Archive | July, 2009

Food Handling

29 Jul

What a difference a year makes eh?

Last year about this time I was pushing for answers about where I’d end up.

It became Portland by default. I didn’t mind but it was nerve- racking but still fun and different.

Living at my cousin’s house, smoking out with my little brother every day and just playing video games.

I’d written my first book last summer, but I was also busting my ass at Chili’s also, working with stupid hick kids and even dumber management.

I’d even ran into a couple of girls I’d kicked it with in high school, back in my old hometown of Cedar Hill, Texas.

Its still a strange sensation riding my bike across Peoria towards my apartment and seeing downtown and realizing how much has transpired since last year, when I was sitting on my front porch shirtless and listening to the Dead, taking midnight walks across town.

I didn’t work for a couple of months after Chili’s then I moved here to Tulsa, got a job at Whole Foods, and then at my current gig.

I’m not that far removed from working retail and in the service industry. If I could have my druthers I wouldn’t go back, but still I had to get my food handler’s permit.

I thought this was stupid at first, a way for the state to get more money, but it wasn’t half bad.

The lady doing the class was fairly funny and I even learned a little bit.

Now I think every state should require this class. I didn’t learn anything earth shattering but it did remind me of some things I’d forgotten and confirmed stuff I’d suspected was true.

It made me consider how much better a home cooked meal is than eating at a restaurant. At least you know who’s handling food in your own kitchen.
I’m not saying I’m gonna stop going out to eat altogether and it may not change too much about handling food, I will say that its making me think twice about performing analingus on someone ever again. That’s how you get hepatitis.


All Star Break

24 Jul

Yessir Mr. Twain, it's only the beginning. Thanks for all the good advice.

Yessir Mr. Twain, it's only the beginning. Thanks for all the good advice.

Well we’ve come to midway point of 2009 and I’m not ashamed to say that this is unequivocably the best year of my life.

Achieved a couple of milestones this year.

First of all I turned thirty which is a big deal in any culture, but for a black man, an even bigger deal.

In my culture, I’m considered long in tooth. it’s almost like measuring in dog years. You hear about so many of us being dead, or in jail by this time. Even celebrity doesn’t make you immune, look at Hendrix, or Tupac, and Biggie, or even Reggie Lewis, or Lenny Bias all dead before the age of thirty.

So for that fact alone I’m very thankful and proud.

Secondly I finally got my first book published. I’ve got another ready to be published, we’re just going through the edits and formatting stage before it gets sent through the print machines. “Instant Exchange of Recognition” will be ready by September.

I finished my undergrad finally, and can move on to other projects. I can even work a real job should I choose, however I got a great job I love which has changed my life as well.

The trip to Toronto was life changing as well, meeting new people who have had a tremendous effect on my life and perspective.

So the second half of the year looks like this:

A west coast trip that will result in a couple of consignment deals at City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, and Powell’s in Portland.
As well as another appearance on the Ed Forman Show, something fun to look forward to.

I’ve got another poetry reading to do in Wichita at the Blank Page Gallery, and another appearance on The James Gate Show.

Finally I’ll be visiting Lawrence again to see a Jayhawks game at Allen Fieldhouse, and hopefully get a book into their public library.

Somehow I’d like to sneak in some studio time to work on my comedy album and/or begin working on an audio version of Supplication and Masturbation.

A great beginning to what will be a great ten year run in the life of Bobby Mickey. I’m right on the cusp of that 20 year apex.

“Good times are coming, I hear it everywhere I go.” ~Neil Young~

Rejected T-Shirt ideas

24 Jul

You gotta hand it to him, it takes some serious magic to make a band of black dudes sound so white.

You gotta hand it to him, it takes some serious magic to make a band of black dudes sound so white.

or trashy bumper sticker ideas that went nowhere:

I’m allergic to Peanut butter but my dog isn’t.

White People Love Dave Matthews Band.

In certain circles I’m a very square dude.

She lost the Weight but kept the Oral Fetish, thanks Jenny Craig!!!

Bulimic chicks are great in the sack.
Got warts???

Feel free to make money off any of these ideas if your conscious allows.

