cliff's notes

Don’t Forget the Bacon

The internet is all abuzz about Osama. Usama. However you spell it. I don’t care enough to figure it out. Lots of venom spewing from rightfully-angry Americans. Lots of partially-fake Martin Luther King Jr. quotes floating around preaching words of spiritual wisdom. 

“I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy.” 

Lots of angry people getting angrier at peaceful people for even THINKING about talking about forgiveness. We haven’t even finished singing, “America! Fuck Yeah!” yet, right? “We ain’t forgiving NO ONE until Sunday, you pussy.”

Great, so now we’re being divided again? 

Lots of people in between feeling conflicted emotions. Happy he’s dead, but feeling odd celebrating the death of another human being. 

I think this touches on our spirituality. By spirituality, I mean our interconnectedness. I mean that our words, actions, thoughts affect one another in a profound way. We’re all connected. The rich and poor. The bad and good. And the fugly. And, as much as we like to tear people down (see: Trump, Sheen, the Berlin Wall, etc), we don’t want to actually HURT people. 

In an attempt to reconcile my feelings about all of this, I’ve given this situation some thought. Mainly in the shower, because…well, that’s where I think. And, although I feel somewhat odd rejoicing in another man’s death, I primarily feel….to be blunt…”bitch, I’m glad you’re dead.” 

But why? An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, right? 

Right. But, this is more like an eye for 3,000 eyes, isn’t it? And, that doesn’t make the whole world blind. It actually helps the whole world to see a little better.

In this spiritual/human interconnectedness, there are contracts. There are consequences. If I speed, I can’t complain about a traffic ticket. God that’s so cliche. Let me try again.  If drink one too many drinks, chances are I’m trying to cure my hangover with a delicious bacon sandwich in the morning. There, that’s better. 

Mmmm. Bacon.

Another part of this contract is that if you kill 3,000 Americans, you KNOW you’re going to get your ass shot. You KNOWINGLY entered into that contract. You expected to get killed. So much so that you played hide and go seek for 10 years. 

Gotcha!

So, yeah. I’m glad he’s dead. He deserved it. But, at the same time we have to acknowledge that violence doesn’t answer anything. And, now that we can close this chapter on this dark period of our history, I hope we can learn. I hope we leave Afghanistan. I hope we leave Iraq. I hope we stop these ridiculous wars for made-up reasons. I hope I never hear the word birther again and I hope they build more Pinkberry’s in my town. 

Those last two have nothing to do with anything.

We killed that motherfucker dead. With a shot to the face no less. There’s nothing wrong with that. He had it coming. Now. Let’s start a new chapter. One that starts with love and ends with celebration. And bacon sandwiches. Don’t forget the bacon sandwiches.

The Sweet Spot

I’m an album guy. 

I don’t buy singles from iTunes. I buy albums. And, I actually listen to them. 

Where are my album peeps at?

When you listen to as much music as I do, you realize you’re searching for something. 

Today, I realized what it is I’m searching for: The Sweet Spot.

The Sweet Spot happens when you buy a new album. On the first 5-10 listens, everything seems unfamiliar. You’re not quite sure if you like the album. Somewhere in between 5 and 10 listens, the songs start to become familiar enough that they feel comfortable. But, the songs are new enough that you’re not sick of them. 

It’s kind of like getting drunk. You don’t want too many drinks, but you don’t want too few. 

That’s The Sweet Spot. And, I found it today on Bright Eyes’ new album: The People’s Key. Which you can stream from http://www.npr.com/music. 

Strangers in China

A few years back, I’m in Shanghai on business. Luckily, one of my friends from Malaysia met me there because no one in China speaks English. He was Chinese and wanted to show me around. We’re bored, so we’re drinking and smoking cigars. Trying to act tougher than we really are. And I’m traveling on an expense account so I come up with a brilliant idea. 

Let’s invite some random strangers to dinner and get to know them. So we have a few more drinks to build up some courage and start to look for foreigners we can hang out with. We see a couple approach and I stand up:

“umm…sooo….I’ll buy you two dinner. We just want to hang out and get to know some strangers.”

They look understandably skeptical and reply, “well, ummm….maybe…but we have four other people with us.”

“Well, it’s not my money. They can come to.”

