""Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together. I've got some real estate here in my bag". So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner pies and walked off to look for America" Simon and Garfunkel from "America"
For some reason, fireworks are banned here in the Asylum. It might have something to do with the pyromaniacs in the L wing, but the 4th of July here is pretty much just your average day of medication that makes the lights look like the brightest bursting American Freedom projectiles you've ever seen. Though we don't get the big bang, it's still a day to think about what it means to be America.
There is one place that makes me feel more American than any other. No, it's not Mount Rushmore, or Gettysburg, as a matter of fact, it wouldn't be considered a tourist destination at all. It's in every town, in every state, all across this vast expanse that most of us call home, many of you Aussie readers are probably chocking on the patriotism but bear with me. This magical location that stirs the old red, white, and blue in me is the grocery store.
I know, it doesn't make sense. But think about it. Walk into the frozen food section of your local Piggly Wiggly and you'll see display cases, plural, full of frozen pizza. With various toppings and cooking methods. Microwaveable, oven ready, meat, veggie, supreme, mini, maxi, all sorts. It's overwhelming. And seeing the gross amount of Italian pastry that we can stuff in our gobs makes me a little squishy for apple pie and Chevrolet. Interesting side note, Apple Pie, originally a French or Dutch dish depending on which website you choose to believe.
As I stroll through the market, my eyes are bewildered by the copious amounts of beef, pork, chicken, ostrich, bear, fish, marmot, and wildebeast that we have at our disposable for consumption. Think some pot bellied kid in Ethiopia is fighting Sally Struthers to the check out stand with a 10 pound box of Big Ben Burgers under one arm and a melon the size of Pam Anderson's brain, no way you saw that coming, under the other arm? Of course not. There are no super markets in Rwanda and there's no melon as small as the Blonde ones cranial cram. It's American to not only shop with a cart the size of a European car but to fill it with incredible amounts of processed foods that could survive nuclear obliteration.
Turning towards the 10 items or less express check out line with your cart over flowing with meats, frozen pizza and melon, it's impossible to not at least check out the greatest item available at the Vons. Tabloids. It makes me feel like an elite citizen to check out these rags and wonder how many people in the market at that very moment are going to consider what they read on the covers to be news. And for some, their only source of news. Amazing to me that people who can't find Canada on a map, know that Brad and Angelina have kids named Shiloh and Maddox. It's one of the few things that make me proud to be an American.
On this 4th of July, what makes you feel American? If you're from somewhere else, how do you percieve Americans?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Stater Bros.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Knockwurst for 12
"Well if they'd free me from this prison, if that railroad train was mine. I bet I'd move just a little further down the line. Far from Folsom prison, that's where I want to stay and I'd let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away....." Johnny Cash from "Folsom Prison Blues"
The nurse was higher than Hendrix on New Years Eve as she entered my room for my dose of daily delusion. She had obviously spent the night partying like a rock star and then just decided to come to work. It must be against the law to perform her job while under the influence of fun stuff. I thought about calling a cop, but do you really think they would listen to an Asylum inmate. Even if they did arrest her the jury would probably dismiss the case because she's hot and I'm insane, I mean, how much harm could she really do?
Here's the thing about jury ineptitude. There isn't a better system. I know, I wish there was, believe me, but a trial by jury still beats one man, judge, jury, executioner. The thing that gets me riled up like the Tazmanian Devil with a pimple in his nose, is that it's supposed to be a jury of my peers. That means they need to find 12 people that are smart enough to get out of jury duty to begin with. If I was on trial, as some of you may think I already have been, I certainly wouldn't care about any personal information about the jurors, except their IQ score. Whether they were black or white, Catholic or Protestant, male or female, Oprah fans or no, I take that back, I would hate to be staring at the jury box and know they liked The Dark Large One, but whether they believed in Santa Claus or saw the Grinch as a better symbol of Christmas, the only thing I would want to know was their IQ. And since I am of above average intelligence, my peers would be as well. Your system, not mine.
