who most assuredly is damned to hell for all eternity.

Amen, and all that.

So now, the "Million Dollar Man", Sting, and a whole host of other formerly heathenized wrestler-types are going to the mat for God.

They're wrestlers. They're Christians. And they're going to take YOU down... the path to salvation!

Good night, Irene!

File this story under: "Just When You Thought Professional Wrestling Couldn't Get Any More Absurd."

2003-06-07T08:48:00.000-07:00

[ RANDOM BITS ATE ]

An eighth installment chronicling the True Tales of Pete...
-

= Java Journal =

I went to the Willow House coffee hut the other night.

On the front step, there was a young kid strumming his acoustic guitar and croaking out Leonard Cohen's "So Long, Marianne" while surrounded by a small bevy of Birkenstock-wearing twentysomethings in tie-dyed t-shirts.

It was a regular sing along... Giggan it, folk old skool!

Inside, there was an older guy meandering on an acoustic guitar in the small backroom.

In the main room, there was a rocking - well, as much as one can rock on acoustic guitars, anyway - duo doing it up Simon & Garfunkel style.

Yup, evidently, it was "An Acoustic Guitar in Every Corner" Night at ye ole Willow House.

While ordering my cup of joe, a gaggle of youngsters met up and were so excited to see each other, they all started jumping up and down in unison.

Try the Decaf next time, people. Please.
-

= Blog Versus Blog =

I met my first live fellow blogger.

And the honor goes to Tamsen Yi of 'Be the Water Not the Rock' (http://likesunday.blogspot.com/), who showed up with three of her girlfriends at Paisley Violin coffeehouse, so we could all go on the monthly self-guided tour of downtown Phoenix art galleries.

She brought her friends because, as she explained beforehand, when meeting somebody else from the "blog universe" you need "back up".

Me? I don't need no stinking back up.

So there I was with four hot-looking babes.

Yes, my life had suddenly turned into a bad Reality TV show. And, for the record...

1. I'm not REALLY a millionaire.

2. I didn't bring any roses with me.

3. I didn't marry one of the girls at the end of the evening.

So let's move on, shall we?

The highlights of the evening included a neo-pop art exhibit and a performance troupe that danced with, and ate, fire. But, hey, I'm a guy, so anything involving fire is fine by me. My only regret is that they didn't blow stuff up too. That would've rocked even more.

As we headed back to the car, to drive to another cluster of galleries elsewhere, I suggested we end up at the Bikini Lounge - a Tiki-style bar with a definite "dive" atmosphere.

Tamsen's one art-savvy friend, who had been to that area before, told me out of earshot of the others that she thought the place would freak the other three out.

I bet you know where this tale is headed.

So we parted with the art-savvy friend (who had another engagement elsewhere) and headed on over.

At the intersection across the street from our destination, while stopped at a red light, a homeless drunk bobbed and weaved through the crosswalk in front of us.

Both gals in the front seat instinctively locked their doors. They obviously don't spend much time in downtown Phoenix, and the sight apparently shook them up a bit.

There wasn't any parking in front of the building, so we pulled onto the first side street. It was not a clean, well-lit place.

The ladies decided that enough was enough, and they weren't all too keen on visiting these particular galleries - or the lounge - after all.

Why? Well, I think Tamsen said it best when she said she "liked living" too much.

Personally, if push came to shove, I think these girls could've taken any homeless drunk that happened along, but that's just my opinion.

I remember about ten years ago, when I owned (and lived in) a gallery space downtown, and opened my front door one morning to find a dead body a few feet away. That doesn't happen much anymore. They've really cleaned the neighborhood up since then.

But enough with the nostalgic memories.

Back in the present...

I sometimes forget that people, as a rule, become tentative when they perceive a situation as being possibly dangerous - because I'll jump into a situation that I KNOW is dangerous without a second thought.

What's the worse that could happen? I die? Been there, done that. (See "That Time I Died", 5/20/03, in archives)

So, instead, we ended up at a haughty-taughty restaurant a few miles away.

It was definitely a clean, well-lit place.

Two of Tamsen's friends split a salad. It was one big-ass salad. In fact that's what I think it was called on the menu:

"Big-Ass Salad #6"

It contained all manner of flora and fauna. I felt healthier just looking at it.

I had the open-faced tuna melt. At those prices you'd think you'd get the WHOLE sandwich, but what the hell do I know.

It was a non-smoking restaurant. I ended up drinking five glasses of water, mostly because I didn't know what else to do with my hands. Did I mention the no smoking part?

The piano player pounded out jazzy versions of Billy Joel and Neil Diamond standards while we ate.

Yes, nothing helps digestion like hearing "Sweet Caroline" on the piano.

That was the moment it went from a simple "evening out" to "blog-worthy story."

Hell, it's like I don't even have to make stuff up anymore. Life takes enough surreal turns to keep it imaginative for all of us.

So what did I think of the first fellow blogger I met "in the flesh"?

She's a good egg. Sure, she's a left-leaning political gal, but I can't hold that against her because she's also intelligent with a sarcastic wit and - in case I forgot to mention it earlier - is as cute as a button.
-

= Search String Fun =

It's always interesting to see what keywords, or groupings of words, people use thereby inadvertently finding my web log.

The two most popular seem to be:

aurora+snow

and

brande+roderick

But my favorite has to be the person who used...

pissing+all+over+hisself

Obviously, it's not a phrase I use often. Just often enough for my site to show up on a search engine when it's inputted.

To that end, I'd like to throw out a few more pithy phrases to help others find my site in the future:

slap you upside the head

I'm spitting game with those hootchies

Michael Jackson & Bubbles

if the squirrel had nuts he wouldn't need wood

don't be all up in the kool-aid

Where art thou, Romeo?

Girl, you be jawsin - you're jus' selling woof tickets

It's elementary, my dear Watson
-

= Zoo Story =

I ran into Jocelyn and Jim, of the band World Class Thugs, while out and about.

This reminded me of a story Jocelyn told me the second time I met her, after I plopped my ass down in the chair next to hers and said, "Tell me a story."

It went something like this...

When Jocelyn was seven years old, she went to the zoo with her friend and her friend's mom.

While there, they bought a handful of crackers from a vending machine.

As they were walking along, Jocelyn - doing what many seven years olds would do - started eating the crackers.

Her friend's mom started talking to Jocelyn, but - as she freely admits doing from time to time - she "spaced out" and didn't listen.

Then the mom, raising her voice, said, "Jocelyn! Aren't you listening to me? I said 'Don't eat those crackers... those are for the goats!'"

Even today, one has to forgive Jocelyn when she "spaces out" because she has the ability to play every instrument ever created.

Genius comes with a price, and that price will evidently buy you a handful of goat crackers.

In case anybody is interested, the music of World Class Thugs is somewhere in the neighborhood of They Might Be Giants and Yo La Tengo.

http://www.worldclassthugs.com/

If you happen to email the band, please don't mention the crackers. Jocelyn doesn't know I've posted about it here and I don't want her to stop telling me funny stories when I run into her.

Thank you.
-

= When the Smoke Clears... =

Whenever I buy cigarettes at the usual place, they'll see me coming and have a pack waiting by the register by the time I get there.

I don't know if that's a good thing... or just plain sad.

The other day, I bought my pack and the guy at the register then says, "Can I get a couple of cigarettes from you? I'm completely out and don't get paid until Sunday."

So I gave him two smokes.

What could I possibly add to that to make it any more amusing?

Anyway, I've been seriously thinking about quitting. With all the hacking and coughing up of phlegm, smoking is just not as pleasurable as it once was.

Earlier this week, I was hanging out with my friend, The Artist Known as Jake Martinez, when he started asking me for a cigarette.

Please note, he quit smoking about six months ago.

I've heard most relapses occur within the first six months, and he was on the cusp. If only he could've held out for a couple more weeks.

Once you start up again, it's the fast track to lung cancer and a painful death - but let's not get ahead of ourselves here.

The Artist Known as Jake Martinez was alive and, dammit, he wanted a cigarette and wanted it now.

I'm the kind of guy that won't talk others into doing crazy shit but, if they want to get crazy, well, I'm not going to stop them.

So I gave him a smoke.

"Only two a day," he promised me, "and you keep the pack and ration them out to me."

That lasted like a day. He's now up to half-a-pack a day and going strong. Oh, and I no longer have "pack holding" privileges.

I still need to call the tobacco company and let them know I hooked another one, so I can get my free carton.

Yes, that's one of the Unwritten Smokers' Rules. For every new person we hook, us smokers get a carton gratis.
-

= Soup is Good Food =

Every once in a while, I eat at a local family-owned restaurant at which they make their own soup daily.