First Love

22 Jul

the moment my love for a certain  Algerian was cemented.

the moment my love for a certain Algerian was cemented.

The first baseball game I ever went to was in the spring of 1989.
It was an Astros game at the Astrodome versus the Pittsburgh Pirates.

Some old school cats in that game. Had no idea I was seeing THE Barry Bonds, back then. I was in fourth grade and was more interested in this older gal Peggy, than in seeing Craig Biggio, Glenn Davis, and Bill Doran eek out a win.

She was kind of a fan, and her older sister was a big fan and they were both really kind to me, and somehow I became interested in baseball. Thus beginning a 15 year affair.

I started playing that following year and got my hand eye coordination good enough to play in a few all star games as a teenager before the pressures of high school sucked the joy out of playing (and sometimes living).

For a long time I hated my father for putting so much pressure on me to be a good player, and I grew to hate him even more for trashing my collection of baseball cards as a kid.

Recently though I realized he might have done me a favor. I used to view those cards as a gateway to my youth. Seeing the old cards of Cal Ripken Jr. Bob Tewksbury, or Lance Blankenship still bring about memories of riding my bike to the card shop and plopping down some moulah for the chance at a Darryl Strawberry in Dodgers uniform…….

but now…… not quite the same…….

two strike years lost, and a huge steroids scandal has jaded me a bit.

Finding out about the ‘roids made me feel like James Spader character in Sex, Lies, and Videotape, when he finds out the girl he had on a pedestal fucked his college buddy behind his back.

Names came up and more names came up and everything jsut kind of made sense. All the talk about juiced balls, and all the on the field, bench clearing brawls were suddenly put into a different context.

But in a way i’m like so what? How many of us are on performance enhancing drugs? I’m sitting here writing this blog (and about to work on a short story) with the help of two gigantic, 16 ounce Red Bulls.

So what if it takes years off my life? I have to get this stuff done. And maybe that was the thinking during the Steroids Era. Getting it done, putting up stats and being as good as possible while you still have the chance, because when your career is over, its over, and no one thinks about you because there will always be another player to eclipse your statistics.

So in a way I get it, but still, it takes a little of the luster off the game I had held in such high esteem.

I guess aging does that to you. You get a different sort of perspective on things, and players become people, fucking up like everyone else but having it appear in headlines everywhere.

Players die, players retire, players go bankrupt and get divorced.

I finally learned to seperate what a player does on the field with the off the field stuff.

True Lenny Dykstra had one of the most phenomenal post season runs I’ve ever seen (and should’ve won the ’93 MVP in my opinion), but does that make him a decent human being?

Even if there weren’t the scandals and the strike stuff, it seems inevitable that I’d outgrow the sport. The last world series I watched with any interest was the last one with the Yankees, in 2003 when they lost to the Florida Marlins.

Even back then my interest was waning. A friend of mine once remarked that baseball was too slow for him, and boring, and I told him I liked the pace of the game, that I found it relaxing.

But that changed. Maybe my life got more complicated and the pace of basketball and international soccer resonated more with me, or maybe baseball really did become boring.

I just noticed that going to the game and sitting still for three hours became harder and harder. Unless I went with a friend, I found myself falling asleep in my chairs, a bit too relaxed by the near silence of crowds, smell of chalk, grass, and roasted weiners and peanuts.

The days of visiting cities just to watch a game in their ballparks are over. Tickets are too expensive and I don’t know any of the players out there anymore.

New and exciting NBA players have won me over, and the intensity of international soccer draws me away from the stop and start of baseball and football.

Besides I can’t stand all the constant advertisements that bombard you inside and outside the stadium. All the parks are owned by banks, and billboards dominate the venues, it used to be a simple church organ between innings and a generic wall. Now every outfield is sponsored by TBS or Staples, or Taco Bell.

In 2006 I fell in love with a certain soccer player who reminded me of a certain hockey player I had a man crush on.

Zinedine Zidane took the French national team as far as it could go without winning. Displaying the characteristics of something I’d recognized. Armed with deft passing skills, a steely glance, and a champion’s cool, I found myself wrapped up in the ’06 World Cup, realizing that the intensity of the fan base was a major attraction to the sport.