In Tennessee yesterday, a man by the name of Paul House was released from Death Row, not the Suge Knight record label I mean the about to be electrocuted until the Big Light appears kind of Death Row, after the Supreme Court decided in a 5-3 decision that reasonable jurors would not convict House if they knew the results of the DNA tests that were revealed 12 years after his conviction. 12 years after the conviction the DNA evidence points to the husband of the deceased, but it still took 10 years for the Supreme Court to decide, by a wire thin majority, that 12 uninformed people made the wrong decision. 22 years on death row. That's a long time. How long you ask? Paul House has never seen the Simpsons! Something needs to be done. We either need to get a more effective trial system or a faster execution plan for our death row inmates.
Now, you can be pro death penalty or anti death penalty, it really doesn't matter to me. I, for one, will stand by the ideals of the old west. Some times, somethings are just too vial to let a person live. So if you asked me if I was on a jury panel if I was for the death penalty my answer would be "Do you smell Knockwurst, I love Knockwurst, my shirt is from Sears, I don't like mice. What was it you asked, oh yeah death penalty, I think it's a woman's right to choose." Then, of course, I would be excused from jury duty because I was obviously a nutjob, but in reality, I just didn't want to sit in a courtroom for months on end listening to what, in 22 years, may prove to be bad evidence. I'm too smart for that.
In this fine country of ours, a country that I love beyond a shadow of a doubt, I feel that many systems are in need of some repair. One of them is the judicial system. Health care, Social Security, Prisons, the two party system, the FBI, CIA, and a bunch of other organizations with initials need to be looked at. Today, I'm glad that Paul House is out of jail, he may be guilty as OJ Simpson, but there will be another trial, and hopefully that jury will be filled with people that were wrongfully sentenced to prison for 20+ years so that he can be tried by a jury of his peers.
Any jury stories?
Dixie Cup of Love: Juror #4
The nurse was higher than Hendrix on New Years Eve as she entered my room for my dose of daily delusion. She had obviously spent the night partying like a rock star and then just decided to come to work. It must be against the law to perform her job while under the influence of fun stuff. I thought about calling a cop, but do you really think they would listen to an Asylum inmate. Even if they did arrest her the jury would probably dismiss the case because she's hot and I'm insane, I mean, how much harm could she really do?
Here's the thing about jury ineptitude. There isn't a better system. I know, I wish there was, believe me, but a trial by jury still beats one man, judge, jury, executioner. The thing that gets me riled up like the Tazmanian Devil with a pimple in his nose, is that it's supposed to be a jury of my peers. That means they need to find 12 people that are smart enough to get out of jury duty to begin with. If I was on trial, as some of you may think I already have been, I certainly wouldn't care about any personal information about the jurors, except their IQ score. Whether they were black or white, Catholic or Protestant, male or female, Oprah fans or no, I take that back, I would hate to be staring at the jury box and know they liked The Dark Large One, but whether they believed in Santa Claus or saw the Grinch as a better symbol of Christmas, the only thing I would want to know was their IQ. And since I am of above average intelligence, my peers would be as well. Your system, not mine.
In Tennessee yesterday, a man by the name of Paul House was released from Death Row, not the Suge Knight record label I mean the about to be electrocuted until the Big Light appears kind of Death Row, after the Supreme Court decided in a 5-3 decision that reasonable jurors would not convict House if they knew the results of the DNA tests that were revealed 12 years after his conviction. 12 years after the conviction the DNA evidence points to the husband of the deceased, but it still took 10 years for the Supreme Court to decide, by a wire thin majority, that 12 uninformed people made the wrong decision. 22 years on death row. That's a long time. How long you ask? Paul House has never seen the Simpsons! Something needs to be done. We either need to get a more effective trial system or a faster execution plan for our death row inmates.
Now, you can be pro death penalty or anti death penalty, it really doesn't matter to me. I, for one, will stand by the ideals of the old west. Some times, somethings are just too vial to let a person live. So if you asked me if I was on a jury panel if I was for the death penalty my answer would be "Do you smell Knockwurst, I love Knockwurst, my shirt is from Sears, I don't like mice. What was it you asked, oh yeah death penalty, I think it's a woman's right to choose." Then, of course, I would be excused from jury duty because I was obviously a nutjob, but in reality, I just didn't want to sit in a courtroom for months on end listening to what, in 22 years, may prove to be bad evidence. I'm too smart for that.