The other day, it was spicy chicken and rice soup.

It was to die for.

It was like eating a little "bowl of sex."

It was that good.

I even bought a larger container to take home to eat later. Unfortunately, I didn't have anybody to share this "bowl of sex" with, so I ate it alone.

But enough about my masturbatory eating habits.
-

= Runaway Fetus =

The cover story on this week's (9 June '03) cover of 'Newsweek' read: "Should A Fetus Have Rights?"

So, I thought to myself, "Should they?"

I figured I'd first ask a fetus its opinion, but I couldn't... because it's a goddamn fetus!

To quote from 'Newsweek':

"For decades, abortion opponents have offered moral and ethical arguments about protecting the fetus. Now they're building a legal case, defining the fetus - and even the embryo - as an individual entitled to basic human rights...

..."If they are able to make fetuses people in law with the same standing as women and men, then Roe will be moot," says Planned Parenthood president Gloria Feldt.

... Now 28 states have fetal-homicide laws on the books. In many states, the laws take effect only after a fetus is able to live outside the uterus, around 24 weeks. But 14 states cover a developing child from the moment an embryo is implanted in a woman's uterus - well within the legal time frame for an abortion..." (end quote)

What is this country coming to if, sooner rather than later, a fetus will have as many - or more - rights than the woman carrying it?

Why don't we just give fetuses the right to vote? Or lower the drinking age so fetuses can get liquored up?

No, if fetuses want equal rights, they should have to get them the same way women and blacks did.

Organize and march, baby.

Or maybe that should be "potential baby."

And maybe those last two sentences encapsulate the crux of the issue right there.
-

= Bulb of Pete =

Recently, somebody said to me, "Pete, you're not a 60-watt bulb. You're fluorescent!"

I think it was meant as a compliment.

At least I hope so.

2003-06-05T00:44:00.000-07:00

Since my entry on G.W. Bush (May 27 '03) my readership has dropped to about half its usual amount.

I guess some people didn't take too kindly to my comments and stopped reading right quick.

So, out of a sense of fairness, we'll now look at the Democratic presidential candidates for 2004.

My goal, of course, is to offend the OTHER half of my readership, thus reducing the number of hits per day on this blog to a big fat ZERO.

Needless to say... Enjoy.

[ RUNNING ON EMPTY? ]

Many Democrats are running, but who will finish the race? And how many of them strike one as being "Presidential"?

Let's take a look...

HOWARD DEAN (former governor, Vermont)

I've got three words for Dean supporters.

Dukakis.

Mondale.

McGovern.

Sure, there's a slight chance Dean will get the nomination - after all, the Democratic Party faithful eat this far left shit up like most people eat Wheaties for breakfast - but he'd get murderized in a general election.

It'd make the Nixon-McGovern race look like a close call by comparison.

JOHN EDWARDS (U.S. Senator, North Carolina)

John Edwards has a secret plan. He wants to introduce legislation to give the dead the right to vote. Why? Because John Edwards can talk to the dead, and they consistently tell him two things:

1. We're all lifelong Democrats, and dying hasn't changed that.

2. We're all gonna vote for you, John.

So Edwards knows the election is his, if he can just get the "Dead Vote". Oh wait... Wrong John Edward(s). My bad.

RICHARD GEPHARDT (U.S. House, Missouri)

The last time Gephardt ran for president, he had the support of Labor. That was a big plus.

But that was like decades ago. Things change.

Now such support may be viewed as a liability in the eyes of Middle America.

Also, the unions just don't enjoy the power they once had. It used to be, if you crossed them you'd get your legs broken.

Now you pretty much get off with a stern warning.

So, I guess the question is: Can a man be elected president by "stern warning" alone?

That said, Gephardt may be the Dems' last best chance at recapturing the White House in '04. He's "worldly" and politically savvy.

Also, he knows the names of other world leaders. Not that that's a prerequisite to becoming president any longer, but it is something.

He supported the "War in Iraq", which translates (according to my "Political Punditry to English" Dictionary) as "Anti-Terrorism."

If you were Anti-War that translates to "Un-American", which also means your name is probably either Howard Dean or Carol Moseley Braun.

Uh-oh.

Of course, it may as simple as Americans being tired of Bush after four years and will want a little Dick for a change. Who can say?

BOB GRAHAM (U.S. Senator, Florida)

What about Bob? Bob probably says it best when it comes to All That Is Bob.

From a Bob Graham press release (3 May '03):

"Bob Graham Displays Maturity, Expertise and Experience in SC Debate...

...In a lively debate here tonight, U.S. Senator Bob Graham displayed the expertise and experience worthy of the next President of the United States, when he answered a series of questions from his opponents and laid down a marker declaring he comes from "the electable wing of the Democratic Party"...

...Graham was clearly the statesman in the room who the others looked to for insight and Americans will support for the same leadership."

Methinks Bob has a tendency to lay it on a little thick.

He's the consummate Politician's politician.

That's not going to help him.

For some reason, the word "oily" comes to mind. Maybe Graham was a used car salesman in a previous life. I really couldn't say.

Plus, he's from Florida. That state has left a bad taste in voters' mouths ever since the 2000 election. Bad news for Bob.

JOHN KERRY (U.S. Senator, Massachusetts)

Kerry has called for a "new era of service in America", recently unveiling a plan to engage more than one million Americans a year in national service, as part of his campaign.

It includes getting high school students to do community service as a graduation requirement, college tuition in exchange for service, the '100,000 Older Americans in Service' program, and a "rebirth" of the Peace Corps.

It's all about the service, stupid!

Yeah, that's a good way to electrify the electorate.

Get them to do stuff they aren't all that interested in doing in the first place. For free, no less.

Why not promise to raise taxes while you're at it, Kerry?

Obviously, whoever said the Democrats are out of touch with the American public was a complete idiot.

Ok, maybe not.

DENNIS KUCINICH (U.S. House, Ohio)

Hey, Dennis... Howard Dean called.

He wants his campaign rhetoric back.

JOE LIEBERMAN (U.S. Senator, Connecticut)

Well, I had a long entry prepared on Lieberman, but it was full of sex and violence so I had better just say...

C E N S O R E D

...and leave it at that.

CAROL MOSELEY BRAUN (Former U.S. Senator, Illinois)

She's a black woman running as a major party candidate for president.

That's gonna hurt her.

Who would've thunk? Ain't America grand?

I remember when Jesse Jackson ran in the 1980s, and when he started winning primaries most of the big weekly news magazines ran headlines like, "What Does Jesse Want?"

Gee, maybe to be president?

Things may've changed in the last twenty years, but they haven't changed that much. Sure, Moseley-Braun won't have to ride in the back of her campaign bus, but neither does she have a snowball's chance in hell of getting nominated.

No matter how good she may be.

I don't agree with the sentiment, but that's just the way it is.

Yup, ain't America grand?

A cornerstone of her campaign is "investing in children" and their future. She's very pro-children, unlike the other candidates who, I guess, hate children?

REV. AL SHARPTON (Civil Rights Leader)

Recently, a member of his staff informed Sharpton that he is, in fact, running for president.

Reportedly, Sharpton replied, "President of what?" then grumbled about always being the last to know about these things.

So, he went out campaigning. This more or less consisted of standing on a street corner and railing against The Unfair Treatment of Blacks at the Hands of the Rich White Man.

When the TV news crews didn't show up, having already seen this particular episode of "Sharpton Unplugged", he, instead, kissed a few babies and went home.

While at home, he ranted about The Unfair Treatment of Blacks at the Hands of the Rich White Man until dinner was ready.

At which point, he said, "Somebody was cooking dinner? Why am I always the last one to know about these things?"
-

So let's recap, shall we? We have Lieberman, Moseley Braun and Sharpton - who are Jewish, a woman, and black, respectively.

Attention, race fans - we've just hit the winning "Unelectable Trifecta".

Again, I'm not saying I LIKE it... just that that's the way it is in America today.

Then there's Dean and Dean-Lite (aka Kucinich). Like that's gonna happen.

There's Bob Graham, about whom I couldn't say anything that Graham himself couldn't say better and with more false conviction.

And let's not forget Kerry and his "Wake Me Up When It's All Over" campaign. Yawn.

Which leaves us with Edwards and Gephardt.

Flip a coin, people.

No, the best chance the Democrats have in '04 isn't any particular candidate, but how poorly the economy is doing by Election Day. Americans have notoriously short memories and will, by that time, be saying, "What War with Iraq?" and "Middle East Peace Plan? The Middle East of where?"

As some hillbilly once said, "It's the economy, stupid."

Or perhaps President Bush said it best, back in Oct.'02, when he stated, "Let me tell you my thoughts about tax relief. When your economy is kind of ooching along, it's important to let people have more of their own money."