No matter where I was, no matter the nationality of a person I came across while traveling, I found that soccer was an interesting starting point to engage a complete stranger (often foreign) in conversation.

That combined with countless hours of playing the FIFA video game with my roommates in Austin, got me to start tuning into UEFA Leagues and Champions Leagues and I’m a full fledged fan now, even if Zidane retired.

So it goes. Old relationships die, new ones start up, right?

I went to a Tulsa Drillers game tonight with teh kids and it was fun. I didn’t know a single player’s name, and didn’t care. I was just watching baseball. Didn’t care about stats or anything, just enjoying the fundamentals of executing a bunt, or a double steal, and witnessing the beauty of a 6-4-3 double play.

It was great. Tickets are cheaper at minor leauge games. Less frills between innings, better seats, less lines for cheaper concessions, and real fans.

The kids were ready to leave after six innings and I didn’t blame them, baseball is a slow and often boring game. Kind of like 1,000’s of people sitting down to watch a chess match (although I rather enjoy chess).

Its not for everyone and maybe not for me anymore, but I will always look back in fondness at certain players and moments I was lucky enough to witness.

I got to watch the two greatest World Series of my lifetime in 1991 (Twins-Braves Smoltz and Jack Morris 10 inning duel) and 2001 (Diamondbacks-Yankees 7 games extra inning affair as well).

I witnessed in person a perfect game thrown by Randy Johnson with a high school teammate in Atlanta in 2004.

I got to see Bo Jackson, George Brett, Matt Williams, Andre Dawson, David Cone, Nolan Ryan, Carlton Fisk, Roberto Alomar, Rickey Henderson and Dennis Eckersley play ball at one time or another.

I’ve been to Wrigley Field, Turner Field, Dodgers Stadium, Roylas Stadium, The Sky Dome, the Astrodome, Ballpark in Arlington. I’ve been on the field at Oakland Coliseum. I even took a plane to Pittsburgh to see the Pirates game. I was a huge fan of the sport.

I enjoyed just coming to the game and sitting for hours, watching and thinking, and talking ball.

And as much as I loved watching, I enjoyed playing even more. Just stepping across the chalk lines brought a smile to my face. I miss having teammates and having reasons to high five, and focusing on tendencies and stealing bases.

Had I known how much focus, and preparation went into being a good player, things may have been different for me. I wish I’d have known just how much of playing the game (and even living life) was mental.

I certainly regret not getting the most out of my ability. Its tough knowing that I wasn’t as good of a player as I could’ve been. I’m thirty years old now, and in what should be the peak of a player’s athletic conditioning and career.

I’d like to think I’d join another men’s league and play until I’m seventy like Bill “the Spaceman” Lee. And if not that then at least coach a bit. Who’s to say what will happen.

I can say that the only way you’ll catch me at a major league game is if someone I know is playing on a major league ballclub. Its refreshing to say that I have better things to do than to spend 30 dollars on a seat in a ballpark named after some corporation.

That’s too expensive of a nap. I’d rather just turn on the television and fall asleep on the couch.


20 Jul

Q:What's the white stuff in Bird Poop?  A: Well that's Bird Poop too.

Q:What's the white stuff in Bird Poop? A: Well that's Bird Poop too.

Just got through reading Slaughter house Five for the second time in my life.

I feel like it was a wasted attempt the first time I read it. I was 21 when I first read it and it was my first Vonnegut book.

Looking back on things, I’d have been better off by starting on Player Piano, or Bluebeard, maybe even Breakfast of Champions, but Slaughterhouse Five can’t be truly digested without having some sort of intimate knowledge of Vonnegut and his work.

It was a completely different experience this time around. The first time I did it , I just thought it was weird. But now I understand.

What struck me this time around was how funny it was, hilarious, tawdry, and most of all, touchingly human.

I love reading Vonnegut because of his down to earth, matter of fact style. He was a real rule breaker by taking chances with characters and plot lines, and even went as far as to insert himself into many of his novels.

The craziest thing to think about is the fact that he survived the fire bombing in Dresden. All those 130,000 plus people who died and the few who survived were ironically saved by a structure that served to kill many of the oxen, pigs, and cattle in that area.