So, off we go with six strangers and have dinner in Shanghai. We end up finding out the six people are from all over the world and two weeks prior didn’t know each other. They’re all there on some kind of college exchange program. 

We all get along famously. 

We decide to go out for drinks after dinner. And, after drinks we decide to go out for more drinks. We find out about the most happening club but hear you need a password to get in. 

We don’t have the password. 

We send the cutest girl with us to butter up the bouncer. It works. We’re in. 

We drink all kinds of drinks. Every round is on me. Well, my expense card anyways. 

I wake up the next morning and I’m as sick as can be. I’m in China for one meeting that is supposed to take place on that particular morning. My company flew me all the way here for this one meeting. Then I find out that it’s a very big deal to the people I’m meeting to get to meet me. Fucking China. 

There’s no way I’m making the meeting. 

I blame it on food poisoning. 

I left China the next day headed for Singapore. I horribly disrepsected the business people I was supposed to meet, got sicker than I’ve ever been, and wasted thousands of dollars of my company’s money. 

And, most importantly, had the time of my life. 

The Grade School Dating Scene

I must have been 5 years old when I first got my heart broken.

That seems odd. But, I ran into someone from my first grade class this weekend. We were talking about how our private christian elementary school was like a modern day club on Friday night. Guys and gals were hooking up left and right. 

I’m not sure exactly what we even did. We probably just said we were boyfriend and girlfriend and ignored each other playfully. But damnit if it didn’t hold a lot of weight for me back then. 

The bitch that broke my heart was Rebecca. We were “going out” for a while. Where’d we go you ask….To the playground. Jungle gym. Played red rover with the cool kids. We were regular socialites her and I. 

I remember my best friend got the hottest girl. Again, not sure what “hot” was back then, but somehow we all knew who the choicest girls were. I was always jealous of him for her. I remember her name as Tiffany. To this day, he assures me that was not her name. 

She probably wasn’t even hot.

Back to Rebecca. She was a good girl. She was cute. Looking back, she had the type of family that probably read to her, tucked her in, and helped her with her homework. My parents just made sure we were indoors by dark and let us figure out the rest. 

So, for some reason on the last day of kindergarten, this tramp tells me, “I never liked you, I was just joking with you the whole time.” I was crushed. I remember us going out for nearly the whole year. I was a one-girl man even back then.

She was joking for the whole year? That’s a hell of a lot of discipline for a 5 year old. I can’t even brush my teeth every night for an entire week as an adult. 

And why would you even do that? Toy with someone’s emotions like that? 

We were going OUT Rebecca. And, at Foothill Christian School in 1985, that fucking meant something. 

I might have been 5 years old when I got my heart broken. But, now I’m 30. And, I’m still not over it. 

The Only One

She says she wants leather shoes because they travel and won’t break

She asks for vintage jackets with pearl buttons and heartache

She refuses generosity because she doesn’t want the debt

She doesn’t want real diamonds, they remind her of regret

He hates the heat, but watches her burn

He can’t stand lies, but can’t sit and yearn

It’s all make up sex, no ones having fun

Keeps telling himself she’s the only one

She only travels in the autumn, the perfect time of year

She doesn’t like the beaches, says the sharks can smell her fear

She doesn’t believe in angels, says they always cloud her view

She like her friends off-kilter, and slightly jealous too

He hates the heat, but watches her burn

He can’t stand lies, but can’t sit and yearn

It’s all make up sex, no ones having fun

Keeps telling himself she’s the only one

She only eats at nighttime, says she needs to watch her weight

She will not go to restaurants, say they feel too much like dates

She doesn’t like a compliment, says they are loaded and untrue

She’s not the only woman, she reminds him of you.

He hates the heat, but watches her burn

He can’t stand lies, but can’t sit and yearn

It’s all make up sex, no ones having fun

Keeps telling himself she’s the only one

Facebook Groups You Will Probably Never See

1. Hardcore Christians for Obama
2. Tea Party Members Who Actually Like Tea
3. Anti-Gay Political Activists Who Are, In Fact, Not Secretly Gay Themselves
4. I Love Being In This Coma
5. I Love Being In This Coffin
6. Android Users Who Don’t Secretly Covet iPhones
7. People Who Still Hate The New Facebook Design After 3 Weeks
8. People Who Solved Their Problems Via Suicide
9. People Who, When Going To The Dentist, Think “Fuck Yeah!”

