Trek of an Aspiring Writer

Wed, 21 May 2008 22:12:45 GMT

Tonight I am going to my first writers group. Its the Long Beach Writer's Group. I'm nervous as hell. I enjoy my writing but its always easy for me to talk to my keyboard with my fingers. Its never been easy for me to talk to people face to face. I am positive too that I will be nothing like any of the other people. I look like a bouncer instead of a wanna be writer. I've tried several times today to come up with a plausible excuse to not go - couldn't find one.

I know I have a lot to learn, as a writer. I know that meeting other writers is the best way to learn. One thing I like about writing is the solitude. I'm sure that once I get there I will relax and everything will be fine.

Presidential Debate

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 19:03:57 GMT

I watched the Hillary Clinton and Barrack Obama debate the other night in Philly. It was actually a pretty good debate. Both candidates scare the shit out of me though.

Hillary is a flat out liar. Everything that comes out of her mouth is either a total lie or the truth is stretched really thin. This woman has not had an original thought in a decade. Has anyone noticed that her accent changes all the time?

Barrack Obama scares me because he has some strange views about Middle America. No matter how he tried to back track out of that statement it doesn't work. My view on his explanation is this: if he mangles his speeches that he practices over and over again and he mangles the speeches that his people give him to practice over and over again, how can you trust how he will act under pressure if he becomes president.

Now for the aftermath of the debate. I am so sick of these fucking talk heads that call themselves journalists. Come on now, if Charles Gibson and George Stephanopoulos had asked weak and easy questions they would have been hammered for being too weak and easy on the candidates. But since they asked hard questions they were hammered for that. When are people going to stop listening to journalists. They are too opinionated in their reporting of the news to be fair and balanced.

What an Idiot I am

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 00:59:36 GMT

Sometimes I should listen to people's advice a little more often. An IT friend of mine kept telling me that I needed to stop saving all my writings on my C drive(on my laptop). He told me that I would lose all of my stuff if it ever crashed, so guess what happened - it crashed.

The bad thing was that I had just gotten done with a novella that I wrote. Actually the rough draft but still I just got it all typed out. I made the mistake of clicking yes on a pop-up that asked me to update something...next thing you know I was introduced to Mr. Virus. So please please people, learn from Jayson's mistake - don't save your shit on the C drive(My Documents).

Now I have to rewrite that whole damn thing.

Looks can be Deceiving

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 22:03:15 GMT

It was pointed out to me on Easter Sunday that I am not a white boy from Nashville anymore. I was at a gathering at El Dorado Regional Park in Long Beach. Of course my girlfriend is Hispanic so the family gathering was hers, making me the lone white guy there.

But she pointed out to me to scan the crowd of guys that were playing volleyball or eating carne asada. I did as she said and I noticed that the majority of people had on over-sized white tshirts, baggy shorts and flip flops or tennis shoes with their white socks pulled up. They all had shaved heads with goatees and several tattoos.

She then told me to look at myself: I had on an over-sized white tshirt with baggy shorts and flip flops on. I have a shaved head and a goatee and sport several tattoos.

Not All Fun and Sun

Wed, 12 Mar 2008 22:22:18 GMT

I enjoy the beaches, the amazing weather and the ambiance of Southern California so much that I forget how dangerous it is here. I was jolted back to reality this week.

Late last week, a news story broke about a black family driving through a neighborhood when a car with gangbangers pulled up and asked them the question nobody wants to here, "Where you from?" Before they could answer, the bangers started shooting in the car. A six-year old kid was shot. He's on life support now. Apparently this black family made the fatal mistake of driving through the wrong neighborhood. It was territory "owned" by a Hispanic gang.

Then earlier this week, a banger just got out of prison. He, like so many other young bangers, wanted to make a name for himself. Him and a homeboy were driving through a neighborhood when they spotted this teenaged black kid walking. He too got the question of death, "Where you from?" He didn't answer quickly enough, so they shot him.

This kid was about twenty feet from his house. His Dad heard the shots and came outside just in time to hold his dying son in his arms before he passed. This kid was not a gangbanger. On the contrary, he had a way out of the ghetto. He was an All-State running back for Los Angeles High School. He had scholarship offers and from what has been told, he was an outstanding student and person too. To rub more salt in the wound, his mother was in Iraq fighting the made up war we are fighting.

I think to myself and anyone who will listen. When will this end? When will all this violence end? When will our politicians get off their asses and fight the war that is going on in our own backyards before sending our soldiers off to fight in some foreign land for no reason.

Now this is not a rant against Hispanic people. On the contrary, I'm living with a Hispanic girl and I have and have had the utmost respect for the plight of Hispanic people. I've talked to many, over the last year, about what they have went through just to make a living. It's sad stuff.

It's weeks like this week that make me remember why I swore I would never live here. Don't get me wrong I love it here, but to watch as kids kill each other in record numbers and nobody does anything about it - that's sad. I don't blame the kids for joining gangs. I'm friends with some - I made bad choices when I was younger too. They have no options unless they can hit a ball, hit a running back or hit a basket.

Movie Review - 30 Days of Night

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 03:32:01 GMT

Last night after practicing softball until 9 at night, my lady and I decided to just rent a couple movies and watch them at home. Well we got two of them: "30 Days of Night" and "Beowolf."