I can’t imagine coming up and seeing what he saw. It seemed like it was the most profound experience of his life. So many of his books deal with WWII and a survivor’s mentality.

Elements of that event pervade Bluebeard, Mother Night, even. How could anyone look at life the same after miraculously surviving the biggest massacre in world history?

Then of course, Hiroshima and Nagasaki came after the Dresden bombing.

The world is such an evil place. To think that some people are so wicked that they’d beat a 14 year old boy to death for whistling at his ugly assed, rat faced wife (i’m sure somewhere up there Emmett would love a mulligan on that one–certainly wasn’t a regular ass beating over) , then laugh about it after being acquitted and sticking his tongue down his ulgy wife’s gullet (pure fucking evil).

to think of all the people who run these corporations that lay off 1,000’s upon 1,000’s of people so they can make an extra million or two.

We live in a world of serial killers. Not Gacy and Ted Bundy types, but something way worse, and even more sinister. Serial killers do it for the sheer joy of killing, these fuckers are just sociopaths looking for an extra buck.

Dressed up in suit and ties, determining the fates of millions of people without blinking an eye. We elect these people, shake their hands, and give them the power to affect our lives.

We’re talking bankers, CEO’s, Senators, Governors, and Presidents.

It makes you ask the question of who’s really the sick ones here? Are masochists? Or are we sheep? Or is it really way more complicated than “the world trying to commit suicide.”

Its stuff like this that makes me admire Vonnegut and his writing so much. No matter how dark the subject, he takes a drag of his Pall Mall and makes a joke that points out the absurdity of our existence. Is it or isn’t real?

This bizarre trip we got going on here. Perhaps its better just to do your best, love those around you, and hope that the ripple effect ensues. Maybe the best way is to ensure that every interaction counts, smile more, laugh harder and embrace those tender and sweet moments of joy.

Even in the darkest of times, a sense of humor will get you far.

cuz maybe its just too absurd to take that seriously anyway.

imagine taking this thing way too seriously to find out it was all a silly little dream.
So it goes.

Booty Tax

20 Jul

There was finally that tackler he couldn't elude. R.I.P. AIR McNair

Alas,there was finally that tackler he couldn't elude. R.I.P. AIR McNair

I had a friend in college who would tell these ridiculous stories that were unbelievable.

Usually they involved him losing an anal bead inside a girl, or a chick peeing on him, or a woman requesting that he and a bunch of his friends “kidnap” her and act out a rape fantasy of hers.

At the time I was 25, fairly inexperienced and shocked. The first time he told me a chick peed on him, I was disgusted…..then aroused…….and curious.

So he became my sexual guru. If I had a question about a woman, he was the guy I called. He’d tell me these stories about squirters and freaky Romanian chicks and finally i asked, where and how do you meet these gals?

He told me, “Bobby you just need to meet you a crazy chick, with a sordid sexual past, and possibly Daddy issues, if she’s bulimic that could be a plus.”

And I took his advice, and it led me to some strange places. From 26 to 30 I found myself in the bedrooms of Portuguese cleaning ladies, 48 year old dental assistants, 35 year old nannies, and married Montessori teachers.

You talk about strange trips. The thing was, he was absolutely right. The sexual experiences were pretty out there, I did everything I’d ever imagined (well except the old uncork the champagne bottle in the Vijayjay gag) and it was fun.

But also scary too. He warned me that there’d be a booty tax no matter what woman I’d choose, but I ignored him and would blame him for the advice he gave me.

When he did it, it was always funny, and sounded so glamorous. What’s that they say? “never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”

After many episodes of creepy, intense women, and high incidents of hysterical crying, sometimes shrieking, I decided enough was enough.

Regular old sex was good enough for me. I no longer need to get peed on, or have sex in exotic places. My libido is right where it needs to be.

I no longer have to jerk off on people’s answering machines to have fun. I’d rather just feel safe.

My brother’s crazy girlfriend once stabbed him because she suspected (incorrectly) that he was cheating on her (well at least for the night in question).

After my own Bukowski-esque episodes with women, and other strange stories I’ve heard of other people, I finally realize that two crazy people cannot be together and it be a good thing.

What good is freaky, crazy sex if you can’t live to talk about it later?