Word!

It's too bad Gary Hart decided not to run. He realistically could've ended up being the nominee.

Instead, he's allegedly banging some chick while his wife is at a rotary club meeting.

See, now THAT'S Presidential!

2003-05-29T13:39:00.000-07:00

While I usually don't review individual movies here, this one isn't so much a movie as it is a Cultural Event. Besides, if you're a blogger, writing about "Matrix Reloaded" is more or less Required By Law, so...

[ TEN THINGS ABOUT "THE MATRIX RELOADED" ]

I went. I saw "The Matrix: Reloaded".

It was a real head scratcher.

Here are some random thoughts...

1. Neo fights an ever-multiplying number of Agent Smiths. When there are, like, hundreds of them and it looks like Neo just might get his ass kicked, he flies away.

Why didn't he just do that in the first place, instead of trying to fight them for like ten minutes?

2. What's the deal with the Albino Twins? It's as if, during script writing, somebody said, "We need a villain that can out-Smith Smith." Then somebody added, "What about TWO villains? And what if we made them twins?" To which, in a stroke of genius, it was said, "I know! We'll make them Albino twins!"

Hey, don't get me wrong: Much like female nudity, I'm all for badass Albinos... if it furthers the plot.

Maybe it was just a way to balance out the larger number of black characters in the sequel. Or maybe it was a way to piss of a segment of the audience that usually doesn't get a chance to be pissed off: the "pigment challenged."

I really don't know.

3. Where the hell was 'Tank'? Instead of just dying, he pulled his bloodied self up in the first movie and saved the day. How was he rewarded? Morpheus fired his ass, evidently. Nice. (Oh wait... I guess it was actually the Wachowski brothers who had fired "Tank"... Never mind.)

As an aside, what the heck is the name of Morpheus' ship? I'm thinking it was called the "Huma-nah-huma-nah-wham-a-lama-ding-dong", but that can't be right, can it?

4. Why does anybody, besides Neo, even go into the Matrix anymore? I mean, they only manage to throw themselves off skyscrapers and get shot or else get blown up while riding on top of a semi, and then Neo has to fly in and pull their fat from the fire.

5. Why does Neo continue to take the advice of the Oracle? She talks in riddles and when he does what she says it leads to all kinds of trouble. Neo should tell that bitch to fuck off once and for all.

6. I was really impressed with the high-speed multiple car crash sequences, until I realized they were mostly created with digital computer technology.

7. I was really impressed with Keanu Reeves' subtle acting and vast emotional range, until I realized it was mostly created with digital computer technology.

8. The first movie gave us slo-mo fight sequences. In the sequel, we get a slo-mo sexy grinding rave dance sequence. I can't wait to see this filter down into other movies over the next few years. The people jumping up during the dirty dancing was a nice touch. Robert Longo would be so proud.

9. The sequel got all philosophical on my ass. It's about CONTROL, stupid. Do we control the technology or does the technology control us? Blah blah blah. Ironic that a film making an anti-tech statement would, itself, not be possible without the cutting-edge computer technology available today. Self-referential philosophy. You gotta love it.

10. I've read that to get the "full effect" of 'The Matrix: Reloaded', one should buy the animation DVD and the interactive game. Yeah, that would complete the "full effect." The "full effect" on my wallet, that is. No thanks, because I'M still in control, stupid.

Don't get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoyed the movie.

Hey, it killed over two hours. You can't ask much more than that when it comes to entertainment

2003-05-27T05:25:00.000-07:00

[ IS GEORGE W. BUSH A 'RAGING POWERHOLIC'? ]

"He was never an alcoholic. It's just he knows he can't hold his liquor." - former President George Herbert Bush, about his eldest son.

When George W. Bush quit drinking for good at age 40, it closed a sometimes unfocused chapter in his life and set into motion a period in which perhaps the "drug of choice" had changed but not, evidently, the associated behaviors.

That previous chapter had also, in the 1970s, included a stint smoking cigarettes and, later, chewing tobacco. Reminiscing about those heady days, during the 2000 presidential campaign, then-candidate Bush mused, "The coolest thing of all was to light up a butt."

A drug is a drug is a drug, as they say.

So, now, the question becomes: Is President Bush (or, as I call him, "Emperor Dubya") a so-called 'dry drunk'?

The definition of "dry drunk" (from http://alcoholism.about.com) reads: "A colloquial term generally used to describe someone who has stopped drinking, but who still demonstrates the same alcoholic behaviors and attitudes."

These attitudes can include judgmental and childish behavior, polarized thinking, obsessive thought patterns, and grandiosity.

In other words, behaviors in direct opposition to his claim to be a "sensitive, compassionate and open-minded leader."

As early as January 2000, during a campaign speech in which he reflected on the 'Cold War' era, Bush stated, "...it was a dangerous world and we knew exactly who the 'they' were. It was us versus them and we knew exactly who them was. Now we're not so sure who the 'they' are, but we know they're there." ("American Unilateralism is Back", Observer UK, 27 January '02)

No doubt, the early makings of "self-will run riot".

Bush's judgmental behavior, and polarized "us versus them" thinking was no more evident than in his treatment of various world leaders in the weeks after 'Iraq War II: The Mother of All Skirmishes'.

To quote:

"President George W. Bush rewarded Australian Prime Minister John Howard for his staunch support for the Iraq war with a ride on Air Force One and a prized overnight stay at his Texas ranch...

... He joins an "A-list" of world leaders in Bush's good books who have visited the Prairie Chapel ranch, including British Prime Minister Tony Blair, Crown Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia, Russian President Vladimir Putin and Chinese President Jiang Zemin.

Howard's treatment contrasts sharply with that meted out to leaders of nations which opposed the US-led war with Iraq, particularly French President Jacques Chirac.

"I doubt he'll be coming to the ranch any time soon," Bush told NBC television in an interview last week..." ("War Buddies Bush and Howard Meet", Agence-France Presse, 2 May '03)

This "all or nothing" attitude, common with the 'dry drunk', is sometimes referred to as "stinkin' thinkin'" in recovery circles. And it wasn't so much that Bush snubbed world leaders that had disagreed with him. That's just politics-as-usual. It was the rather belligerent and public way in which he did it that causes pause.

A telling passage, which may shed some light on Bush's actions, reads:

"Our egomania digs two disastrous pitfalls. Either we insist upon dominating the people we know, or we depend upon them far too much...

...When we habitually try to manipulate others to our own willful desires, they revolt, and resist us heavily. Then we develop hurt feelings, a sense of persecution, and a desire to retaliate." - pp 176, 'As Bill Sees It' (Alcoholics Anonymous)

The genesis of these "rages" came during the post-9/11 period, a time when a little rage was fully understandable and needed, but, alas, it never seemed to fully transform into the long-term, evenhanded resolve one might've expected.

Two weeks after the attacks, Bush stated, "We're not into nation building. We're focused on justice."

His attitude softened a bit once military strikes in Afghanistan ended, when he called on the United Nations, with U.S. participation, to take over the long term rebuilding and stabilization of that country.

Or so it seemed.

Perhaps handing over the "rebuilding" reins was part of the powerholic ebb and flow, or because there was a better "power high" to be had by moving on to the oil-pregnant deserts of Iraq.

Or it could be, with Afghanistan quelled but key members of al Qaeda having scattered in the wind, a more politically savvy target was needed. Both to quench that thirst for power and to appease the American public in order to hold onto that power come 2004.

As was stated, some 30+ years ago, in a study by social psychologists Alan Kerckhoff and Kurt Back, "the belief in a tangible threat makes it possible to explain and justify one's sense of discomfort."

Or maybe it's as simple as one particularly humorous anti-war sign stated: "Drunk Frat Boy Drives Economy Into Ditch, Starts War to Cover It Up."

Bush's "all or nothing" attitude, part of the powerholic's desire to control "people, places and things", is also affecting domestic issues.

To quote:

"A few months ago, Bush seemed poised for success. He worked to help Republicans regain control of the Senate in November and expand their slim majority in the House of Representatives...

...Yet no action is imminent on his most ambitious priorities, such as allowing investment of Social Security taxes in the stock market and giving religious groups a chance to compete for federal funds to run social programs...

Why can't the president get what he wants?

...Some Republican leaders in Congress complain that Bush doesn't seek their advice often enough. Senate moderates are frustrated that he sometimes doesn't seem willing to negotiate. Some Republicans say the president is disdainful of their co-equal branch of government." ("Tension with Republicans...", USA Today, 13 May '03)

But maybe his attitude, if his goals of "fighting terrorism" or passing favored legislation can supercede his "feeding of ego", should be more along the lines of this telling quote:

"More and more we regard all who labor (in the total field of alcoholism) as our companions on a march from darkness into light. We see that we can accomplish together what we could never accomplish in separation and in rivalry." - pp 45, 'As Bill Sees It'

However, if you were a "raging powerholic" you'd probably have a different attitude altogether.