We decided, well actually I decided because I knew she would be asleep about 10 minutes into it, to watch "30 Days of Night" first. This was a very good choice. So much so, I thought I would share my opinion about it.

It's about a town in Alaska named Barrow that every year has one solid month of nothing but darkness. Well this particular month, after the majority of people headed out of the town for the relative safety of sunshine, a cluster of Vampires decides to strike this town. I mean come on, if I was a Vampire this would be the perfect place for me to hit too. I would have a solid month of not worrying about sleeping in that damn coffin to avoid that pesky sun.

First my impression of the Vampires: I have to say that these were, by far, the most well done and "realistic" Vampires that have ever been created on television. The language they spoke in was not English (contrary to most Hollywood movies). The way they moved was different; they had a different kind of fluidity to their movements. Their faces were different. And the head Vampire was cool as shit. He did not look like Brad Pitt. He looked like an old school teacher, but there was just something about him that made me say WOW.

Second, my impression of the violence: As it is with any Vampire movie there is going to be lots of blood. Well this one did not disappoint. But the blood and violence was very realistic. The humans had to chop off the heads of the Vampires to actually kill them. They had an axe that performed this dirty deed. In other movies you would see the axe just slice through them like a chainsaw through hot butter. Well anyone who has ever used an axe would know this as totally inaccurate. In this movie they actually had to chop three or four times to get the heads off. I know this is being a little too picky but it was actually good to see realistic violence - as sick and twisted as that sounds.

Third, the actors and actresses: This I really liked. As everyone knows with Hollywood (especially me because I live there), a prerequisite for movies is you have to look like Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie to be cast in a movie. Well as we know in real life, there are not many people that look like that. There definitely would not be people that looked like that in a freaking -10 degree Barrow, Alaska. So to be as close to accurate as a movie about Vampires can be, they actually cast ugly Paul Bunyan looking men and women in this movie - except for Josh Hartnell being the sheriff. I just can't get past his whole O.C. look he has, so naturally I can't see him being a sheriff in a small Alaskan town.

Fourth, the story/plot: This was very well done too. The actions and reactions of the humans and their peril was accurate. They actually acted the way we would all act - pissed off that there was no freaking sun and especially pissed off and naturally frightened because they were being chased by very vicious Vampires. The acting was so well done that it actually drug me in with them and had me moving my legs when they ran and wrinkling my face when they were being eaten. That, to me is the sign of a very good movie.

So all in all - I would recommend that you rent this movie. It is well worth it. Granted I am not a movie reviewer like the talking bow-ties on television. But if anyone actually does like I do with their reviews - if they say it's good then I stay away - if they say it's bad then I run and get it - then take my word for it and go rent this one.

People are still People After All

Tue, 26 Feb 2008 18:38:44 GMT

The other night I saw the absolute worse, most bone-chilling thing; I saw a dog get run over by a car. I was about fifty yards away and there was nothing I could do but watch in horror.

My girlfriend and I were standing at the corner of Broadway ( a really busy street). We were going for a walk on the beach so we were waiting to cross the street. I look to my left and I see a dog wondering beside parked cars. The traffic was buzzing by the dog and he/she was oblivious to it. That worried me; it told me that this was not a stray dog but that it was a house dog. See stray dogs know that cars are dangerous but house dogs have no fear of cars - they've never encountered anything worse than a vacuum cleaner.

So I see this dog wondering and I say to my girlfriend, that that dog is going to get hit. I turn my head around so I don't see it. Well for some damn reason I turn back around and I see the dog in one of the lanes - right in the middle of it. I don't even have time to turn around; there's a white Ford F-150 coming and it's not even slowing down. It runs right over top of the dog and keeps going. The noise sounds like he just ran over a trash can full of cinder blocks. The dog rolls about 5 times under the vehicle and another couple after the undercarriage has released her. The truck never even slows down - just keeps going.

I yell at the bastard but to no avail. My girlfriend and I just stand there frozen; I've seen buddies of mine shot while I was in the military and I knew exactly what to do. I just watched a dog get mauled by a truck and I'm frozen. The dog's head pops up with blood spitting and splashing on the pavement. She starts making this horrible wailing sound - it's a hoarse wail. She's trying to let everyone know she's hurt. There's another SUV that's coming right at her - luckily she sees her lying in the road. But the driver doesn't know she's hurt so the driver just lays on the horn. This awakens me from my horrified stupor. I run out in the middle of the street to stop anyone else from running over the dog.

The poor thing is still trying to get up - I'm thinking to myself that there is no way this dog is getting up. I walk over to her and I'm yelling expletives at the driver to stop honking the damn horn. The closer I get- the driver sees I am big and I'm angry so she naturally stops blowing the horn.

All of a sudden, like someone under the ground pushed the dog, she jumps up and runs back to the sidewalk. Now, there's a crowd. We all follow the dog over to the sidewalk. She's still whining but barely a limp. I decide at that moment to let the other people tend to her. I can't bare to see an animal in pain so I tell my girlfriend, 'let's go.'

About twenty minutes later we walk back over to the spot. Animal Control is over there. We see the owner of the dog outside and we talk to her. Apparently someone attempted to break in to their backyard by breaking the gate down. So this releases the dog and she's out wondering around. The owner got home about five minutes too late. She told us that she was stuck in traffic - she was devastated. She told us that this dog was/is her first baby. They were taking her to the vet. She was bleeding but walking around okay.