Consider all the stories you’ve heard of late, Steve “Air” McNair, that Boxer dude, Gatti, hell remember the “grits” episode with Al Green?

I’ve caught the paranoia for sure. I now feel the need to lock my doors when I go to sleep, or leave the house, and I stay aware of my surroundings for sure.

Was it worth it? Maybe. I’d like to think I’m capable of living a normal life and having a healthy sexual relationship with a girl without the need to do something bizarre.

Perhaps I got it all out of my system and just needed that outlet back then to experiment. Or maybe I was just crazy and needed women just as crazy(or crazier) to make me feel normal.

I don’t know, don’t even care to get too deeply into it, but I do know this, as scary as Fatal Attraction is, its no where near as scary as seeing it in real life.

Whether its opening the door to your apartment and seeing your ex huddled up in a ball by the entrance, or fumbling with the locked door to your home, trying to elude an angry girl with a butcher knife.

No movie can capture the amount of fear and adrenaline that arises when you step into those moments. Who knows, maybe that is the biggest and main source of arousal when dating a crazy chick.

Like being a male preying mantis, living on the edge, and finally dying to bust that fatal nut.

No sir, crazy just aint sexy anymore.

Gary Snyder

20 Jul

Its not like I wanted to come over, have tea, read poetry, take mushrooms, smoke dope, and discuss politics. I'd have settled for a handshake.

Its not like I wanted to come over, have tea, read poetry, take mushrooms, smoke dope, and discuss politics. I'd have settled for a handshake.

Dear Mr. McFail.

Gary Snyder says to tell you that he’s older than you think, and retired from teaching 9 years ago. He lives in the mountains a long way from Davis. He is not “Japhy Ryder” but one of several modesl for that character. The “Dharma Bums” is a novel, not journalism. And he says he is not reading any new material.

best wishes,
Jann Garitty, Assistant to Gary Snyder

Well, Looks like I won’t be visiting Gary Snyder after all. A bit of a shame considering his age and and the history he holds within his brain cells.

Dharma Bums is one of my favorite books, and its hard not to fall in love with the Japhy Ryder character. Ladies man, ecologist, and poet, he was one of those characters that embodied what it meant to be a renaissance man.

I have a few friends that fall into this character, a buddy of mine living in Oregon certainly comes to mind when i think of real life examples of Japhy Ryders.

As disappointed as I am that I won’t get to meet the man himself, I certainly understand. I’m sure he gets thousands of emails and letters from “writers” and fans just wanting to be near him.

I can imagine it gets annoying. I do feel quite lucky that he even responded. Years ago, there was a columnist from ESPN named Ralph Wiley who iw as a huge fan of.
I’d spent a summer reading all of his stuff, “Why Black People tend to Shout” and other books by him. He was a great voice for sports, honest and insightful, and one of my favorites.

I remember after one morning of reading his article (hew as one of the few who’d predicted the ’04 Pistons would beat the Lakers), I thought I should email him and tell him how much I loved his work.

Of course I didn’t, ended up playing grab ass with my then girlfriend, or something, and figured I could email him some other time.

Well he died of a heart attack later that week. It struck me as odd, because he was only 52, but also because I’d just finished one of his books.

He was a great writer, and funny, and his death left a big void in the sports writing world. And all I kept thinking was I should’ve emailed him.

I’ve sent letters and emails to various people over the last ten years from Radiohead to Wayne Coyne, of the Flaming Lips, to the Sports Guy Bill Simmons, and not one of them has ever responded.

Well of course, Snyder didn’t respond either. But he at least told his assistant to take the time to write me and tell me to “get lost, scram, to beat it kid.”

I’m honored really. One of the last links to the Beat Generation had his assistant write me and tell me to fuck off, but in a slightly polite way. Seriously I can dig it.

And the truth is, I didn’t email him to be another sychophant scmhuck, telling him something he needs to hear. He already knows he’s awesome, you don’t make it that far, not knowing that. He doesn’t need the ego stroke.

I did it for me. I did it because it needed to be said, just to tell him, “hey motherfucker, I know you could really give a shit, but your presence in this world, turned my life upside down. And I realized I couldn’t live my life the same way ever again.”

and what is a person to say to that? Thanks? Cheers?