In this fine country of ours, a country that I love beyond a shadow of a doubt, I feel that many systems are in need of some repair. One of them is the judicial system. Health care, Social Security, Prisons, the two party system, the FBI, CIA, and a bunch of other organizations with initials need to be looked at. Today, I'm glad that Paul House is out of jail, he may be guilty as OJ Simpson, but there will be another trial, and hopefully that jury will be filled with people that were wrongfully sentenced to prison for 20+ years so that he can be tried by a jury of his peers.
Any jury stories?
Dixie Cup of Love: Juror #4
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The Spandex Privilege
"Have you heard Gene Loves Jezebel?" I said, "Ask me if I care, all I know is Joni Loves Chachi," then I hit him with my chair. So if your honey fancies hippies well here's all you need to know, stay clear of L.A.'s Guns & Roses, take her to a Vandals show" The Vandals from "Long Haired Queer"
It finally dawned on me what it is about the nurse that I find so sexy that my every thought of her features her naked flesh. It's something so primal, so basic, that I have looked right past the somehow obvious answer. She looks like the girls from the 80's hair band videos. Those demi-Goddess creatures in heavy make-up, lace, fishnet, and hair so huge that it took hours of prep time in order fro those dolls to walk out the front door. The Aqua Net bills alone certainly caused many a death metal dollie to leave the scene for good, opting for the flat hair and cargo shorts of the Lilith Faire set. But the nurse, she's all devil signs and Vans sneakers.
There was time tat I too walked around in the swish of parachute pants, with a handkerchief tied to both wrists, matching my Rising Sun Japanese flag sleeveless. I was a freshman, in a new school, running with the "bad" kids seemed live a helluva lot more fun that bangin around with Mods and New Wave kids. It wouldn't be until I changed schools yet again that I would meet Wes and be introduced to punk. But my metal years had some moments, not fashionable, but moments.
Mostly we smoked and listened to metal. The bands were, and still are awesome. Motley Cure was playing "Shout of the Devil", Ozzy was still the Blizzard of Oz and not a cartoon of himself, Iron Maiden had us learning and worshipping Alister Crowley and drawing pictures of Eddie Maiden. It was a great time for eyeliner, spikes, and slutty girls. It was a bad time for big men as the girls all wanted skinny long haired Poison look-a-likes. Though I was not of the "in" type there was a large group of us that kicked around in our apartment as SuperMom was working two jobs at the time. This left hours of unsupervised time for the gang to play Intellivision and smoke pot, pop pills, and try coke for the first time. We, my sister was part of this motley crew (hee hee), would throw raucous parties during school hours. One was even busted by the cops. Though their timing couldn't have been better, since they arrived 10 minutes into the school lunchtime. They did clear the apartment and make everyone go back to school, but they couldn't bust anyone for anything, no one was cutting at the time. It was a a riot.
It was the beginning of MTV and there was the Headbangers Ball. A two hour block set aside to let us watch the good stuff without the interference of Michael Jackson and A-Ha. Yeah, MTV used to play these things called music videos, wild I know, but true. We watched Headbangers Ball like it was the greatest advent since television itself. The videos, filled with busty, lingerie clad vixens armed the cockles of our burgeoning libidos. Some of those digital darlings we knew by name. Like Tawny Kitaen and Bobbi Brown, she of the Cherry Pie video, not he of the beating Whitney Houston. We adorned our walls with babies who were so banging hot that the wore spandex like a second skin. Not everyone should wear the material, it's a privilege, not a right.
It was strangely innocent times for all the drugs, rock-n-roll, and sexual innuendo. At least it was for me. I look back on the metal years as a phase, not my favorite, not my coolest, but one that rounded me out as a musical connoisseur. Without the freshman year I wouldn't appreciate the wondrous duel guitar of Iron Maiden, or the post Black Sabbath Ozzy who was known primarily for pissing on the Alamo and biting the head off a bat. Sure the music was dark, it was rife with Satanistic imagery, it was heavy. That was the point.
Have a phase that you look back on with some fashion regrets? Musical regrets?
Dixie Cup of Love: Tawny.