When it comes to grandiosity, the prime example would be Bush's shift toward pre-emptive unilateral military strikes against nations that one day possibly may pose a threat to the U.S.

Again, note Iraq. Ditto Syria and Iran in the near future.

The one exception may be any country that may already possess nuclear capabilities and, by that, I mean North Korea. He may be a powerholic, but Bush isn't stupid.

On a more specific note, one only has to look at "Emperor Dubya's" landing by jet on aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln in early May, in order to make a televised speech onboard.

Perhaps G. Gordon Liddy explained it best, on MSNBC's "Hardball" (8 May '03), when he said, "You know, he's in his flight suit, he's striding across the deck, and he's wearing his parachute harness, you know - and I've worn those because I parachute - and it makes the best of his manly characteristic. You go run those, run that stuff again of him walking across there with the parachute. He has just won every woman's vote in the United States of America. You know, all those women who say size doesn't count - they're all liars."

Ironically, Liddy was defending "The Emperor" who wore new clothes. But then, Liddy is a powerholic from way back. So go figure.

We went from terrorist attacks, to the war with Iraq, and in the post-war era we're back to the attacks.

After suicide bombers killed up to 10 Americans in Saudi Arabia in the first major attack on U.S. targets since the war in Iraq, Bush vowed a "relentless hunt" for al Qaeda, saying, "These despicable acts were committed by killers whose only faith is hate, and the United States will find the killers and they will learn the meaning of American justice." ("Bush Vows to Step Up Fight Against al Qaeda", Reuters, 13 May '03)

While I can basically agree with the sentiment, it is the wording that disturbs me.

It is highly reminiscent of his use of the word "crusade", in describing his focus and resolve to eradicate al Qaeda - and the "axis of evil" harboring similar "evildoers" - in the days immediately following the horrific events of 9/11. At that time, he called it "civilization's fight" between freedom and fear, and added, "God is not neutral between them."

All of which again demonstrates Bush's obsessive thought patterns. The same tape keeps playing ad infinitum.

"The positive value of righteous indignation is theoretical - especially for alcoholics. It leaves every one of us open to the rationalization that we may be as angry as we like provided we can claim to be righteous about it... When we harbored grudges and planned revenge for defeats, we were really beating ourselves with the club of anger we had intended to use on others." - pp. 58, 'As Bill Sees It'

In a very real geopolitical sense, this "beating (of) ourselves" to be orchestrated by the Bush Administration will be played out on the rest of the world stage as an ever-growing resentment and hatred of what America stands for. Is it a country that will be satisfied by taking the "easier, softer way" of only attacking the effects of terrorism, by going after specific individuals or groups, or will it be willing to also walk the harder, longer road of addressing root causes?

So what does one do with a "raging powerholic"?

Some Americans, including the peaceniks at the MoveOn.org Political Action Committee, are planning an "Intervention" for 2004.

http://www.moveon.org/pac/newpres/

By registering a wave of new voters and raising enough money to compete with "Emperor Dubya's" war chest, they hope such an intervention will be successful.

According to the moveon.org press release:

"President Bush believes he doesn't have to listen to the American public -- which, even during war, has overwhelmingly been skeptical or strongly resistant to the idea of an American empire. He has decided that his faith in the military takes precedence over his faith in democracy. The election in 2004 is our chance to take our democracy back. Polls show overwhelmingly that Americans do not trust President Bush to revive the failing economy. They're just as concerned with the Administration's assault on civil rights, civil liberties and the environment. Last week in New Orleans, Presidential Advisor Karl Rove said that this will be a "close, competitive" race. If all of us get involved, it won't just be tight. We'll win."

As much as peaceniks sometime irk me and my granola-hating self, I do believe they may be onto something here.

Perhaps America DOES need a common cause to bring us all together.

And maybe that cause isn't the "war on terrorism."

You know things have gone from bad to worse when I'm even considering voting for the Democratic presidential candidate in the next election.

Whichever candidate is nominated.

Except Howard Dean.

Like that's going to happen, right? Thanks to Dean's far-left political suicide, at least that's one less thing to worry about.

But I digress.

And I didn't even have time to get into Bush's alleged "energy plan", the jist of which is "more" - more oil and gas pipelines, nuclear power plants, refineries, and public land used for industrial services. This despite the fact of diminishing natural resources and 'global warming' (which Bush finally conceded "maybe possibly" is true, but wants to study the issue further.)

That's what we call "denial".

So the title of this entry was, "Is George W. Bush a 'Raging Powerholic'?"

Gee, you think?

[]

CITING SOURCES:

Some of the quotes herein were originally published in:

"Ambling into History" by Frank Bruni

"As Bill Sees It" by Bill Wilson

"Fortunate Son" by J.H. Hatfield

And some material was informed by my reading of:

"The Culture of Fear" by Barry Glassner

2003-05-25T21:58:00.000-07:00

[ DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL... OR SOMETHING TO THAT EFFECT ]

Have you ever had one of those nights when you can't seem to catch your breath, and the pressure in the back of your head is so great you fully expect your eyeballs to be bulging out of your head but you don't want to check in the mirror to see if they are because you know nothing good will come of that? In any case, you're too dizzy to stand so that, as they say, is that.

You feel overwhelmed and can't concentrate enough to watch TV or read so, instead, you lay in the dark and concentrate on being overwhelmed.

You're waiting for Death to come but he's evidently taking his sweet time.

Damn that no good Death anyway.

"Don't call me. I'll call you," he says.

That fucker.

Then you hear quiet sobbing coming from your darkened bedroom and you wonder what the hell is going on in there, until you realize you're the only one in the bedroom but, since it's dark in there and you want to be sure, you give the room the once over.

Yup, you're alone. Never a good sign when sobbing is involved.

Pretty soon, you get tired of waiting for Death to arrive so you get dressed and go out walking.

It's 2AM and nobody else is on the street, except some homeless drunks.

No, they haven't seen Death lately either.

So you can't find Death. He doesn't have a permanent address, which makes him kind of hard to pin down.

Death is like a homeless drunk in that respect.

Eventually, hours later, you end up back at home. You don't know where you've been or how you got back.

The last thing you remember is feeling a bit overwhelmed and then all hell broke loose.

Finally, you're exhausted and go to sleep.

The next morning you feel much better.

You wonder what the heck you were thinking the night before.

To the first friend you see, you answer, "I'm feeling much better today. Thanks for asking." even though what had actually been asked was, "Did you watch the game on TV last night?"

So the friend just shakes his or her head in the affirmative while smiling way too big, figuring you're in no mood to be trifled with.

In retrospect, you wonder if this is what St. John of the Cross had in mind when he wrote 'Dark Night of the Soul', and you'd ask him but, of course, he's dead.

The lucky bastard.

2003-05-20T23:36:00.000-07:00

Various and sundry people have suggested, for some months now, that I post this to the blog. I've been a bit hesitant because, hey, many think "death" is kind of a downer. But what the hell. This entry may go a long way towards explaining my "quirky outlook" on life.

Yes, it's my recollections about...

[ THAT TIME I DIED ]

In short, I had an adverse drug reaction, which caused my heart to stop. Suddenly, I was no longer sitting amongst friends, but found myself... elsewhere.

There I was, floating in an ink-like murky nothingness. However, it was a nothingness that surrounded me. Caressed me. Enveloped me in an unconditional love and compassion the likes of which I had never felt -- not to my recollection, at least -- before or since. Looking down, I saw that my body -- that is, my heavy flesh of a body -- was no more, in its stead was a translucent, yellowish-white outline of my previous self. My projected self-image set into an exquisitely crafted, self-illuminated glasslike sculpture.

So there I was, standing in the proverbial vestibule of death's dark house, when what should I hear -- allegorically speaking -- but a-knockin' at the front door.

Nobody else was coming, so I had to answer death's door. And who should be on the front porch, but the very face of God! Yes, the Holy Ghostest with the Mostest. Mr. "G". (Or is that Ms. "G"?)

The old adage, "Look but don't touch", went right out the window; I instinctively touched the face of God.

And God said unto me, "Hey, hands off the face, pal!" No, I jest. In all seriousness, I understood God to respond, although non-verbally, with what roughly would translate as, "Let there be light."

And so it was, but in this instance, "light" was knowledge. What followed was a rapid, ever-evolving, series of images, the meaning of which was instantly known as I witnessed each. Kind of like seeing, "Life, the Universe and Everything -- Explained!" as if it were a foreign film with (in this case, subliminal) sub-titles.