No response will be anything short of awkward, and yet its almost necessary to send those sort of letters.

Why? I don’t know, because if you appreciate something or someone, it feels good to tell them. No matter what the response.

“I love you” is one of those weird phrases as well. If you’re saying it for the response back then it aint real. I say it to friends all the time and it gets a bit awkward, but at least they know, and it doesn’t bottle up, and when they go, I can at least know that they knew how I felt.

I say it, I give give gifts because it feels good to, not for what I’ll get in return. Its a totally selfish endeavor nonetheless, and I think there’s nothing wrong with that.

Music Therapy

14 Jul

Many a night spacing out to the sounds of his guitar. In some ways David Gilmour and (other musicians) saved my life

Many a night spacing out to the sounds of his guitar. In some ways David Gilmour and (other musicians) saved my life

To say that music is my religion would be an understatement.
I don’t think its an accident that most of my friends are either musicians or people who absolutely love music.

Live shows, sitting around and listening to tunes, or geeking out to a new band has been one of many ways to bond with me.

I’ve turned many a lonely day into a reflective time sitting in the backyard, with my trusty 3-footer and my cd player.

Its how I got through years 19-21, trudging through the Duncanville, Texas doldrums.

I had older cousins who listened to rap music growing up, and I remember the early beginnings of L.L. Cool J, Run DMC, EAzy E, Too Short, and NWA.

I’d gotten in trouble for singing Project Hoe by Mc Shan as well as Me So horny by 2 Live Crew. Of course I didn’t know any better, it was just a song, but I could imagine how weird it was for my parents to hear their 11 year old singing “Me So Horny.” How absurd.

Music was always big in my family, my aunt was a singer and my unlce played guitar and there would always be jam sessions, either singing or dancing, but there was always music playing somewhere in someone’s house.

The first time a song really hit me on a profound level was listening to Moody Blues on my earphones as a 12 year old.
My aunt had this mix tape and Nights in White Satin was followed by Harry Nilsson’s Without You.

It was late at night, I was sleeping on the top bunk and my cousin was asleep beneath me and it was raining of course. And forever reason, both songs just seemed so real.

The imagery just stuck there, right between my ears. Disappointed lovers, letters written that were never sent.”

And though I was too young to fully grasp the depth of what these lyrics meant I could certainly feel the tone of the music settle within my stomach.

On some level I understood and would truly realize the significance of these stories as my own heartbreaks would ensue over the years, some real, others imagined, all legitimate tools for learning those lessons on love.

For the next couple of years I’d develop a fascination with the classics, and oldies, especially soft rock from the 70’s and 80’s.

Carly Simon’s “Coming around Again” was a favorite, Gordon LightFoot’s “If you could read my mind” Spandeau Ballet was also a personal fave, can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to and rewound that one.

So when all the hip and cool kids were listening to grunge rock, I was jamming out to the oldies, falling asleep to “Mandy” on the radio.

Around 13 or 14 I started branching out, my neighbors were these 19-20 year old guys who were always playing pool and drinking beer (and smoking pot but I didn’t know that back then).

It was over their house that I’d first heard “Black” by Pearl Jam, around this time was the first time I’d heard Creep and Fade into You by Mazzy Star. Achtung Baby was a pretty popular album then, but it would take me a couple of more years before i’d really sink my teeth into U2 even though “One” was a really great tune.

By the time I had graduated high school, my two favorite bands were Radiohead and U2. I’d spend my weekends listening to them on the stereo, biding my time, since I couldn’t go anywhere because of my grades.

School was my social outlet and my only escape from my home life. Otherwise I was sequestered in my room, listening to High and Dry, or Zooropa, or Achtung Baby.

To show you how square I was, when I got my own apartment with my buddy from high school,
I really thought that buying some Barry White, Frank Sinatra, and Al Green would succeed in getting me laid.

I’d failed to realized that you had to get them to the place first. It never worked out and I’d spend my evenings off from Red Lobster, listening to OK Computer and drinking Boone’s Farm, sulking through “Exit Music for a film”.