It finally dawned on me what it is about the nurse that I find so sexy that my every thought of her features her naked flesh. It's something so primal, so basic, that I have looked right past the somehow obvious answer. She looks like the girls from the 80's hair band videos. Those demi-Goddess creatures in heavy make-up, lace, fishnet, and hair so huge that it took hours of prep time in order fro those dolls to walk out the front door. The Aqua Net bills alone certainly caused many a death metal dollie to leave the scene for good, opting for the flat hair and cargo shorts of the Lilith Faire set. But the nurse, she's all devil signs and Vans sneakers.
There was time tat I too walked around in the swish of parachute pants, with a handkerchief tied to both wrists, matching my Rising Sun Japanese flag sleeveless. I was a freshman, in a new school, running with the "bad" kids seemed live a helluva lot more fun that bangin around with Mods and New Wave kids. It wouldn't be until I changed schools yet again that I would meet Wes and be introduced to punk. But my metal years had some moments, not fashionable, but moments.
Mostly we smoked and listened to metal. The bands were, and still are awesome. Motley Cure was playing "Shout of the Devil", Ozzy was still the Blizzard of Oz and not a cartoon of himself, Iron Maiden had us learning and worshipping Alister Crowley and drawing pictures of Eddie Maiden. It was a great time for eyeliner, spikes, and slutty girls. It was a bad time for big men as the girls all wanted skinny long haired Poison look-a-likes. Though I was not of the "in" type there was a large group of us that kicked around in our apartment as SuperMom was working two jobs at the time. This left hours of unsupervised time for the gang to play Intellivision and smoke pot, pop pills, and try coke for the first time. We, my sister was part of this motley crew (hee hee), would throw raucous parties during school hours. One was even busted by the cops. Though their timing couldn't have been better, since they arrived 10 minutes into the school lunchtime. They did clear the apartment and make everyone go back to school, but they couldn't bust anyone for anything, no one was cutting at the time. It was a a riot.
It was the beginning of MTV and there was the Headbangers Ball. A two hour block set aside to let us watch the good stuff without the interference of Michael Jackson and A-Ha. Yeah, MTV used to play these things called music videos, wild I know, but true. We watched Headbangers Ball like it was the greatest advent since television itself. The videos, filled with busty, lingerie clad vixens armed the cockles of our burgeoning libidos. Some of those digital darlings we knew by name. Like Tawny Kitaen and Bobbi Brown, she of the Cherry Pie video, not he of the beating Whitney Houston. We adorned our walls with babies who were so banging hot that the wore spandex like a second skin. Not everyone should wear the material, it's a privilege, not a right.
It was strangely innocent times for all the drugs, rock-n-roll, and sexual innuendo. At least it was for me. I look back on the metal years as a phase, not my favorite, not my coolest, but one that rounded me out as a musical connoisseur. Without the freshman year I wouldn't appreciate the wondrous duel guitar of Iron Maiden, or the post Black Sabbath Ozzy who was known primarily for pissing on the Alamo and biting the head off a bat. Sure the music was dark, it was rife with Satanistic imagery, it was heavy. That was the point.
Have a phase that you look back on with some fashion regrets? Musical regrets?
Dixie Cup of Love: Tawny.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Engagement Ring
"Crawling down the alley on your hands and knee. I’m sure you’re not protected, for it’s plain to see. The Diamond Dogs are poachers and they hide behind trees, hunt you to the ground they will, mannequins with kill appeal." David Bowie from "Diamond Dogs"
The nurse had what I would imagine to be a drug and alcohol fueled weekend that had culminated with her walking in wearing an engagement ring. I almost felt bad for the poor sap, but after listening to her talk to one of the Mongoloid orderlies, I realized that she isn't positive if her betrothed's name is Matt or Mark. Ah, love. So rare, so passionate, such a whore. When and if I ever do find a woman who stands against my lofty criteria to be Mrs. Asylum then I shall drop to one knee, produce a ring, and ask her by name if she will be my bride.