In the beginning, God was a point of light, matter, consciousness -- everything that was, is, and ever will be -- compressed into this finite being.

But God craved experience, and had the drive -- whether by need, desire, or willingness; mere words are left lacking when it comes to defining the motivation of the finite turned infinite -- to make it so.

And so it came to pass that God transformed from a finite point into the infinite, through a single conscious act.

This act is what scientists call "the big bang".

It is what Christians refer to as "genesis".

Going from one point of light, matter and consciousness; exploding, expanding, transforming infinitely and forever -- becoming what is commonly known as "the universe". (Our concept of which is, in itself, limited by our narrow vision. But that's another subject for another time.)

And, it was shown that each and every far-flung piece of matter -- from a dusty grain of rock on an asteroid, to a blade of grass on Earth, to every soul inhabiting a "fleshy container" called a body on a multitude of worlds -- was, in reality, a little bit of the infinite.

That infinite we call "God".

Separate, yet still connected. With each experience it's own, but also experienced by God.

For us here on Earth, it was revealed, our souls -- independent, yet part of God -- manifest in the physical plane for two distinct purposes. It was in the phrasing of these purposes that "the voice of God" actually spoke, rather than by the instant understanding that accompanied the visions to that point. And what God said, as it applied to each one of us, was this:

''Your purpose here on Earth is two-fold. To learn to love, and for the love of learning.''

And with that, I knew it was time to go, even though I didn't want to leave -- ever -- but somehow knew I must.

Then, I awoke. Back in my body. Later finding out I had had CPR performed on me during the three or four minutes I was gone.

Obviously, from then on, things were never quite the same. But that, too, is a tale for another time.

2003-05-12T07:17:00.000-07:00

Some recent true stories, and observations, in a continuation of The Saga of Pete. If you've read the first six installments of this regular feature, then behold...

[ RANDOM BITS SE7EN ]

= Passerby =

I was headed east down the sidewalk, alongside a large building to my right.

A smartly dressed woman rounded the corner of the building and, as she did, a rather unkempt homeless-looking man on the street corner took two steps toward her.

He still had about ten feet to go before reaching her, but she stopped him dead in his tracks when she snapped, "Don't you be approaching me, or I'll cut your ass!"

A moment later, she had rounded that corner and was going west.

She was now walking in my direction.

I was headed toward her.

We were approaching each other.

"Oh, shit!" I thought. I stopped dead in my tracks.

I took a few steps back and, waving my hands back and forth in front of me, loudly said, "I'm not approaching you! I'm not approaching you! Please don't cut MY ass!"

She looked up at me, while still coming toward my rapidly retreating form, and mumbled, "Ahh.. No, no..."

"I don't want no ass-cutting, lady. Leave my ass be," I said.

"I didn't mean... uhhh..." she added.

She quickly walked past me.

Evidently, she was no longer in an ass-cutting mood.

Wotta Beyatch.
-

= Coffee Cup Philosophy =

I bought myself a cup of coffee this morning.

Printed on the side of the Styrofoam cup was the phrase:

"WHEN I AM EMPTY PLEASE DISPOSE OF ME PROPERLY"

Some days, I know exactly how that cup feels.
-

= Ninety-Nine Cents, More or Less =

It used to be, when you bought the 99-cent "Hot & Spicy McChicken"(tm) Sandwich at McDonald's, it came with a slice of tomato.

Then, it no longer came with tomato but you could request that a slice be added. There was no extra cost.

As of a few weeks ago, McD's started charging an additional 15-cents for tomato.

As it so happened, this last time I ordered a McChicken with tomato, I also wanted a "Big 'N Tasty"(tm) hamburger that I special-ordered with 'no ketchup.'

When I found out they were charging me $1.14 for the 99-cent McChicken, due to tomato, I asked if I'd then be getting the special-ordered "Big 'N Tasty"(tm) for only 84-cents, since I wanted it without ketchup.

"No," the McAutomaton behind the register grimaced, "because tomato is different than ketchup."

And ketchup is made out of WHAT, exactly???

You'd think not only would I get the discount, but also I'd get a bigger discount since there's an additional cost to process tomatoes into ketchup.

Not to mention the cost of putting that "different than tomato"-type ketchup into those tiny plastic packages.

Damn greedy clowns.
-

= The Games Boys & Girls Play =

Sometimes, in the dating game, boys and girls play games with each other.

And not a good kind of game, I might add.

Metaphorically speaking, in these instances, girls excel at chess while boys have mastered checkers.

Suffice to say, it's no contest.
-

= Burning Heart =

My friend, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez, started taking Dexatrim a week ago to lose some weight.

The other night, when we were getting ready to go out for some coffee, he had a headache so popped a couple of aspirin.

Soon thereafter, outside the local coffee house we began to drink our respective cups of "caffeinated courage."

Then, The Artist Known As Jake Martinez threw his arms straight out and put his head down on the table.

He sprang to his feet, mumbled something like, "Blahblah emergency blah", and began sprinting across the street to the nearby fire station.

After about ten minutes, he sheepishly returned.

He said he had gone into the station and asked to be checked out, thinking he had inadvertently taken a lethal dexatrim-aspirin-caffeine combination and had induced a heart attack.

They had told him, "We're not a hospital. This is a fire station. We can't help you. But you should be fine."

Upon hearing this, I then told him, "I guess you should've lit yourself on fire. Then they would've had to have helped you."
-

= Dateline: Poison =

After much deep thought, I've come to this conclusion:

"All Women Are Poison."

At least to me.

And I have yet to discover the antidote.

I'm beginning to think I need to fire the various and sundry "girlie cast" in my life.

I need to hire some fresh female faces - local talent only! - for a whole new show.

This current show of mine, it just ain't working.
-

= To Smoke or Not to Smoke, That is the Question =

When you start getting "winded" when walking across the room to answer the telephone, that might be a sign that, yes, it's time to quit smoking.

Lately, some of my friends who used to smoke, but later quit, have been trying to get me to join the "Non-Smoking" Team.

The other day, I saw my neighbor out on the apartment balcony. She was smoking a cigarette. It was a 'Lucky Strike', for any tobacco company marketing-types keeping score at home.

"What're you doing?" I asked her.

"I'm smoking," she gravelly answered in her unnaturally low smoker's voice.

Then, as if to accent the point, she raised the cigarette to the small hole in her throat and took a long drag.

Soon, the smoke slowly billowed chimney-like out of that hole in her throat. It lazily floated up past her chin and along either side of her face.

She smiled a big yellow-toothed grin.

I would like to quit outright but, it would appear, I'm in the death-grip of a nicotine buzz kill.

So, the next day, I switched from "Full-Flavor" to "Light" cigarettes.

No need to go overboard, I thought.

Before too long, I soon realized that - in order to get the fullest flavor possible from these "Lights" - I was smoking twice as many cigarettes per day than I had been before the switch.

And I was still running on empty.

Maybe I had *cough cough* better rethink this whole *hack hack* plan. I think I need *cough cough* help.

[]

2003-05-08T03:27:00.000-07:00

[ WELL, SPANK MY MONKEY... IS IT "MASTURBATION MONTH" ALREADY? ]

From the "Is a Holiday REALLY Needed for THIS?!?" department...

In a stroke of genius, May has been declared 'Masturbation Month' by a whole handful of apparently sexually frustrated folks.

Well, whack myself with a big stick and paint me horny!

Yes, in case you were wondering, I *am* going to work in as many self-love sexual innuendos as humanly possible.

Why? For much the same reason people masturbate in the first place.

Because I can.

On May 3rd, more than 100 men and women gathered in San Francisco for what organizers said was the city's second annual public "Masturbate-a-Thon." The event was a fund-raiser for the local Center for Sex and Culture, a non-profit organization that provides sex education. Close to $1200 was raised. So to speak.

While that particular event is pretty much spent, don't worry - there's plenty more where that came from.

On Sunday, May 18th - because Sundays aren't just for resting anymore - the Oakland CA-based business Toys in Babeland will be sponsoring an event to raise funds for the Audre Lorde Project and the People of Color Against AIDS Network, two projects supporting HIV prevention, safe sex outreach and sex positive health care.

Yes, most of these events are for a good cause. Beyond that of self-gratification, I mean.

As with some of these Masturbate-A-Thons, participants need sponsors in order to raise funds.

Some items to note, to make sure one pulls this thing off successfully because - as we all well know - if you don't it'll only led to disappointment and, eventually, self-hatred...

"* Get your friends to sign the sponsorship form and sponsor you for every minute you masturbate on May 18th.