I keep telling myself that it is not her time and she is like a cat with nine lives. She just used one and has eight to go.

I was amazed how caring people were with that hurt animal. See I live here in Los Angeles and I've heard and seen the stories of people ignoring the human suffering that goes on daily here. But everyone's world stopped the moment this poor dog was hit. It made me realize that everyone else thinks just like me...people are generally selfish and can take care of themselves. Dogs on the other hand, are unselfish creatures and they rely on us to protect them.

Valentine's Day Massacre

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 17:40:30 GMT

I for one do not and will not ever celebrate the fake holiday of Valentines Day. We, as men just got over Christmas and they hit us and con us into buying yet another fucking diamond ring or some cliched flowers. And you as women accept this shit? Let me give a scenario:

Say you as a woman get dressed up....you spend two hours are your makeup and hair. You put on this $800 dress you bought for a special occasion. Well you walk out of the haze of hairspray and perfume you created in the bedroom and your boyfriend/husband doesn't say anything. Well a friend walks over to him and says, "Hey tell her she looks beautiful." So you look up from the television and say, "You look beautiful." Would you as a woman accept that compliment and kiss him/have special birthday sex wtih him? OF COURSE NOT! You would nag the shit out of him and give him the speech about how that compliment doesn't mean a damn thing because someone else told him to do it. So what the hell is the difference between that and Valentine's Day?

To me this fake holiday sets the Woman's Movement back about 5 decades. Women say how they expect to be treated as equals and all this jive. Then a fake holiday like Valentine's Day comes along and POOF...you revert to a little child as Christmas as you open up your diamond necklace or you get your flowers at work.

See me, I prefer to celebrate Valentine's Day every and any fucking day I want too. I don't some greedy ass business owners telling me I have to send flowers or spend hundreds or thousands on a damn diamond necklace or engagement ring. I swear human beings are such puppets. Humans are brainwashed monkeys who dance when told to dance, who eat when told to eat, who talk when told to talk, who wipe their ass when told to wipe their ass and etc...

Wake up people...STOP SPENDING YOUR HARD EARNED DOLLARS ON BLOOD DIAMONDS. Don't we give the fatcats that own these corporations enough of our hard-earned money? Send your significant other flowers on April 8 or May 12 or anyday. If its done on a whim instead of some mouthpiece on television or radio telling you do do it - it means more.

Joe's Sushi

Mon, 11 Feb 2008 03:26:55 GMT

I finally made the trek to a Sushi restaurant in Lakewood the other night; my first time was a very memorable experience, to say the least. A couple friends of mine talked me into it despite my disdain for any sort of raw food. After the night came to a close; I was kind of glad they did. It gave me some material to write about.

First, we pull into the diminutive parking lot of a building the size of a country bank. No sooner do we step out of the car when the familiar aroma of pot is wafting to our noses. There's a group of guys standing right outside the door to the restaurant, smoking weed. Man I love SoCal. This is not the first time I've experienced such bold smoking of the love weed. For example, one time I was walking on Pine Avenue in Long Beach and a group of guys were smoking it while they were walking down the street.

After walking through the cloud of sweet smoke, we get inside to see a long and disorganized line of hungry looking people. The reason I say disorganized is nobody knew when and how they were going to get seated. Nobody was checking us in and asking how many and how long the wait was. We were all just standing in a broken line - confused and hungry.

Every time the door opened, the pungent odor of Mary Jane came in and stood in line with us. It caused everybody in the front part of the restaurant to turn around and look at Jayson and his gang(me and my people) every time. I guess they thought we were somehow toking up in the line.

Finally thirty minutes after we got there, we get seated. It took us another twenty minutes to even get a server to come over to our table. This skinny Asian woman with long, stringy black hair and big ears poking out clumsily approaches our table. She asks what we would like to drink; in unison we say...water...water...water...sprite.

Another fifteen minutes later, she comes back with two waters, sets them down, then slaps her forehead and asks me, "I so sorry, what you order again?"

"Ummmm....Sprite?" I retell her in a confused tone. Then she walks away again, without even asking what we would like to eat. See my friend Joe and my girlfriend have filled out their Sushi cards for the all-you-can-eat but she's failed to take the cards from them yet.

Another fifteen minutes goes by and she comes back with - just water...still no sprite for me. But on a positive note, she did finally take the all you can eat Sushi orders. Of course she didn’t take my order or Nicole’s order.

Twenty minutes later, an order of raw fish sloshing around on a dirty plate was brought over and dropped in front of Joe. I was so hungry that it started to appeal to me as well. But I was rescued by a different waitress that finally took mine and Nicole’s orders. I was salivating, waiting on that chicken teriyaki to hit my taste buds.

Fifteen minutes later, we happily all had our food and we were happy as uncooked lobsters. Of course the meal was more enjoyable as we watched and heard other patrons bitching and complaining about the unbelievably bad service. Joe wrote a sign that said “You get better customer service at Walmart.” He started flashing the sign around to the new and unsuspecting patrons.