On my last weekend in LA I was without a vehicle. A fate worse than death as the Missing Persons were right, Nobody Walks In LA. The Ford Explorer that I had paid $1400 for was no longer a viable mode of transport seeing as the transmission decided to take some time off, the estimated fix cost, $2000. Not a smart deal. The problem was that Bob Knows Best was playing in the regional finals of the BODOG music search down in San Diego, German for Whales Vagina, and I wasn't about to miss the show. So, I rented a sensible set of wheels, a Dodge Charger. Damn car was awesome and fit me like Anna Nicole Smith. All soft and curves and just enough attitude. Anyway, the night before the trip down the shore I decided to head down to Huntington Beach from my crib in Pasadena, home of the Rose Parade, yeah. The drive would take me by the old neighborhood, so I figured why not stop in and say a quick farewell to my youth. I drove by the familiar haunts: Don's, Wayne's, the high school, and my Grandparents house. It was there that fate intervened.
When my Grandfather passed away a lot of family weirdness came to the surface. One aspect being that my waste of a life Uncle had run up about $197,000 of debt in my Grandfathers name. The shit sack never had a chance to deal with it as SuperMom came in and financially karate chopped him. He walked away, literally, with $10,000 and my Grandmothers engagement ring/wedding band. That fact always bothered SuperMom. As she figured that as the asshole walked away she had seen the last of the ring. Life as a funny way of fixing some of its wrongs. as I drove through the neighborhood I noticed the next door neighbor, Chris, was outside. I pulled my cherry rental to a stop and his jaw dropped upon seeing me. He was so glad that I popped by, he had something to give me.
While enjoying a beer he produced my Grandmothers ring. I was shocked. Turned out my useless Uncle had pawned it and Chris, whose wife Karen grew up next to my Grandparents, couldn't stand the thought of the ring sitting in some pawn shop. So they claimed it. However, they had no idea where to send it, so it sat on Karen's dresser. By sheer coincidence, that I took that sentimental journey, that he was outside at the moment I drove by, well it was fate, that's all I can say about it.
It was like I was Frodo as I didn't tell a single family member that I had the ring as I made my way to the Slow. Upon arriving at my sisters house, which functioned as my own Mount Doom, I told SuperMom the tale of my journey. Of course she cried when I handed her the wedding ring of her mother which she never thought she would see again. and now, I have the sole right to propose with it when and if. Fate, it seems, wants me to find a wife. Someday.
Has fate ever intervened in your life so brilliantly?
Dixie Cup of Love: Chris and Karen
The nurse had what I would imagine to be a drug and alcohol fueled weekend that had culminated with her walking in wearing an engagement ring. I almost felt bad for the poor sap, but after listening to her talk to one of the Mongoloid orderlies, I realized that she isn't positive if her betrothed's name is Matt or Mark. Ah, love. So rare, so passionate, such a whore. When and if I ever do find a woman who stands against my lofty criteria to be Mrs. Asylum then I shall drop to one knee, produce a ring, and ask her by name if she will be my bride.
On my last weekend in LA I was without a vehicle. A fate worse than death as the Missing Persons were right, Nobody Walks In LA. The Ford Explorer that I had paid $1400 for was no longer a viable mode of transport seeing as the transmission decided to take some time off, the estimated fix cost, $2000. Not a smart deal. The problem was that Bob Knows Best was playing in the regional finals of the BODOG music search down in San Diego, German for Whales Vagina, and I wasn't about to miss the show. So, I rented a sensible set of wheels, a Dodge Charger. Damn car was awesome and fit me like Anna Nicole Smith. All soft and curves and just enough attitude. Anyway, the night before the trip down the shore I decided to head down to Huntington Beach from my crib in Pasadena, home of the Rose Parade, yeah. The drive would take me by the old neighborhood, so I figured why not stop in and say a quick farewell to my youth. I drove by the familiar haunts: Don's, Wayne's, the high school, and my Grandparents house. It was there that fate intervened.
When my Grandfather passed away a lot of family weirdness came to the surface. One aspect being that my waste of a life Uncle had run up about $197,000 of debt in my Grandfathers name. The shit sack never had a chance to deal with it as SuperMom came in and financially karate chopped him. He walked away, literally, with $10,000 and my Grandmothers engagement ring/wedding band. That fact always bothered SuperMom. As she figured that as the asshole walked away she had seen the last of the ring. Life as a funny way of fixing some of its wrongs. as I drove through the neighborhood I noticed the next door neighbor, Chris, was outside. I pulled my cherry rental to a stop and his jaw dropped upon seeing me. He was so glad that I popped by, he had something to give me.