My life changed though when I realized the magical powers of pot. I’d just bought the Led Zeppelin boxed set and gotten high off my fish bong I’d made from a margarita glass.

Sitting in the back yard at my aunt’s house I had a few puffs and then had to lay down. The room started spinning as “Whole Lotta Love” got really trippy… was all over after that.

My descent into madness began here. Then came the psychedelic period of Pink Floyd and LSD experiments. My aunt knew I was a stoner so she never really suspected just how high I was, although she joked one time when I was listening to the Doors, that I must have progressed to other forms of drug use.

Little did she know how dead on she was. Atliens was always in the rotation then, and I could really relate to Andre’s lyrics about not living up to expectations, being on bended knee not having time to say Amen, before monkey wrenches were thrown, and monster trucks running over my picket fences.

I was a 20 year old carpet cleaner in Duncanville, Texas then i was a 20 year old parking lot attendant at the local race track, taking acid and listening to tunes on the radio at work.

Something had to give. So I got back in school, and transferred to a university, not knowing that I was going to one of the best music schools in the country.

That summer was the first I’d been exposed to some real jazz. A friend who worked at this record store gave me a copy of Jon Coltrane playing “Greensleeves” and I put on th headphones and watched the cars drive up and down the street. It just made sense.

So at UNT I befriended the jazzers, went to shows, and senior recitals,went on road trips to see shows and it was all gravy. Jazz changed the whole scope of my listening skills. I started listening to the overall landscape of pop songs, its textures and arrangements, and looked at the composition of it, rather than just a song with bass, drum, guitar, and vocals……..

best of all, music has always been my companion. For every break up I had, Neil Young, Jerry Garcia, or Thom Yorke have been there to assuage my feelings and hit those notes of pain residing in my gut.
Zuma, Disintegration, even Lift Your Skinny Fists in the Sky, proved to be awesome break up albums.
Getting me through those dark periods in my mid twenties.

When my grandma died, I listened to Old Laughing lady like nobody’s business. It really got me through, that and Flaming Lips, Soft Bulletin.

My old roommate used to joke that it was easy to tell whether he should come in my room or not based on what i was listening to. If I was jamming Neil Young (acoustic) i was better left alone.

Now a days I’ll just listen to something light whenever I feel blue. My Favorite Things is a good healing song (Coltrane’s version), Satie’s Gymnopedies, or even the Floyd’s Green is the Colour

Sometimes all it takes is doing yoga to Do Make Say Think’s And YET ANd YEt, or Grateful Dead’s Candyman, or He’s Gone, and don’t sleep on Brian Eno either, he’s got some very good etheral music that if you lie down and listen, certain parts of your body will feel less toxic.

My friend is a music therapist and I hope we can come to the day where all we have to do to deal with a mild case of depression is prescribe a joint and a copy of Neil Young’s On the Beach.

I’ve certainly played Junior Psychologist with myself by making Psychology my minor, but if it hadn’t been for drugs, and music, I can honestly say I wouldn’t have lived to write these very blogs today.
I’m amazed that I survived. through music I was alone, but never quite lonely.

But imagine a man coming in, feeling castrated by his overbearing wife, and job, and the good doctor says, I’m going to prescribe a gram of this Tazmanian Thunderfuck. and Mr. Finkelstein, it seems like you need some David Gilmour in your life.”

Then after a week of listening to these epic mind bending guitar solos by Gilmour and the Floyd, Mr. Finkelstein feels refreshed and ready to face the world again. And we’d all be better off for it.

a dime a dozen

14 Jul

If anybody knows about Pimpin' I'd think it's big Daddy.

If anybody knows about Pimpin' I'd think it's big Daddy.

When a man meets a woman, and if she’s fairly attracted (sometimes if she isn’t) I believe there are a series of thoughts running through his head.

If he’s aware of this or not is another story, but usually its Could I sleep with this woman? Would I sleep with this woman? and finally, Should I sleep with this woman?

Now, the resulting action is a totally different story altogether.

Some men are smart enough to think on it for a second, hypothesize and leave it at just a state of thought. Other men not as gifted in the brains department tend to act on these thoughts, even if they are already involved.