Now for the least favorite part- the bill, this was made worse by the fact that the service was so bad. Twenty minutes later we finally pleaded with a passing waiter to bring us our bill. We get it and they’ve charged us $21.95 for Joes’ all you can eat sushi…$12.99 for my chicken and beef teriyaki (I got greedy and ordered a mix) and $8.95 for Nicole’s chicken teriyaki. They missed Sulma’s all you can eat sushi – oh sweet vindication.

Still Nicole was upset that her soup was never delivered to her. So she told our bimbo waitress that she wanted a discount. The bimbo reluctantly agrees and storms off to remove a dollar from the bill. Ten minutes later the bill comes back for $47.50…on one check. So Nicole decides to put it on her card and I would give her cash when we got back to mi casa. So the bimbo takes her card and the bill up to the counter to run it. Finally another fifteen minutes later she brings it back for Nicole to sign…$4.75!!! The bimbo finally did something right; she missed a digit and we were only charged $4.75. Isn’t Karma a bitch?

Normally, I would be the first one to take it back to them to fix it. This was the exception; the service was terrible; the ambiance was terrible and the food was terrible. So Nicole signed the check and we got up and left that place in the dust. So that’s my little story of my first sushi experience.

Random Thoughts

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 17:33:54 GMT

I watched the devastation in the South yesterday, from the tornados. It hit home for me, literally. That's where I grew up - in Nashville Tennesse. I almost feel guilty that I'm living out here in beautiful SoCal now. I woke up yesterday and it was 60 degrees and the sun was blaring. I turn the television on and see people's homes flattened and I have text messages from friends of mine asking if my family is okay back home. Luckily, the tornados went a little North of them.

I do remember living in that. We had one in '98 where the tornado went right through downtown Nashville. I remember one time, I woke up and pieces of somebody's house was in my front yard from an overnight tornado. Now I live out here without worrying about Mother Nature - she sure can be a bitch sometimes.

I still have no idea how my girlfriend and I have not been caught yet. See I work as an outside healthcare consultant and I currently work at a very huge and very popular hospital. Well I started here in March of last year and I met this beautiful, firecracker of a Latina woman. We started dating in May and we've been together ever since. Still, most people don't know...only her close friends. The funny thing is we ride together every damn day and nobody has seen us yet.

This morning she was getting out of the car when a lady that works in the same office drove by...we're not sure if she saw us or not. I guess, I am waiting for the other shoe to drop and we get busted. Not sure if it's even a bad thing anyway. We don't see each other at work and it doesn't interfere anyway. Well more to come.

Less than two weeks now before Spring Training....my time of year...BASEBALL SEASON. Go Phillies, and go Angels.

Dane, Dane, Go Away

Mon, 04 Feb 2008 16:32:00 GMT

This weekend, I watched two absolutely terrible movies. The worse movies I've ever seen and I enjoy watching movies of all genres. The one thing that both of these movies had in common - Dane Cook.

This comedian needs to stick with what pays his bills, and it is not acting. The first one I had the misfortune of watching ' Good Luck Chuck' was dreadful. It also had Jessica Alba in it and she was a square peg in a round hole. She truly seemed to be repulsed by Dane Cook and his acting. I wonder if she's still kicking herself in her beautiful ass for doing that trainwreck. Dane Cooks acting reminded me of a mental patient on speed. This movie also had the most disgusting fat woman I've ever seen on it. Her fat had fat. While I was sitting there vomiting up my food that I hoped was already digested; I wondered to myself if that movie made the fat woman decide to lose weight. How embarrassing being put in a movie due to your obesity and they use it to poke fun at you. That should be a sign for that woman.

The other movie of Dane's that I had the misfortune of watching was 'Employee of the Month.' Oh my God, what the hell were these people thinking? Not only do they put Dane Cook and his crack-head acting in it, they also have the bright idea of putting Jessica Simpson and Andy Dick in it.
It was truly the blind leading the blind. The only way I would knowingly watch a movie with Jessica Simpson in it is if she was nude and not talking. The only way I would knowingly watch a movie with Andy Dick in it is if he was being slowly tortured, which is what happened to me as I watched this monstrosity.

Dane- it's time to go back to stand up comedy and stick with stand up. You are no Robin Williams. Please bro, fire your agent.

It's All Over but the Crying

Sat, 02 Feb 2008 06:12:48 GMT

The playoffs took place for my softball league tonight. We went in as favorites and left as pissed off malcontents. We lost in the first round 16-9; I guess you can call it an upset. We should have won. The only person that played worth a damn was me. My stat lines was 3 for 3 with a double, triple and a homerun. I knocked in 5 of our 9 runs.

Still, I was proud of our effort. There would have been a time I would have been running around all pissed off, yelling at anyone who will listen and cussing anyone who wouldn't. I admit I started out a little upset when we committed an error in the first that brought in 3 runs. But after that, I realized that this is a fun game and we are out there for the comraderie.

All in all, it was a fun season and I made some friends here in SoCal. I got to show everyone that a big white guy can run fast. I look forward to next season.

Now I've Seen it All

Thu, 31 Jan 2008 14:45:37 GMT

I was watching the TLC channel last night. There was a show on called My Shocking Story. It was about this dwarf lady who was married to a guy that looked eeirly like me; he was tall and normal size. He ended up getting the dwarf lady PREGNANT.