* On Sunday, May 18 treat yourself to a day of self-love. How you do it is up to you - it's all on the honors system. Take note of how much time you spent masturbating and write it down on this form.

* Tally up how much your friends owe you based on your pledges and collect the donations."

Obviously, before collecting those donations, wash your hands thoroughly. Please.

The nifty sponsorship form has columns for "Name of Sponsor" (it doesn't say if using the name "Anonymous" is acceptable, for those who're a little nervous about having their ACTUAL real name recorded), "Dollars Per Minutes Pledged", and "Number of Minutes", so as to avoid any sticky situations later.

Another adult shoppe, 'Come As You Are' in Toronto ON, is hosting a day of solo sex on May 24, to raise funds for Voices of Positive Women - a community based, member driven agency which provides free and confidential support and advocacy to HIV positive women.

According to its website, "The event will be held on the honour system and you decide how long you want to masturbate in the privacy of your own home. The top fundraisers in each category will win some wonderful prizes."

It doesn't say what first prize is, but my suggestion would be this: an actual living sex partner, so the winner can - ahem! - stop talking to the hand.

This month of frenzied, yet pleasurable, activity can be satisfactorily concluded with a Portland OR-based event, which has been sub-titled a "hand orgy".

No, I'm not making that phrase up.

Admittance cost to this RSVP-only night is on a - gulp! - sliding scale, and the evening will include "fun masturbation games" and, for those who work up a powerful hunger, a "potluck and full kitchen."

Yes, don't forget people - you must keep up your strength.

And, for god's sake, pace yourselves.

For the sexually repressed who don't wish to participate, but still want to show their - ahh! - support, you can simply donate to the "CamLives Celebrity Masturbate-A-Thon". All monies go to the Feminist Women's Health Center. However, before you go beating a path to the nearest search engine to find these brave gals, please note: It's not an "on-cam" thing.

Awww, where's the fun in that?

Of the four contestants listed, poor pink-haired and pierced Ellen has only raised a paltry $42 as of this writing. So get your freak on, people. Show her some lovin'. Hell, she's a cutie. I'd do her. If she weren't so busy getting her hand "caught in the cookie jar" and all.

Yes, it's about fuckin' time we stopped being "the master of our domain." If anything proves that, it's a recent article from 'New Scientist', published 02 May '03, which reads in part...

"A horrific venereal disease is preying on baboons in eastern Africa. An estimated 200 animals have been infected and scientists are scrambling to identify the mystery microbe that is attacking them.

The disease targets the reproductive organs of the primate. The consequences for male baboons are particularly gruesome, says Elibariki Mtui, of the African Wildlife Foundation in Arusha, Tanzania. "The genitals kind of rot away, then they just drop off," he told New Scientist." (end quote)

When I saw that, I couldn't help but think of a BBC article (01 Feb.'99) about the origin of AIDS, which read in part...

"The origin of the main HIV virus that causes Aids in humans has been discovered by an international team of scientists.

A chimpanzee named Marilyn enabled them to confirm that the Aids virus first passed into people from a particular sub-species of chimp in the Central African rainforest.

Infected chimps do not develop Aids and it may now be possible to learn why. This would greatly help efforts to prevent and treat the disease in humans.

Human infection occurred in the first half of the century as a result of people hunting and eating the chimps, the scientists believe. This practice continues today.

The team said that genetic tests show the main human virus, HIV-1, is closely related to a virus that infects chimps but does not make them sick." (end quote)

Lord knows I don't want MY penis to rot and drop off in a few years, just because some baboon can't keep it in his pants today.

So, that's why I'm supporting this annual self-love event. That, and the fact that I only masturbate once a year on average anyway.

I swear.

Also, I'm doing it because, hey, I'm a Blogger. Since much of the blogosphere is more or less about masturbation anyway - of the mental variety at least - I'm sure this month-long event will find much support among my contemporaries.

Now I must be going. For some reason my eyesight is failing, and I must shave my palms before going completely blind.

Thank you. (No, thank YOU, Pete!)

2003-05-06T00:16:00.000-07:00

And now for something completely different...

[ THE 'ALL FICTION' CHAPTER ]

= The Magician & the Proctologist =

Having toured the country for months now, performing at county fairs and the occasional business convention, the magician had been short-tempered and irritable for days.

Finally, his female assistant told him, "I don't know what's up your ass, but if your attitude doesn't improve - and quick - you'd better see a specialist."

The assistant was half-kidding, of course, but the magician - being as irritable and short-tempered as he was at the time - didn't realize it.

So, during a stopover in the next small town, the magician went to see an old country doctor.

After hearing about the symptoms, the doctor had the magician drop his pants and bend over.

"Let's have ourselves a little look-see," the doctor said.

He pulled on rubber gloves, with a snap, and dabbed a little Vaseline on his forefinger.

The magician's ass was thoroughly inspected.

"I think I see the problem."

With a firm grip, the doctor pulled a glass coca-cola bottle out of the magician's ass.

"If I had five-cents for every bottle I returned, after pulling it out of somebody's ass, I'd be a rich man indeed," he commented.

The magician started to reach for his pants, but the doctor stopped him.

"Keep bending over," he said, "I think I see something else." He got out his penlight and probed a little deeper.

He began pulling a red scarf out of that ass, but soon found it was tied to an orange scarf.

He kept pulling.

Soon, he had pulled about eight feet worth of scarves, all tied end to end, out of the magician's ass.

It was like a magic trick gone horribly wrong. All the colors of the rainbow were there.

The magician, for his part, sheepishly grinned.

"I better make a closer inspection," the doctor said, as eight feet of scarves lay about his feet.

"Oh Lord," he added, "I think something's moving up there!"

He held the penlight in his mouth. This job was going to take both hands.

He dug deep and, soon, gingerly worked a small white rabbit out of the magician's ass.

"I guess you just tumbled onto a magic trade secret," the magician said. "Now you know where we keep the rabbit before pulling it out of the hat. I hope you can keep a secret, doc."

"Hippocratic Oath, and all that, my boy. Your secret is safe with me. As long as you pay your bill on the way out."

The doctor placed the rabbit on the floor. It gently hopped to and fro.

The rabbit, for its part, was quite bewildered. It was expecting to find itself in a hat and, now, this had happened.

It liked the hat. The hat was comfortable and roomy. Much more so than that ass.

But this room it now found itself in was, quite frankly, a bit much. Too roomy, in fact. It made the rabbit nervous and confused which, as far as hare behavior goes, is pretty much the norm. But this particular rabbit was more so than is usual.

"And that," the doctor muttered, "is that."

He took off his rubber gloves and fished a pack of cigarettes out of his front shirt pocket. It was against the rules to smoke in a doctor's office but, the old country doctor figured, it was his office and he could do as he damn well pleased.

As the magician started to pull up his pants again, the doctor was looking around for the lighter. It wasn't in his shirt pocket, nor his pants.

"Wait one cotton-pickin' minute," the doctor ordered, placing his hand squarely on the magician's back and pushing him back down.

The doctor reached his hand back up the magician's ass, and soon produced the lighter.

"Dadgummit," the doctor said, "I'm always leaving that thing lying around and end up losing it."

He then hung a cigarette from his lip, lit that "bad boy" up, and took a cool drag.
-

= One-Fisted Tales of Love =

Late night at a bar, close to final call, the men mused and mumbled about all the women they'd known and loved. Reminiscing about those few brief moments of attraction, and comfort, in their otherwise lonely lives.

"That last dame I nailed was my neighbor, Karlotta, down the hall," Carl started. "I had just polished off two bottles of whiskey. I was feeling pretty good. She came in, without knocking, and began strutting around my room. She pulled up her skirt past her thighs, sat on my lap, and asked me what I had to drink. She wasn't the best-looking woman I'd ever seen, but not bad either. Mostly it was her deformed left ear. It looked like the ear of a boxer on a really awful losing streak. Cauliflowered and jagged....

...We downed another bottle of the hooch between us. She started to look real fine. Hell, *I* started to look good too. The next thing I knew, she's literally ripping the clothes off of me. I'm returning the favor. Soon we're on the bed, going at it like a pack of hungry wolves. She's screaming, "Do me, daddy! I've been a very bad girl!" Quite frankly, boys, although I'm ashamed to admit it, it kept me hard a lot longer than usual....

...Later that night, while we were smoking some Lucky Strikes, I pushed her hair back and gave her ears another gander. The right one was pierced multiple times, and an assortment of brightly colored beads and loops were in it. The left one was unadorned. So, while gently stroking her cheek I said to her, "You should put those beautiful earrings in your other ear, instead. It needs all the help it can get, sweetie.""

