Ode to My Pants

Dear item of clothing that is my black Levis. Oh how I cherish thee. You have been with me for nearly half my life. 13 years to be exact. The places we have been and the souvenir of scars you have accumulated. Stains of paint from the first few years in art school. Fabric wear at the knees from all the dank venues I’ve performed in. And all throughout, you only became more comfortable. Feels like a warm towel yet looks like an unmade bed.

If you would forgive my recent lack of resourcefulness to properly patch you up. It seems you have fell upon a mortal would – a huge rip at the crotch area (ladies). I may know of fixing things right, my intentions we’re more of fixing things NOW. Held it together with nothing more than duct tape I did! Tolerate you did to this back alley procedure but I knew you we’re hurtin’.

Could it be that you are telling me that your time is nearing an end? A bitter pill to swallow this revelation will be. The question is whether to accept –or- to rise and say “we will rebuild it! we can MAKE IT BETTER!”

I like getting as much mileage as I can from the things I buy. Bionic pants. You’ll see. Just you wait.

Playing Ketchup. You’re Doin It Wrong.

And now, another segment in a series of excerpts from a two hour conversation between two people who haven’t seen each other in 12 years. Here were the opening arguments.

CHELE
So what do you do now? As in for work.

ME
Y’know that thing I did for ya? Your little website. Well I’ve kinda been doing that. Just kept going from there.

CHELE
Well why don’t you just say you’re a graphic designer?

ME
Right. You’re right. We’ll what do you do?

CHELE
Well I do this thing where they pay me to walk back and forth on this runway. I’ll wear different outfits. Sometimes they’ll have me act out characters like I could be a bitch at one time and a pretty little ballerina at another.

ME
So why didn’t you say you’re a model?

CHELE
…

ME
…

THEY STARE AT EACH OTHER QUIZZICALLY

END

Adventures In Customer Service

SCENE: Gloria Jeans, Sta Lucia Mall. Sunday afternoon. 

BARISTA:
Good morning, este, good afternoon sir. May I take your order?

ME:
One large chocolate chip blended cream please.

BARISTA:
And what size would that be sir?

ME:
I will cut off your penis and balls.

END SCENE 

On Facial Hair

She broke up with me two days later
I think she met her don juan in italy
She has a new man
I have a new mustache
Now all my friends are gonna call me mountain man
And everyone will think that i’m a stupid drifter
To walk the earth alone
I’ll never shave again
On the night she left me
Facial hair grew miraculously
I dressed in black like johnny cash
And grew this beard of shame

- Razorburn, Lagwagon

I can romance the idea to something of a huge turning point in life but the silly punk song sums it up pretty well. She always hated my facial scruff growing into excess. Can’t say it was a definite reason for the breakdown of a 5 year relationship but it was one of the nails to the coffin.

At that point, as the song suggests, I just let go.  I’ll trim the thing here and there but for the most part I kept it going. Is it wrong to like the idea that it just makes me all the more look like an unmade bed no matter what I wear? No formal events in the calendar to make me consider shaving right now. It’s not even a good beard. I don’t think a clean cut Tony Stark look would work for me. I was aiming for an evil Obi Stane beard. It just adds to my already scary reputation in the office. I’m surprised to see others following in my lead. So now you see, I can’t stop. Because as I always say: Anything worth doing, is worth tits.

Ball Point Fish Tattoo

And now, the first in a series of excerpts from a two hour conversation between two people who haven’t seen each other in 12 years. What was once though to become a reunion of pleasantries turned out to be a competition of snark making up for lost time.

ME
(points at red-lined illustration of a fish on Chele’s upper ankle.)
So what’s with the fish?

CHELE
It’s a tattoo.

ME
Oh. Figured you just scribbled it with a red ball-point.

CHELE
No, it’s a tattoo. Brandon designed it. For me.

ME
Brandon?

CHELE
Boyd. From Incubus. We’re friends.

ME
Ah. Cool. I can do that.

CHELE
Do what?

ME
Scribble anything on my leg and say someone famous did it.

CHELE
 …

ME
Like I could draw a unicorn on my leg, show it to people back home. They’d ask “what’s that?” “Rick Allen did it” I’d say. “You know. Drummer from Def Leppard? One arm? We’re pals.”

THEY STARE AT EACH OTHER QUIZZICALLY

END

On Nosebleeds

I’ve been known by many things in the workplace: scary, snobbish, creepy, sarcastic, scary. Yet once recent term or designation got my attention for it has summed up all of that – nosebleed.

“What is this ‘nosebleed’ of which you speak?” Patrick Stewart might ask. I will tell you. A nosebleed is when one communicates in a manner of speech that is far above comprehension of the normal man. As if you were explaining complex quantum physics resulting in the listener’s head to explode. Only in this case, simply speaking full fluent English is sufficient enough to give my coworkers gushing nosebleeds.

Not that they can’t follow the words, so neatly wrapped in a handsome man voice, that are coming out of my mouth. They just feel like it’s such a chore to do so. They already spend their 9 to 5 dealing with Americans that they only wish to converse in their native tongue when getting off the phone. Instead only to find me there, fists armed with brass knuckles in the shape of 10 syllable words, relentlessly clocking them right in the nose.  

A more considerate coworker would take this as a sign to perhaps change. And maybe I would have liked to meet one of these people. And maybe impress some words into his face in a quasi violent manner until I achieve a triple word score.

Blood is everywhere. And I am scrabble super champion.