The best way to describe the lady's disease is: she has the same amount of muscle as a normal-sized woman but it's condensed into a three foot body. So of course her baby ends up with the same disease plus God saw fit to throw a couple more problems in for good measure.

First I don't get how the normal-sized guy would go after a dwarf lady. No disrespect but there are just not attractive to me...of course I am sure you can look on the internet and find a dwarf fetish website. The crazy thing was they were high school sweethearts. So he met her in high school and started dating her. The poor girl is so short she can't really walk- the guy carried her everywhere they went. When they went to the grocery store he had a shopping cart and he put her in the cart and had the baby in her baby seat in the cart. They had the nerve to get upset when people stared. Come on, who the hell wouldn't have stared at that.

Second, I think it's ridiculous for her husband to get her pregnant. Not only for his tiny wife's sake but you have to know there is a good chance that the child will end up with the same disease. It's not fair to bring a child into the world to live like that just so you can say "I'm normal." That is selfish as hell just for the sake of them pretending there is nothing wrong with this girl. Political Correctness bullshit has created another life that will be seeped in misery.

HELP--NEED HELP

Wed, 30 Jan 2008 04:37:14 GMT

Okay I need help. I'm good at writing but suck with the after. I have a short story entitled "My First Kiss." I ran it through an editor friend of mine and she said it was excellent and ready for submission. But I have no idea where to look or what to look for. I know there are many people on here that have been through this. So I am looking for a little bit of advice.

I'm as confused as a baby in a topless bar.

full of hate

Wed, 30 Jan 2008 02:39:26 GMT

Being from Nashville Tennessee and living in Long Beach California; I don't get too many chances to see a part of my old life. Well tonight, I'm being forced to watch the boobtube. My Tennesse Vols are playing Alabama on ESPN. I'm sitting here cringing everytime it goes to commercial. See I have this obsessive hate for commercials. They interrupt whatever I choose to watch to lie to me about how great their product is or how great their customer service is.

Well allow me to retort. How can a place like say...oh...Subway tell me that their customer service is great. Each store is seperately owned--so how can the Subway name tell me that all their stores have great customer service? I am sure we have all been in a store ,that swears by their wonderful and cheery people, and they treat us like shit . My point of this diatribe is this; I hate to be lied to and I especially hate when something I am watching gets interrupted to lie to me.

On a competely random note; I wrote another story called "My First Kiss" and I sent it to my editor. I got it back today with glowing marks. I was shocked because she usually rips my shit apart (which is why I like her). But she actually said it was excellent and its ready for submission now. So now I am on to the tedious and frustrating part...looking for a publisher.

Mon, 28 Jan 2008 14:37:26 GMT

Thank goodness for my XBox 360 and my computer because watching television is too painful. I can't stomach turning on the national news like Fox, MSNBC or CNN. All they talk about are Barrack Obama or Hillary Clinton. I'm too smart for politics; I know ALL politicians lie, cheat, maim and murder. But yet all media outlets constantly talk up these gangsters in three-piece suits with the jackal smiles and paid entourages. If you look hard enough while watching any of these soulless morons, you can see the strings attached to their shoulders and head.

I long for the day where these 24 hour media station channels and newspapers become obsolete. I long for the day when the viewing public holds them accountable for their malicious lies and stops watching them. We don't need them anymore- we record our own news in blogs and YouTube. Why waste precious moments of our life watching these soulless mouthpieces drone on and on.

I long for the day when ALL people realize that what is reported in the news is not true. I'm sick of watching Greta Van Susteren report on the disappearance of a blonde-haired blue eyed Natalie Holloway in Aruba while they're people dying in this country everyday because of a street corner or a wall with graffiti on it. Everytime I attempt to watch one of these idiots spew their fallacies, my head starts to hurt.

Me being a sports lover, my intended destination on the remote has been ESPN. Well not anymore- it's been ruined by the same thing as the talking armpits that invade FOX, MSNBC and CNN. The only thing these idiots can talk about for the boring Super Bowl coming up is how this person said this person was a dirty player and this one says I'm not a dirty player, he's a dirty player and why would they call me a dirty player because they're dirty players and we are all dirty players. I threw a shoehorn at the television when Sean Salisbury started talking- I'm glad I didn't have anything bigger, otherwise I would have to buy another t.v.

Such is life as a writer. When you exercise your brain as we writers do; you become smarter and you are able to sift through the bullshit and realize that the news has become nothing but reality television with actors that have beautiful teeth and $600 hair cuts.

Evil is

Sat, 26 Jan 2008 21:00:47 GMT

Evil is a faceless stranger,
living in a distant neighborhood.

Evil has a wholesome, hometown face,
with merry eyes and an open smile.

Evil walks among us, wearing a mask
which looks like all our faces.

Today, I am going with my girlfriend "shopping" in Pasadena. This place makes my head hurt when I walk among the "better than thou" crowd. I see it in the way they walk around without a care in the world. It doesn't even cross their mind that no more than 15 minutes away people are living in poverty and violence. People are dying about 5 blocks away but they are oblivious.

I am much more comfortable walking around Highland Park, amongst real people with real problems. Today, I will fake the normal face and hide my real problems. I will shop amongst the people I despise.