Kenny interrupted, "Dude, I met this one chick at the bus stop, if you can believe that shit. Mona was her name. She gave me her phone number and asked for mine. I told her I'd call her the next day. She called me that night; you know what I'm saying? Three times. The last time was at 1AM. We talked until the sun came up. At some point, what we liked in bed came up. I was honest, for once; it must've been the late hour and total lack of sleep. I don't know what the hell I was thinking; you know what I'm saying? I told her I liked handcuffs and a blindfold. As soon as that came out of my mouth, I figured she'd just hang up. Did I mention it was really, really late? Anyway, she replied, 'I prefer ropes.' That was the moment I fell for her. It was true love, you know what I'm saying..?

...The next thing I knew, I was banging her all the time, dude. I was calling in sick to work, just so I could bang her. I lost my job. I didn't care, cuz I was getting laid, you know what I'm saying? But before too long the relationship was suffocating me. After only two months, Mona wanted to get hitched. I didn't want to be tied down. No pun intended, guys."

Well," Tom interjected, "I was married once. To my high school sweetheart, in fact. Her name was Kelly. I used to call her my "little kelly bean." Her eyes would light up when I'd say that....

...Somewhere along the way, things went horribly wrong. Maybe I was working too hard. Maybe it was having kids. Maybe I don't know what the heck it was, but it sure was something. One day, out of the blue, Kelly asked me to move out of the house. It hit me like a ton of bricks; I don't mind telling you that. We tried counseling, it didn't work. We separated. I sent her gift after gift, trying to win her heart again. Flowers. Chocolates. Even a puppy at Christmas. She always liked dogs, you know. I pretty much threw everything I could think of against that wall, just hoping to heck something would stick and she'd take me back....

...Then I heard she had a new boyfriend. I went over to the house. Boy, was I pissed. Her living in my house, with my kids, and some snot-nosed punk. I probably shouldn't have broken the front door down. Looking back now, I realize that was my first mistake. My screaming at her didn't help either. That was probably a mistake too. I remember Kelly standing there, her eyes wide and her body shaking. Then she turned tail and ran into the bedroom. I chased after her. That was mistake number three...

...When I awoke in the hospital, I was told by the doctors that I had been shot four times at point-blank range. I didn't even know she had bought a gun. I don't remember being shot. The divorce was final a week later."

All three men looked up as the perky, young waitress came by.

"Last call, boys," she said, leaning over the table and smiling. All three men simultaneously eyed her ample breasts.

"We're ok, thanks," Carl muttered.

After she left, the men played a game of Roshambo ('paper - scissors - rock') to see which one of them would get to ask her for her phone number. It was best two out of three.

Those were the best odds any of them had seen in quite some time.

[]

2003-05-03T05:04:00.000-07:00

A new video clip has been added under PETE MEDIA. It is an actual TV news clip chronicling my misadventures with the Virgin Mary. (See other link, "Pete Vs. Virgin Mary" under same header, for the full story first, if you weren't a reader when it was originally posted.) Thanks for forwarding the video link, Kale! You swing, pal. For going above and beyond, I've ordered you up 72 virgins. They are waiting for you in heaven even as you read this. And the best part is, you don't have to blow up jihad-style to earn them. You've more than earned the honor by unselfishly making the vid-clip available. So, after you die, have at it. And now, on with the show...

[ LOVE IS A MANY SPLENDORED THING... YEAH, RIGHT! ]

1. The Girls I've Known

More rambling ruminations about one of my favorite subjects:

As the late Elvis Presley would've said, "Girls, Girls, Girls."

Actually, he also might've said, "Them girls in this here porno magazine sure are purdy... Oh, my heart! My heart!" before taking a header off the Graceland master bedroom toilet, but that isn't relevant to the story I'm telling.

So let's move on, shall we?

I met a real purdy grrl via our respective web logs. That should've clued me in right there. Two words: "blog romance". Or the possibility thereof. When your life starts to turn into a 'hip' news headline, it's probably time to run screaming. But, obviously, I'm none too bright. Add to that, I have a tendency in life to step off the precipice into the abyss with my eyes closed, going on little more than faith that the landing will be a soft one. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

It was all light-hearted banter and humorous Tete de Tete, with a subtle undercurrent of sexual tension. After a few days, she invited me to come visit. We both agreed it justf elt "right". She - and I - wanted to see what, if anything, could develop. Oh, did I mention she lives hundreds of miles away? In any case...

Her friends thought she was a bit nutty. My friends told me I was "entering the danger zone". Blah blah blah.

Neither of us seemed to care, as we're both the "outrageous and impulsive" type.

But, when push came to shove a week or so later, and I suggested some definite travel plans, she seemingly back pedaled so fast that her ass all but left tire tracks in the road. (Well, at least that's my interpretation.)

Her final excuse for nixing the plans? "Oops, I just found out, my housemate has the exterminators coming out that weekend, and she asked me if I can stay with friends for a few days, so your visiting won't be possible." (This after she had informed her housemate four or so days earlier that I'd probably be coming then.)

In the lameness-to-plausible excuse spectrum, everybody I've told the story to has placed this one squarely at the "lameness" end of things.

Unless, of course, the house is so overrun by vermin and insects that extermination just can't wait. I received no confirmation on such a large infestation, so can only wonder.

Other weekends in the foreseeable future just aren't workable, for a variety of reasons. Details aren't important. Just trust me on this point, ok?

And so it goes. When I emailed to ask just what the heck was going on, I didn't hear back. As of this writing, I still haven't. So it's time for the ole "vent and purge" routine. Please excuse the mess, readers. I am truly sorry for the spectacle that is my love, or lack thereof, life.

I don't know. Maybe she met her "outrageous and impulsive" match in me and, quite frankly, it kind of scared her. From what she said, most boys tell her she's "too much" just prior to dumping her. Personally, I found her kind of charming.

Or maybe she's not as "outrageous and impulsive" as she'd like to think. Perhaps, coming off a decade-plus marriage just over a year or so ago, this recently divorced grrl is just "sowing her wild oats" through massive partying and drinking. Oh, and by inviting this 'blogger bad boy' to come visit, even if he is apparently the one guy that seems to "get" her, despite only talking (via email and by phone) intensely over the course of a couple of weeks.

Who the hell can say? I can't and she's not talking. First she wants to meet me and now it's as if she doesn't even gno me. Perhaps she's just Shy And..?

Which brings us to a segue point into the next disaster.

It's Mia the Web-Cam Girl, whose exploits I've noted previously. (See "Web-Cam Fun!", 3/25/03, and "Dreaded R-Word", 4/14/03; in "Random Bits" IV & V columns respectively.)

She's what I call a "friend with privileges", which is just a politically correct way to say, "Sex but no strings attached."

I hadn't seen Mia for about three weeks. She had been busy with her business and that husband of hers and such. But she called me one day previous to the aforementioned "visit cancellation due to extermination notice" routine. I said we should get together, "over coffee or something", to talk.

"Or something?" she hinted.

"No, just coffee." I replied

I had planned on telling Mia that the sexual hijinks were off, because I'd cyber-met somebody else, whom I planned on visiting. Just to see what might develop there. Yes, I was hip to the possibility of development.

So, over coffee in a public place, I thought about how I'd pull all this off. Without sounding like a jerk or a complete nut, I mean. But before I could start, Mia says:

"I've made a decision, and you probably aren't going to like it..."

As it turns out, Mia's husband "accidentally" found all the email exchanges she'd had with past "friends with privileges" on her computer. He then "accidentally" read about a year's worth of these saved exchanges.

Note to all married people: If you're going to have cyber-affairs, never ever save the evidence on your hard drive, because - after all - "accidents" do happen.

In any case, one "friend" in particular had sent Mia nude web-cam shots of himself and, obviously, her husband was a might more upset over this fact than he was over the simple email exchange with the others.

When the exhibitionist in question found out (Mia emailed him to tell him, even though they'd been out of contact for over six months), he came back into her life.

And now, as she was telling me, Mia was all too ready to leave her husband for this particular friend. It just felt "right". There was a connection between them that she said she didn't really have with the hubby.

In one respect, I was relieved. By her speaking first, I went from "dumper" to "dumpee" which, considering what I had planned to say wasn't too bad of a deal.

But, in another respect, it really irked me.

I thought to myself, "Why can't I meet a woman who is so intensely interested in ME that she'd be willing to move heaven and earth just to be together?"

Oh sure, I'm urbane and witty and such, and fun to hang around with - a regular "good time Charlie" - but, hey, when it gets down to brass tacks... bump bump bump another one bites the dust, as Freddy Mercury would say if he wasn't, you know, dead and all.

End chapter two. But that's not all!