While enjoying a beer he produced my Grandmothers ring. I was shocked. Turned out my useless Uncle had pawned it and Chris, whose wife Karen grew up next to my Grandparents, couldn't stand the thought of the ring sitting in some pawn shop. So they claimed it. However, they had no idea where to send it, so it sat on Karen's dresser. By sheer coincidence, that I took that sentimental journey, that he was outside at the moment I drove by, well it was fate, that's all I can say about it.
It was like I was Frodo as I didn't tell a single family member that I had the ring as I made my way to the Slow. Upon arriving at my sisters house, which functioned as my own Mount Doom, I told SuperMom the tale of my journey. Of course she cried when I handed her the wedding ring of her mother which she never thought she would see again. and now, I have the sole right to propose with it when and if. Fate, it seems, wants me to find a wife. Someday.
Has fate ever intervened in your life so brilliantly?
Dixie Cup of Love: Chris and Karen
Monday, June 30, 2008
A Different Perspective
"Cause in nothing there's something I feel and my heart takes it straight. Or it'll break down again. In your lips I sense a danger, you've got the eyes of a stranger" The Payolas from "Eyes of a Stranger"
When I entered his room, much like I do every other morning, I had a little paper cup filled with the medications that make him easier to be around. It's not that without them he is a monster or anything, though I'm sure he would love it if people thought he was. He's really just a very scared, very lonely guy who took the long road to maturity. I think you all know a little bit about him, but you're never heard my version.
Mike, or inmate 4815162342, checked into the Asylum in March, though it does feel like he as been here a lot longer. He came here because he had moved away from all of the friends that he loved so much, the reasons for the move were varied. He'll tell you that it was all a bout of bad timing and cheap housing, but it was also about getting away from his addictive behaviors that had him switching one vice for another. See, Mike, the guy loves his rum. He let it control and nearly destroy his life during his 20's. It was just a decade of meaningless nights with mostly unworthy women. That Captain was the only thing he really cared about after what I'm gonna go ahead and call "The Michelle Situation". Once that was over he stopped hoping, nearly stopped dreaming, but he never stopped drinking. All that intoxication, all those blackouts, well it stunned his ability to grow up. He was still a 19 year old child after 10 years of boozing, and at 29 it came crashing down on him, literally.
His second DUI occurred on July 1st, 1999. His blood alcohol level at the time was .24, that pretty God damned drunk. He blacked out behind the wheel of his Celica, and without the guard rail would have plummeted to his death on the highway 22 to 57 freeway interchange. It scared him, it woke him up, sort of.
He stayed sober as a saint for nearly 1 year, but then he found something better than rum, marijuana, which had been absent from his life since high school. This lifestyle claimed him for another seven years, before he started getting his shit together. He stayed off the pot for over a year before taking a hit at the Embassy. That started yet another bender that would take him up to his move. He needed to escape the place he loved. Needed to find out if he could really be a man. That's why he is so dedicated to HellJob, which believe me, is killing him. But he has to prove to himself that he can make the most of a bad situation. Make it without his safety net of friends around him. He's really trying. Yeah, he's surviving, but he's miserable a lot of the time too.
So, I heard that he started asking you all for advice. Sounds like he's about ready to really take a step in a new direction and I hope he does. I know he says some pretty mean things about my sex life and how I look, but I think he just sees me as a porno type girl. Fantasy that you would never catch meeting his SuperMom. Well, I'm glad I got to yell you a little about him. Hope to talk to you again.
The Nurse
Do you have any questions for the nurse?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Nurse is only allowed to give them to the inmates.
When I entered his room, much like I do every other morning, I had a little paper cup filled with the medications that make him easier to be around. It's not that without them he is a monster or anything, though I'm sure he would love it if people thought he was. He's really just a very scared, very lonely guy who took the long road to maturity. I think you all know a little bit about him, but you're never heard my version.