Mind of a Lunatic

Wed, 23 Jan 2008 14:52:28 GMT

Yesterday, I allowed a coworker of mine to read my blog on writing.com. She was reading all my posted stories and she decided to also read all my blogs I have posted for the last three months. I thought nothing of it- actually I was flattered- until I went back and read them myself. There were things that I probably shouldn't have let a coworker see. Also I realized that my fantastical brain is all over the place. I do believe I have the mind of a lunatic.

It is fun to go back and read the things you have written. I also keep a written journal and I go back sometimes to read things I wrote in there too. It's, to say the least, entertaining. I do see that my niche in writing will probably be slanted more towards comedy- even in my blogs I was cracking jokes. I was laughing reading them yesterday.

I got around to posting chapter one to my novel on a couple groups here: Writers Loft and FictionWriters. I will see if anybody reads and see what comments they post. I have left the nest of writing.com to see what other parts of the population think about my unique sense of humor. I wait with bated breath and fevered anticipation for responses.

I get excited waiting for comments and mail to my blogs and other postings just like I did in bootcamp a long time ago, waiting on mailcall. It's the same excitement. I just don't hear some man with a bad mustache and too much aftershave, with a Napolean Complex, yelling MAILCALL!

First Chapter completed

Tue, 22 Jan 2008 14:46:15 GMT

I have edited (and re-edited) the first chapter to my book titled "The Sitcom That is My Life". The first chapter is titled "Speargate". I am going to pass it around to all who would be interested or even slightly interested. Tell me what you think with brutal honesty--I'm a big boy I can take it I promise.

This book is more a side project of mine but it's one that I really enjoy. I want to see this finished before I truly devote my time to my fiction novel. I have got great feedback from writing.com when I posted this and a few other chapters; that made me want to focus on finishing this even more. So my goal is to have at least one chapter written and edited (typically 3 edits) each month. That will have me finished with it by the end of the year.

As I write I will be advertising it to A. get as much feedback as possible--positive and negative and B. to get a lot of word of mouth circulated.

I thought after escaping a marriage to my dad, sprinkled with mental and physical abuse, my Mom would lay off men for awhile. Well, she fooled me and everybody else by taking the opposite approach, marrying any guy that rang the doorbell.

My Mother is a beautiful and sophisticated woman, but her choice in men was curious to say it lightly. The first one was the most lamentable of the bunch. We still haven’t figured out how it happened or why.

After my Mother and Father divorced, she moved us to a trailer park in Franklin, a small town outside of Nashville Tennessee. Now for anyone that has never lived in a trailer park, these affable little places are the redheaded step child of the more sinister ghetto. They are little tin boxes basically sitting on top of each other. You can feel the entire trailer shake whenever you walk in them. Anytime high winds come through, the butt cheeks definitely tighten up and you wonder if this will be the day that you will be riding that funnel to Kansas.

The people that typically live in these aluminum habitats are the poorer white people, or as we are called by the so called educated people- White Trash. You would think it’s not the place to find a husband, or a suitor as they are called in the Deep South.

This particular suitor, we will call him BoBo the Redneck to protect his identity, lived across the street from us in a similar sardine can. None of us knew how his courtship with my Mom began or if it even did. To be honest, all I remember is one day looking up and I was sitting in a church. My mom is standing at the front with some tall, oddly shaped cowboy.

Why is the preacher talking to my mom and this strange looking hombre?

What…why did he bend down and kiss my mom? Who the hell is he?

“Meet your new stepdad boys,” my Mom introduces him to us, but she does it with a sad look on her face. It’s like she knew failure was inevitable.

This cuntaro was an odd looking creature- tall, probably six foot four, with this odd looking slouch that made his head stick out about six inches past the rest of his body, so when he walked into a room, his head showed up before his body. He had a gut, which seemed to steal from his ass and he always wore the same dingy wrangler jeans and button up cowboy shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was salt and pepper with a windswept comb job. He wasn’t crossed eyed, he just had a crazy eye that would do its own thing when he was talking to you.

That summer after my Mother decided to marry this walking slab of useless flesh, we moved out of the trailer park to the country with our trailer in tow. When you are a teenage boy, who would like to get laid one day, the last thing you want is for a cute girl to see your home being towed down the street. This place was about 45 minutes from Nashville but it seemed like it was on the other side of the earth. We drove through a town called Arrington. It had no traffic lights, one gas station and a rundown building that was called the General Store. Looking back, I’m glad that my young and impressionable mind had not witnessed the movie Deliverance yet.

They bought five acres of dehydrated land with weeds, rocks and damaged trees. I couldn’t believe we moved here. I wondered if this was his plan- wine and dine a single mother with Pabst Blue Ribbon and a Big Mac. Then con her into moving her and the offspring out to the middle of nowhere and kill us, or worse make us his slaves- too many horror movies as a youngster.

It didn’t take long to figure out our new stepfather was the worst interior decorator known to man. He had a very peculiar infatuation for African spears and mask. It was the eeriest thing living in a white trash trailer with a huge African spear stretched from one side of the living room wall to the other. When we walked to the bathroom we had to pass by this creepy African mask. I definitely learned to hold my bladder at night; I was too damn afraid to walk by that thing.

“Wake up boys.” My mom gently called us the first day there. Oh yea, it sounds like she is going to spoil us for awhile. I can smell the food before I open my door. Oh man, maybe this won’t be so bad after all I thought. I figured my mother would give us a grace period; she did uproot us from our friends and move us to hell.