Some of them with women not even remotely as cool as the ones they already have. I was guilty of this a few times in college, chalking it up to a desire for variety rather than stupidity.

Only now can I admit how stupid I was. I’ve thrown away opportunities with various women simply because I couldn’t decide (And my friends think I’m difficult at restaurants).

Those friends who did decide to take the plunge always told me, “hey Bobby, when its the right one, you’ll know because it will be ridiculously easy.”

Its kinda true. There are plenty of good looking women out there. But when you meet one who just fits, you realize how special that is.

Physical attraction is one thing, but now that I’m 30 and can’t be led around by my Johnson, I require a bit more than looks to keep me interested. If a woman can’t hold a conversation with me (or vice versa) I lose interest quickly.

The biggest sex organ in the body is the brain. I like clever women, with a quick mind and good sense of humor. A nice pair of legs is a bonus obviously, there must be some physical chemistry.

I find it much easier to be friends with a funny, not so attractive, and sweet girl, who has interesting things going on in her head, than to hang around a smoking hot, vapid, and ultimately boring woman.

Tons of those out there. Believe it or not, after I met someone who was really special and offered something that no other girl had readily available, I wouldn’t even look twice at the aesthetically pleasing hot girls walking up and down the Toronto streets.

Not only had I met someone who was cute, and had a great pair of legs, but she was also funny and innaresting, and extremely sweet.
Don’t get me wrong. I meet these kinds of girls all the time, its just they usually are my friends’ girlfriends and wives.

So imagine my surprise when I discovered how lucky I’d been at meeting this young lady, and finding she was really single. giddyup!!!!!!!

Now I’m not saying I’m gona run off and get married or anything crazy like that. I’m just saying, its hard to find good friends who you can relate to on a genuine level, and even harder to find one that finds you sexually attractive.

As Big Daddy Kane says, “What do you have when you find you’ve only got $1.20 in your pocket and twelve hoes?”

“Proof that hoes come a dime a dozen.”

Much easier to get laid than to get a good backrub. That’s the good stuff.

Like the difference between McDonald’s and a home cooked meal. WacArnold’s will do the job, and is good in the short term (though you might regret it later).

although a home cooked meal takes a bit longer to prepare, it is much more satisfying, and involves a lot more love.

Sex Ed.

13 Jul

Stoutest defense you'll ever face.

Stoutest defense you'll ever face.

I really think that in Sex Education classes, that after pulling the kids aside to watch the outdated videos, they should give kids pointers on pleasing their lovers.

Girls, no more Kung Fu death grips on boy’s penises, and

boys will finally learn how to take off bras.

I think this has been such an intimidating thing for me over the years, not ever learning how to take a bra off. I’ve been known to even bypass the breasts in the past because I didn’t want to lose momentum and look like an idiot under pressure.

Its nerve wracking enough when you first start mugging down with a chick.
“Good gawd this feels so good, how far is this going to go? Do I touch the breasts? If so do i feel above the shirt, or go beneath, and if beneath then do i try to take off the bra?????”

I feel like Charlie Brown asking out the red haired girl in these situations.

“Oh goodness should I rub her crotch and if so do I just rub it over the jeans? Do I even attempt to take off the jeans, and if so then do I rub her cooter above the panties or take them off?”

You never want to make the first out at third base being too aggressive, but then again I’ve been way lax in some cases because I assumed there was gonna be another at bat, only to find out that was my only chance to get on base, which then results in me cursing myself for not being more aggressive.

Yet in those magical times when you do get them off, it’s like that scene in Pulp Fiction when they open the briefcase.

A solemn and silent awe and acceptance, and a moment of gratitude.

I used to date a lot of WASPy chicks who’d feel guilty about letting go and the only time they’d be fun was when they were drunk, then they could blame the alcohol and not feel guilty.

Sober, it’d be a battle of field position. And let me tell you…..those end zone defenses were tough, like the ’85 Bears. I had lots of drives stall at the goal line. No matter what I called, Fullback Blast, QB Sneak, the End Around……I’d settle for lots of field goals. and then the crowd would start booing me. ” You suck Mickey, you’ll never be as good as Troy Aikman!!!!!!”

Pat Summerall: “On comes the kicking team to try and salvage the drive.”