Late last night - that is, 12:30AM - somebody I dated for a couple of weeks in February called me out of the blue. That would be Shelley. (See "The One About the Sleep Over", 3/4/03, in 'Random Bits III' for back-story.)

She's been sick lately, and wanted somebody to talk to I guess. In the course of the conversation, she mentioned she is now dating a musician-type. I don't know why she called me instead of him. After all, he IS a musician-type, so chances are he'd be up at 12:30AM, right?

My best guess? Slow torture. Of me. But what the hell do I know? It is only a guess on my part.

So that's the story of my supposed alleged love life in the last two weeks.

Ironically, I'm really not a "player". If I'm single then, yes, I play. But if I get into a relationship (Big-R relationship, as in boy/girl-friend type), then I'm honest and loyal to that woman. I'm like a goddamn dog in that respect. I never cheat on girlfriends. Ever.

Yes, my cynical and sarcastically hard exterior hides my rather sensitive nature. Or some shit to that effect.

So, thanks for reading. I'd rather "talk" to you than a professional. First, it's a lot cheaper than the $100/hour some of these fancy-shmancy psychologists charge. Second, by blogging it, I don't have to hear the suppressed laughter my lovely tales of woe engender.

Earlier this evening, I went to the big monthly downtown Phoenix "First Fridays" unguided tour of the art galleries. All the hipsters and shysters were there to see and be seen. While hanging out, a girl kissed me tonight for no other reason than she found me cute. It was some intense kissing, and not half bad either. What with the kissing and the intensity and so forth.

So maybe there's hope yet. Not so much for the possibility of anything meaningful, obviously, but at this point I figure I can do one of two things:

a. Even though I detest them and don't have them, try out the "one-night stand" thing I've heard so many wonderful things about. Or...

b. Become a born-again Christian, and join a monastery until I'm old and gray and, finally, die.

It's a tough choice.
-

2. Girl-to-Boy Translations

As most boys already realize, girls speak a foreign language. They hide the "Girl to Boy Translation" Dictionary from us. Yup, we've pretty much been on our own.

Until now.

A few passages have surfaced and, thank the Patriarchal God, us boys got a hold of them. Here's what was found:

"It's not you. It's me."
Translation: It's definitely you, pal!

"I hope we can still be friends."
translation: I hope we can be friends. The kind that never speak to each other again. Ever.

"I like a sensitive man."
translation: Sensitive to my needs and desires. But if you actually start crying, I'm so out of here.

"I don't want to hurt you."
translation: When I cut your heart out, I'll do you the courtesy of not handing it to you while its still beating. I hope you appreciate my kindness.

"I don't mind if you go out drinking with the guys, instead of spending the evening with me."
translation: If you actually go, you are so dead.

"I'm going to do (fill in activity here)"
translation: I'm really going to do (fill in complete opposite of activity listed above), and then fully expect you to be understanding when you find out the truth.

"I've never faked an orgasm with you."
translation: Not only have I faked them plenty of times, I'm faking one right now even AS I SPEAK.

When given these translations, most boys shook their head and said, "I really didn't want to know that!" They then both spit and grabbed their crotch in public to emphasize the point.

The girls denied the authenticity of the purported translations, and immediately changed the subject by complaining about their finding the toilet seat left up AGAIN.

(Note: Some of my translations first appeared in one of the 'Comments' sections on the Gnome-Girl blog @ http://www.gnome-girl.com)

[]

2003-04-30T11:28:00.000-07:00

(( NOTE: If you're still arriving at my world via the 04_01 - or earlier - monthly archive URL, the latest stuff is in 05_01 archive or main page URL. So go there. Now.)
-

[ BOOTY CALL TO ACTION ]

Dem broads have their panties in a twist... again.

This time, the righteous anger is directed at the Wal-Mart retail chain.

It's always something!

To wit (quoting from CBS News, "Angry Workers Up The Ante At Wal-Mart", 4/29/03):

"Wal-Mart is on the receiving end of what could become the largest class action employment lawsuit in U.S. history...

...The documents, detailing more than 100 complaints by women against the company, are part of a nearly 2-year-old lawsuit against the Bentonville, Ark., retail chain, the nation's largest private employer.

A hearing is set for July 25 in which attorneys for the women will ask a federal judge to elevate the seven-plaintiff suit into a nationwide, class action sex discrimination case."

There are basically two complaints.

The more sensational, and less serious, of the two - which, of course, tops the news article(s) due to its "shock" value - is that male managers at Wal-Mart Stores Inc. have "required" their female counterparts to attend meetings at strip clubs and - ahem! - Hooter's restaurants.

Now that the offended wimmen have said "no more", by having their lawyers file documents in federal court, I have to ask -- whatever happened to just plain "no"? Maybe that could've avoided this so-called "more".

Too often in this world, people will simply go along with something - even if they know it's wrong - so as not to rock the boat. Then, at some point, when they've finally had enough, they sue. Welcome to the New LitigiousWorld Order.

This is the same reason why Hitler would've eventually been sued by the Jews. If he hadn't, you know, killed them all before a class action lawsuit could be filed.

I'd be much more sympathetic if a woman (or group of women) at Wal-Mart had refused to attend such a meeting, due to its offensive locale, and had been fired. Then filed a wrongful termination/sexual discrimination suit. Sometimes it's better to stand up for yourself, consequences be damned, than to just "go along" with the stupidity. Maybe that attitude is a "guy thing", or maybe I'm just funny in the head.

Of course, the Cynic in me has to ask: Did they go along with it out of fear, or because it began to dawn on them that, perhaps, there WAS a Light at the End of the Big Settlement Tunnel?

I can understand the part about strip clubs. That is a little overboard and, quite frankly, just plain wrong.

But Hooter's restaurants? What next?

Will obese Wal-Mart employees follow suit, and sue management for "requiring" them to eat unhealthy, fattening food during a meeting held at a crap-restaurant?

And I can't help but wonder what would've happened if the roles had been reversed, and a female manager had "required" her male underlings to attend a staff meeting at Chippendales. Probably nothing, because men don't talk about being sexually "violated". It just isn't manly to talk about such things. Unless, of course, you're a man who happens to reside in a maximum-security prison. Then it's pretty much the topic de jour. But that's another column entirely.

If the "Hooter's" portion of the suit isn't tossed out and the case is won with that intact, I wonder where it will end.

McDonald's Scenario:

Male Cashier: "Would you like to try a 'Hot & Spicy' McChicken sandwich today? Would you like to Super-Size those fries?"

Female customer: "What the hell did you mean by 'hot & spicy'?" (Later in court) "When he said that, I felt so cheap! And when he said 'super-size', he was all but whipping out his penis just by his words alone!"

Diner scenario:

Waiter, after pouring coffee, says: "Would you like a little cream in that?"

Woman (in court later): "I know what he really meant by so-called 'cream in that'. I felt emotionally raped by his insensitive question!"

And so it goes.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm fair-squared against harassment. But I'm equally against stupidity and frivolity.

Which is why, if proven true in court, I think the second - more substantial - part of this class action suit has merit.

Again, to quote CBS News:

"The suit charges that Wal-Mart, which also operates Sam's Club, systematically discriminates against female employees across the nation by denying them promotions and equal pay.

The suit, filed in San Francisco in June 2001, alleges there are nearly double the number of women in management at competing retail stores and that male Wal-Mart workers get higher pay than women for the same duties. It also says the retailing giant passes over women for promotions and training..."

Sadly, with the way the world works, this is probably the rule rather than the exception in corporate and retail business circles. So, I hope, through this suit, the plaintiffs strike a blow for broads everywhere.

*Begin Heavy Sarcasm Alert*

Things used to be much simpler. Then we men stopped demanding that women be ever pregnant. We allowed them to wear shoes. We showed them that, yes, there was a world outside of the kitchen.

And just look at how they've repaid their benevolent masters!

*End Heavy Sarcasm Alert*

Obviously, Wal-Mart is downplaying this whole "unpleasant episode."

According to spokesperson Mona Williams, "The fact that a man might force female associates to bars and places like that to have meetings, it's very offensive to me and everybody else at Wal-Mart. That's not who we are. We might have some knucklehead out there that thinks that's OK to do. But that's not who we are or how we think."

She added that the briefs illustrated "isolated complaints" against the company.

The fact that the designated spokesperson is a WOMAN proves one of two things: Either that women can move up the Wal-Mart ladder, thus the suit has little merit, or... more likely... that the corporate lawyers are pretty darn slick, and have taken the public relations offensive by having a woman speak, thus both blunting the impact of such a suit through "maximum spin control" and raising the question of its merits.

One final note: The CBS article noted that Wal-Mart Stores Inc is "the nation's largest private employer", which, to some extent, goes a long way toward answering the question:

"What's wrong with America today?"