“I made some breakfast,” she said in her Betty Crocker tone. “Come get it while it’s hot boys.”

I was so excited to rip into a good home cooked breakfast that I was the first to reach the kitchen. Right then I knew I, we had been tricked.

The angelic aroma of blueberry pancakes only diverted my attention briefly; the barbaric items tilted against the wall, by the door, grabbed the stage from my nose and stomach. There were three of them, neatly placed against the wall. There was a rake, shovel and a sickle just glaring at me, waiting to be chosen.

My younger brother Brandon came up beside me with a terrified look on his face, “what’s going on?”

“I knew it was too good to be true,” I looked at the devious grin on my Mother’s face. She realized we discovered the toys of displeasure that were leaning on the wall.

She wrapped her hair in a clip and put it on top of her head, “come eat boys, you’re going to need your strength to help him in the yard.” She was slapping pancakes on to plates with a depraved smile etched on her face.

Oh man, I knew we were in trouble. How does the saying go? The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Well it’s true for naive little boys too. All three of us were just standing there now, as my brother Wes had joined our terrified party; we knew she tricked us- damn, evil blueberry pancakes.

As we were eating our last meal, BoBo sauntered into the diminutive kitchen. He was holding three pairs of gardening gloves in his hand.

“You kids will need these today,” he said as he turned his arms over, palms up to show us the gloves. The way he was showing them, you would have thought he was modeling some diamond bracelets.

He carried them over to the items of mass destruction, knelt down and put one pair in front of each weapon, turned around and gave us a crooked smile and walked outside.

“That is one sadistic bastard,” I said to my brother Wes. He just groaned and looked back down at his plate.

We were trying to eat as slowly as possible, but of course our mother caught on to that little trick. She turned from washing dishes and slapped the table with her palm, “come on boys, and finish up, Ed’s waiting on you.” She stood there and glared at us as we all looked down at our plates.

Dejectedly we all got up from the table, walked over to the door and grabbed our weapon of choice (mine was the sickle because of its menacing look) and drug them outside. We shuffled around back to find BoBo standing there with a cigarette in his right hand and his left hand on his hip. He was just staring out in the vast space of overgrown weeds and dead trees. This yard, if you could call it that, looked terrible. Most of the property was full of decrepit trees that struggled to hold on. They barely had leaves on them, and were leaning towards the ground begging for the end to come. The rest of the property was full of tall, thick weeds with an occasional sapling standing meekly amongst them.

“Okay, let’s get started,” he said. He turned around and looked down at us, flipped his cigarette in the yard and pointed to my brother Wes who had picked the shovel.

“Okay, I want you to start digging the stumps out of the ground,” he said while pointing over at some tall weeds intermingling with dead trees.

Then he looked at Brandon, “you rake the ground down after he digs the stumps; I need ya to loosen the hard dirt up.”

He then motioned for me to follow him over to this section of tall weeds. “I heard you were the baseball player,” he said with a smirk on his cruel face.

“I need you to swing away with that sickle and chop all these weeds down. It will help you practice that swing.”

This sadistic routine in the unbearable Tennessee heat went on for about three weeks, all except the breakfast part of course. After about the third day, we were fending for ourselves at the breakfast table. We found out after about a week, we were clearing this so BoBo could construct a garden. He was so excited that he would keep us out there until the darkness of night consumed us.

He would tell us, “we won’t have to go to the grocery store for vegetables anymore.” Oh how I hated him, we all hated him. We were going through all this so he could stop buying vegetables at Kroger.

BoBo was so caught up in working in his garden; we would see him out there late at night, a broken white patch of flashlight drifting across greenery. He would wake up in the morning watering his green, square patched mistress. He was obsessed with that thing.

My mom would get upset because he was neglecting her to spend time in that garden. “You love that damn garden more than me. Who neglects their spouse to hang out in a garden? “ Most husbands hide from their wives to hang out in bars with beer, rednecks and trashy women. But this yahoo ignored his old lady (as they are called in the South) to spend time with cucumbers, turnip greens and tomatoes.

One Sunday morning, Brandon and I were sitting in front of the television playing Atari (yes I am that old). All of a sudden the muffled noises of battleships were interrupted by the distinct articulation of BoBo. He was yelling, “sonofabitch” several times.

We looked up to see him running out the front door. We heard him moving quickly around the side of the house, so we crawled over to the window to see what the emergency was.

“What’s up his butt?” My Mom asked as she was coming out of her bedroom.

“Not sure,” Brandon said, as we had our faces pressed against the window.

“He just took off running like a bat out of hell,” was my contribution to the conversation.

About five minutes later, he came back in the door, “goddamn cows.” He muttered that over and over again while stomping to the bedroom. My mom followed back to the room and we went back to playing video games. I was disappointed, I was hoping for some kind of spaceship or something but all I got were cows.

This went on for about a week, at least a couple times a day he would go storming out the door. A few minutes later he would come back inside muttering, “goddamn cows” over and over again. It was funny to us; we looked forward to those couple times a day. We despised him so much that we enjoyed watching the misery splattered on his face.

One morning it all turned weird. BoBo finally snapped. We were still in our bedrooms when I heard BoBo yelling something incoherent and my Mom trying to calm him down.