Houston, We Have a Problem

Looking back, I justified my desire for sushi while in Houston with this thought: “Well, Houston is close to the water.”

The actual sushi tasted fantastic. I remember loving it. It was the after-effects that didn’t work out so well. Kind of like sex without a condom. Or sex with a condom, but with the wrong person.

We felt fine, my companion and I, until about 1 in the morning. My first memory was getting up with horrible stomach pains and making my way to the hotel bathroom. We had had a lot to drink. And by that, I mean we were fucking drunk. So, my first thought was I had just had too much to drink. 

Wrong. 

Note to self: Food poisoning feels much different than inebriation.

I sat on the toilet. The next thing I remember was waking up facedown on the bathroom floor with my pants down and had no idea how I got there. I hadn’t felt like that since Christian grade school. 

After making sure my kidneys were still inside of me, I saw blood on the ground. Also disconcerting. Some quick algebraic equations helped me to realize I had fallen off the toilet and broken my nose on the bathroom floor. This might explain why people sometimes ask me if I’m Jewish, because now I have a crooked nose.

I never did get that fixed. 

For now, I needed sleep. I made it to my bed and passed out. We had to get up at 5am to catch our flight. It took everything I had not to puke in the back of the cab on the 45 minute roller coaster ride to the airport. Surely this experience was designed by Satan and his wolfpack.

Once at the airport things didn’t get better. Anytime you couple diarreah, throwing up, and public bathrooms, you know you’re in for a bad time. Hell, any one of those things can ruin an afternoon tea party. But, the combination of all three is hell. Kind of like the Jonas Brothers. 

I barely made it onto the plane. We should have stayed longer in Houston but we couldn’t afford it. Once on the plane, the losing of the proverbial lunch continued. I never realized so much liquid could come out of either end of me. Let alone at the same time. I felt bad for the passengers next to me. But, what in the hell was I supposed to do? The fasten seatbelt sign was on. 

The plane landed back home. We had arrived. But, we had a business presentation to deliver. To this day, I think about how bad my breath must have been. We didn’t have time to stop and get gum. To those 120 people in attendance, I apologize for my ahi puke breath. 

I went home and passed out again and felt much better the next day. Well, better about the food poisoning. I think I was sick enough that I had forgot to use a condom. 

The Modern Bathroom

It starts with the iPhone. 

I’ll typically catch up on Facebook. Check Twitter. Look through Instagram photos. Sometimes i’ll even take Instagram photos. 

Yes, I’ve done all these things while on the shitter. 

If you’re reading this, there’s a reasonably good chance I’ve posted something on your wall while dropping a deuce. 

Luckily Facebook Places doesn’t display this.

I honestly can’t remember what I did before the iPhone. I mean, at home…magazines. But what about public restrooms?

For the most part I thought technology had elevated the bathroom experience. But, the evidence I present here suggests otherwise. 

Once all my apps are checked and updated, it’s time to finish my business. Toilets now are supposed to recognize when you stand up and automatically flush. I’m going to guess this happens about 15% of the time. The other 85% I’m stuck staring at my excrement wondering how to get the toilet to flush. 

The little button. There’s always a little button. The problem is half the time it’s broken. But, even if it’s not broken I have to finger this little button which is surely full of other people’s fecal matter…thus defeating the whole point of this automated flushing system. Sometimes, you just have to let it float. I feel bad when that happens. Like I should go to church and repent. But what am I to do? The button is broken. 

The harrasment continues at the sink. You wash your hands and then you have to use the automatic paper towel dispener. I’m not sure what kind of ninja, voodoo magic you have to use to get a towel to come out. I can never figure it out. Inevitably, some guy walks up behind me and nonchalantly gets a towel to come out of the dispener next to me. Hmmm. Maybe my machine is broken. 

It’s not the machine.  

So now I’m wiping my hands on my jeans. 

My hands are properly washed. My shit is not properly flushed. And I’m walking out into the world with wet hands and a fecal finger.

In The Closet

The first time I kissed a girl was in a closet in 7th grade. I’m not speaking figuratively about the closet. We were literally in between coats and stepping on the vacuum cleaner. The vacuum cleaner is also not a metaphor for anything sucking. I was in 7th grade, get your mind out of the gutter.