Mike, or inmate 4815162342, checked into the Asylum in March, though it does feel like he as been here a lot longer. He came here because he had moved away from all of the friends that he loved so much, the reasons for the move were varied. He'll tell you that it was all a bout of bad timing and cheap housing, but it was also about getting away from his addictive behaviors that had him switching one vice for another. See, Mike, the guy loves his rum. He let it control and nearly destroy his life during his 20's. It was just a decade of meaningless nights with mostly unworthy women. That Captain was the only thing he really cared about after what I'm gonna go ahead and call "The Michelle Situation". Once that was over he stopped hoping, nearly stopped dreaming, but he never stopped drinking. All that intoxication, all those blackouts, well it stunned his ability to grow up. He was still a 19 year old child after 10 years of boozing, and at 29 it came crashing down on him, literally.
His second DUI occurred on July 1st, 1999. His blood alcohol level at the time was .24, that pretty God damned drunk. He blacked out behind the wheel of his Celica, and without the guard rail would have plummeted to his death on the highway 22 to 57 freeway interchange. It scared him, it woke him up, sort of.
He stayed sober as a saint for nearly 1 year, but then he found something better than rum, marijuana, which had been absent from his life since high school. This lifestyle claimed him for another seven years, before he started getting his shit together. He stayed off the pot for over a year before taking a hit at the Embassy. That started yet another bender that would take him up to his move. He needed to escape the place he loved. Needed to find out if he could really be a man. That's why he is so dedicated to HellJob, which believe me, is killing him. But he has to prove to himself that he can make the most of a bad situation. Make it without his safety net of friends around him. He's really trying. Yeah, he's surviving, but he's miserable a lot of the time too.
So, I heard that he started asking you all for advice. Sounds like he's about ready to really take a step in a new direction and I hope he does. I know he says some pretty mean things about my sex life and how I look, but I think he just sees me as a porno type girl. Fantasy that you would never catch meeting his SuperMom. Well, I'm glad I got to yell you a little about him. Hope to talk to you again.
The Nurse
Do you have any questions for the nurse?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Nurse is only allowed to give them to the inmates.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Art Teacher Needed
"It feels so good, you lying here next to me. Oh, what a groove. You have no idea how it feels, my hands just won’t keep still. I love you, baby. I just wanna hold you, run my fingers through your hair. Ooh outta sight. Uh-huh, right there, you like it like that. Closer. Come here, closer, close. Oh, baby." Barry White from "I'm Qualified to Satisfy You"
As the nurse pulled her uniform up over her McNamara/Troy enhanced balloon kit, I felt the lust start to build in my core. She's a skank, dirty and possibly ridden with any number of easily communicable viruses, but there is something so splendidly sexy about her that I can't help thinking what it would be like to seduce her. With someone of her appetite and sex drive it wouldn't take too much wooing, a fifty dollar bill and a bottle of Snow Peak Peach flavored Boone's Farm ought to do the trick, but I just can't bring myself to part with the coin. Guess I still have a lot to learn when it comes to "the art of seduction".
It dawned on me that I may have been going about this bloggity blog challenge all the wrong way. Perhaps, I thinks, instead of feeding you little pellets of who I am, I should be tapping into your collective knowledge on how to be the man I aspire to be. After all, most of you have snagged a husband, even Marc(o) Porno conned Mrs. Porno into the nuptials. Maybe the thing I'm really after, is just a few pointed questions and improvements away. So let's get down to the nitty gritty, shall we?
We've already come to an accord and agree that a sense of humor and confidence are the two most attractive qualities that the male of the species can possess, besides of course, the seven figure bank account. I own funny like it's a Nikon, the confidence, well that's a work in progress. But I'm getting there. Which now leads us to "Finding the Other Half". How? Where? When? I'm haunted by these thoughts, more frightening than a Nicole Ritchie hot dog purge. The qualities I'm after in the future winner of the "Be Mrs. Asylum" competition are silliness, enough self esteem that I don't need to fix her, a good sense of self, and a brain. Sure a nice rack and a pretty face would help, but I don't think I'm asking the Wizard for too much. I hear this stuff all the time, how women hate men who don't want a commitment, Hello! Poster boy for "Not That Guy" right here! So if I'm not commitment phobic, I'm attractive (at least some of you seem to find me appealing), funny (check), motivated and ambitious (checkity check check) This should be a piece of bundt cake, right. So, I'm a 6lb river trout, a good catch. Now how do I bait the hook?