“I’ve had it with these goddamn cows,” I heard BoBo say.

“Just calm down,” she said. “They aren’t going to mess with your damn garden.”

“You bet your ass they won’t,” was his response.

I heard my mom yell, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Goddamn it, get back here you psycho,” she yelled. “You can’t do that.” Then I heard the door slam and heard him running around back. This I had to see, so I jumped out of bed and headed towards the living room window. Obviously it got Wes and Brandon’s attention too, because they were both scampering out of their rooms at the same time.

“What’s going on Mom?”Wes asked, as we were heading towards our usual perch at the window.

“He’s an idiot.” My Mom said as she started running out the door.

That’s when I saw the weirdest thing I had ever seen in my short life. We all saw it at the same time.

“Oh my God,” Brandon blurted. “What the hell is he doing?”

BoBo was running towards his precious garden and all he had on were his Fruit of the Loom underwear and black socks. As crazy as that looked, what he was carrying was even crazier, his fantastically long African spear. He was carrying it like a soldier would carry an M-16 through the jungle. BoBo and his spear were headed straight for this black and white cow lumbering in his garden. My Mom was standing at the back of the trailer yelling something at him; I couldn’t tell what she was yelling, but she didn’t look happy. It didn’t matter, he was ignoring her. He was on a mission to save his garden from the evil cow.

“Is he about to do what I think he is going to do?” I asked.

“He can’t be,” Wes responded. “Do you think?”

He was a good twenty feet away when the cow finally noticed him, but he didn’t move; I think he was too stunned or maybe confused. BoBo now had the spear raised out in front of him with the sharp tip pointed directly at the poor, evil cow.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, this pasty, flabby white man in his baggy fruit of loom underwear, running towards a dumbfounded cow, and holding this long spear out in front of him. I didn’t know whether to laugh or feel bad for the cow.

Now he was on top of the poor evil cow. Then…impact. He rammed the spear at the cow’s rib but it didn’t stick. It did scare the hell out of it though, causing it to leap backwards.

BoBo looked a little shocked that he had actually went through with it or that the spear didn’t stick, who knows. He did back off and pause for a second, just looking at the poor animal. Then, craziness overwhelmed him again and he lifted the spear to the ready to stab the poor, wicked beast again. The cow figured out this sudden, twisted turn of events and took off running through the back part of his garden before he could get stabbed again. This really pissed BoBo off. Instead of chasing the animal, he decided to chuck the spear at him.

This is one day that I have never forgotten. My brothers and I have told this story to many people. They all thought we were kidding, making up a funny story. Sometimes I will just start laughing to myself, that image of BoBo wearing nothing but baggy underwear and black socks, throwing a spear while his loose skin was flapping around. It was truly disgusting but yet hilarious. Thinking back on him, his love for his garden, and the cows that would defile his virtuous place, I am reminded of a quote. I always wanted to see him again one day so I would tell him this:

“Whatever needs to be maintained through force is doomed.” I laugh out loud every time I imagine what his face would look like after I read that to him. I imagine he wouldn’t find it as funny as I do though.

BoBo and my mother divorced about six months after Speargate. I imagine this little incident had a little something to do with it. How could my mother feel proud being married to a man that would stab a cow (while in his underwear no less)? We also never heard from that cow again.

The Writing Journey

Tue, 22 Jan 2008 06:05:42 GMT

I am working on a novel, it's more like an essay piece. It consists of several chapters that are really events from my life I have chosen to share. They will be written using my unique brand of humor. I have posted a lot of work on writing.com but I want to get it out to a bigger audience.

I am currently editing another chapter and I will be posting one chapter at a time for people to read and review. Follow along too as I go through the process of writing, finding an editor, a publisher and an audience. Writing is hard work, but I love it and I want to let people in on the writing journey.

What's wrong with this picture?

Tue, 22 Jan 2008 05:22:02 GMT

Here's a story that I read in LA Daily News-scary.

"A civil jury has found a Burbank apartment owner and manager liable in the death of a former tenant because they hired a convicted felon and registered sex offender.
On Thursday, the Los Angeles Superior Court jury returned a $12 million verdict against Scott Villa Apartments L.P. and Francis Property Management Inc. for hiring Eriberto Rodriguez, 46, who worked as a maintenance man at the complex in the 1500 block of Scott Road, where Sharon Santos lived when she disappeared in 2004.
Santos, an analyst with Warner Bros., was raped and killed, then stuffed into the trunk of her car, which was abandoned in Chinatown. The Burbank Police Department continues to investigate the killing, and nobody has been arrested.
Previously, Rodriguez was convicted of sexual battery and being in possession of a firearm and residential burglary in another case at the same apartment complex in 2005.
He is currently serving a 12-year prison term in that case, said Larry Grassini, who represented Santos' mother, Edna, in the civil case."

My question is this: did I miss something? Eriberto Rodriquez DID NOT rape and kill Sharon Santos. So even if the apartment complex hired him, he didn't kill this lady so they should not have been sued.

Now for my problem. If you have served your time for your crime, which Rodriguez did then a business should be allowed to hire him. They are opening Pandora's Box. How do you think felons will ever become upstanding citizens if they don't get hired by companies and get a chance to re-enter society.

This is what's wrong with our stuck up society. We don't want to give people a second chance, unless it's one of us or one of our family members.