The interesting part is how I ended up kissing a girl in a closet. And, as I think back, this one episode has shaped my life more than I realize. I’ll throw in some of my life lessons at the end. But, for now, back to 1993.

Jason Priestly was in some flick called Calendar Girl. I can’t believe I remember that. I also can’t believe that I went with one of my -presumably - guy friends to go see that movie. But I did. I don’t remember anything about the movie though. 

Prior to the movie starting, we were playing video games. Because, when you’re 13, that’s what you do at a movie theater. That’s because you get there early because your life is boring and you have time to kill in movie theaters playing video games. So, I’m playing this video game and this girl randomly walks up and tells me her friend likes me. See how easy it was back then? I forget the specifics at that point, but we quickly figured out we were both there to see Jason Priestly (who wasn’t!?) and we decided we would watch it together and hold hands. Because of this fact, I remember this movie being fantastic.

After the movie, we exchanged phone numbers. We didn’t have the Bump app on our iPhones back then. She called me (agin, the aggressor) and invited me to come hang out. This is where I thank the gods for giving me two working parents. Because I was allowed to go hang out at this girls house with no parents around. Good parenting mom and dad. I’m not being sarcastic, I’m thanking you.

So, I go hang out. Little did I know she had everything planned. She asks me if I want to play hide and go seek.  Sure I want to play hide and go seek. “We’re going to hide in the same spot” she says. The logical side of my brain wanted to argue how this wouldn’t be effective. Luckily, I had enough sense to suppress that urge. So, we hung out in a closet and the next thing I know someone else’s tongue is in my mouth.

It felt weird at first. I wasn’t expecting it. And, the problem with kissing is you quickly realize that no one has taught you how to do it. In the movies they don’t really use tongue. No instruction manual here. I remember repeatedly scraping my tongue against the bottom edge of her top teeth. I have no idea why I did this. Not very proud of it….so I figured I’d put it on the Internet for 1.5 billion people to read.

Because of my, uh, unique ways of kissing I wasn’t surprised when she promptly broke up with me a couple of days later. But, I was thankful for the experience. And, looking back, I learned quite a few lessons. Some of them are true. Most of them have just gotten me in trouble. Here they are, for better or worse: 

1. Girls will ask me out if they’re interested. I honestly never initiated a relationship. 

2. I love going to the movies. Who knows, someone might ask me out while I’m playing video games. 

3. Performance matters. If you don’t please a woman, she’ll leave you. 

When I say “performance”, I’m NOT speaking literally. I’m speaking figuratively. I hope you get it. Now that I think about it, the vacuum cleaner was also figurative. One thing sucked that day. My “performance.” Some things never change.

Happy Merry India

I’m somewhat of an Indian food snob. I’ve traveled to Malaysia many times. Malaysia is a melting pot of cultures and has many Indians. Not we-gave-you-blankets-with-small-pox Indians, but well…you know..Eastern Indians. Anyways, Malaysia has amazing Indian food. So I was spoiled.

Every week or so, I’ll try a local Indian place in some hopeless-romantic notion that perhaps I’ll find Indian food on par with Malaysian-Indian food. Which is like saying I’m going to go find God in hell, but alas I try.

Over the holidays, I happened upon a great Indian place. It was nowhere near Malaysian-Indian great, but I downed the food, burnt my taste buds off my tongue, and got gas pains, so I was a happy camper.

On the way out the door, the owner of the join - who was clearly Indian - says to me, “Merry Christmas.”

I quickly surveyed the situation. This guy? Definitely from India. Chances of him being Christian? .03%.

Shit. How the fuck am I supposed to reply to this?

On one hand I’m thinking like Bill O’Reilly…You’re in my country mother fucker, so “merry christmas.”

On the other I’m thinking I’m not a Fox news broadcaster getting paid to play to a red-state audience. And, I like to fancy myself somewhat of a nice thoughtful man, but even if I did know what Indians celebrate in winter - which I don’t - I sure as fuck don’t know the appropriate greeting. 

Of course, all of this happened in the series of 4 milliseconds. I know because I counted.

So, I did what any left-wing Californian would do, I ignored him, said nothing and left.

And, I’ve been feeling bad ever since.  Now, I’ve only got 11 months to figure out how to respond in case this happens again next Christmas.