What do you women want to hear in the first five minutes of a conversation? Not looking for a magical line to get in your knickers, I mean, what will make you want to know more from the very start? How should I be presenting myself? Where does the line from confident to cocky get crossed? Is the bar the wrong atmosphere to be hunting? Come on ladies, you all love to change men, here's your chance to make it a team effort.
I'm a romantic, candle lit dinner, walk in the moon light kind of cowboy, but it's getting to that point where I seem to be failing like Jeff Conaway in rehab. I'm thrashing around under the waves of dubious debutante wannabees and depressing Dorothy's hoping that I can sweep them away from Kansas to Oz. I understand that as I near forty, there are less women in the "No big issues" aisle. The shelves are getting pretty barren. And I can except that some of the packaging may not be as pristine as it was, but so far, my search as eluded me. What am I not doing? What am I doing wrong?
What are the keys to a good seduction?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Future Mrs. Asylum
As the nurse pulled her uniform up over her McNamara/Troy enhanced balloon kit, I felt the lust start to build in my core. She's a skank, dirty and possibly ridden with any number of easily communicable viruses, but there is something so splendidly sexy about her that I can't help thinking what it would be like to seduce her. With someone of her appetite and sex drive it wouldn't take too much wooing, a fifty dollar bill and a bottle of Snow Peak Peach flavored Boone's Farm ought to do the trick, but I just can't bring myself to part with the coin. Guess I still have a lot to learn when it comes to "the art of seduction".
It dawned on me that I may have been going about this bloggity blog challenge all the wrong way. Perhaps, I thinks, instead of feeding you little pellets of who I am, I should be tapping into your collective knowledge on how to be the man I aspire to be. After all, most of you have snagged a husband, even Marc(o) Porno conned Mrs. Porno into the nuptials. Maybe the thing I'm really after, is just a few pointed questions and improvements away. So let's get down to the nitty gritty, shall we?
We've already come to an accord and agree that a sense of humor and confidence are the two most attractive qualities that the male of the species can possess, besides of course, the seven figure bank account. I own funny like it's a Nikon, the confidence, well that's a work in progress. But I'm getting there. Which now leads us to "Finding the Other Half". How? Where? When? I'm haunted by these thoughts, more frightening than a Nicole Ritchie hot dog purge. The qualities I'm after in the future winner of the "Be Mrs. Asylum" competition are silliness, enough self esteem that I don't need to fix her, a good sense of self, and a brain. Sure a nice rack and a pretty face would help, but I don't think I'm asking the Wizard for too much. I hear this stuff all the time, how women hate men who don't want a commitment, Hello! Poster boy for "Not That Guy" right here! So if I'm not commitment phobic, I'm attractive (at least some of you seem to find me appealing), funny (check), motivated and ambitious (checkity check check) This should be a piece of bundt cake, right. So, I'm a 6lb river trout, a good catch. Now how do I bait the hook?
What do you women want to hear in the first five minutes of a conversation? Not looking for a magical line to get in your knickers, I mean, what will make you want to know more from the very start? How should I be presenting myself? Where does the line from confident to cocky get crossed? Is the bar the wrong atmosphere to be hunting? Come on ladies, you all love to change men, here's your chance to make it a team effort.
I'm a romantic, candle lit dinner, walk in the moon light kind of cowboy, but it's getting to that point where I seem to be failing like Jeff Conaway in rehab. I'm thrashing around under the waves of dubious debutante wannabees and depressing Dorothy's hoping that I can sweep them away from Kansas to Oz. I understand that as I near forty, there are less women in the "No big issues" aisle. The shelves are getting pretty barren. And I can except that some of the packaging may not be as pristine as it was, but so far, my search as eluded me. What am I not doing? What am I doing wrong?
What are the keys to a good seduction?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Future Mrs. Asylum
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
