Words of Encouragement

I’ve been thinking about the sounds and meanings of words. The lyrics in a Tom Waits song, “Heart-attack and Vine” started all of this mess. He slurs out, “I’ll bet she’s still a virgin, but it’s only :25 ‘till nine”. There is a lot of intent behind that sentence. I love it. At the same time, I know she’ll still be a virgin tomorrow. I mean, come on, it’s Tom Waits.

There are certain words that, either by sound or definition, I don’t like. Those words include: alarm, moist, chakra, beige, gestation, cruel, smegma, utilitarian, crusty, nasal, groom, Wildcats, and visa-vi. There are names I don’t like also. I’ve never met a Sherry that wasn’t bad for your health and Kyle is the name equivalent of beige. I don’t understand how men in this world are still opting to use Dick as their nick name and Gene, or Jean, as well as Ralph seem somewhat unfortunate. I don’t like “Christy” either, because no one can figure out how to spell it. You have “Kristy”, “Kristie”, “Christy”, “Christie” “Christee”.... pick one! This doesn’t mean I can’t play with people with these names, it’s just that the sounds leave an aftertaste.

Fortunately, there are a lot words that ring beautifully in the ear and trip delicately off the tongue. Your list is probably different, but some words I enjoy are: Evergreen, risotto, lazily, paramount, slick, harass, lackadaisical, enchantment, wishy-washy, mesmerising, havoc, buzz, and delicious.

So Long Suckers

By the time a lot of you read this I will be soaring across the ocean on my way to the Philippines.  I am still going to post, but it might be a little more sporadic over the next four weeks. 

Liz is charge while I’m gone, so be on your best behavior.  She is going to be taking names of everyone who misbehaves while I am gone.  I am then going to take those names and put together a posse so we can go kick the shit of everyone who behaved.

Melekee ang bayag ko!

Peace and Chicken Grease,
Killer

The Foo Made Me Pee

New reader, Shut My Mouth, was inspired by Liz’s tales of drunken debauchery.  I read her post and was, in turn, inspired by her brave admission of clothed urination.

It made me want to share my own.

I was with a large group of fellow travel nurses, working in San Francisco, when we decided to all go to the Foo Fighters concert in Oakland.  Being environmentally conscious people we opted to take the subway, rather than drive; by environmentally conscious I mean: We did not want to get a DUI.  Screw the ozone. 

Once at the concert much beer was consumed.  My newest favorite phrase is, “I’m gonna rock out with my cock out.” That phrase probably would have helped me at the time, because although I drank an ass load of beer, my buick sized bladder never cried out for emptying.  Until we were leaving the venue.

We just stepped outside the arena doors when I remember saying, “I should probably pee.” But, by then we were past any bathrooms.  I decided I would wait and go at the BART station. 

By the time we made the ten minute walk to the station I was starting to get uncomfortable.  I quickly assessed the surrounding area and did not see any bathrooms.  I told myself I could wait until I got to the other side of the bay. 

The bay is apparently really long, and bumpy.  By the time we reached the half way point, I was REALLY having to pee.  All my friends were laughing and talking in a happy drunken stupor, but I was just sitting there, staring out into the darkness, hoping we would make an underwater stop at a magical bathroom station.

I was miserable and had to pee worse than anytime in my life.  My stomach and loins were screaming from the pressure.  All I could think about was how we were currently under an immeasurable amount of water, and that I was holding an almost equal amount inside my bladder.

When the first stop appeared in the horizon I made a rash, game time decision.  I could wait six stops for my own, or I could jump off here and make a run to the nearest bathroom.  I jumped ship.

It probably would have worried my friends normally that, without any sort of warning, I just suddenly stood up and raced out the doors at the last second, but all my friends were drunk; it seemed normal to them at the time.

I raced up the steps into the main station, did a quick surveillance of the surroundings and was dismayed by the lack of public restroom signs.  I quickly pee-pee danced my way over to the attendant booth and asked, “excuse me, where is the restroom?” To which I was brusquely informed, “Bart don’t have no bathrooms.  You has to go up the stairs and cross the street to one of the businesses.” I was off like a bolt of water logged lightening.

I reached the top of the BART steps faster than any competition runner and glanced frantically at the surrounding buildings.  EVERYTHING WAS CLOSED!  What kind of major metropolis closes all the shops before midnight? 

This was zero hour.  I searched around in desperation as my eye balls began to fill with a warm, yellow liquid.  I knew at any minute I was going to explode.  All that kept passing through my head was a serious condition that paralyzed people can get, autonomic dysreflexia.  Not only did I have to pee, but now my drunken brain was convinced that I was going to die from it.

Nothing, no gas station (not in San Francisco!), no fast food joint.  I spotted a garbage can and was about to whip it out and fill it up, but then my irrational brain recalled my close friend’s night in jail in San Diego for public urination.  I did not want to spend an evening in the drunk tank, so I balked at whipping it out.  Big mistake.

That was the last straw.  My bladder had sat painfully by long enough and listened to my brain make stupid decision after stupid decision.  It was taking matters into it’s own hands and dumping the offending fluid. 

I peed in my pants.

I would like to say I was mortified and disgusted at my slip in social mores, but it felt SOO damn good.  I wish I could bottle that feeling and sell it on the street, because it would sell like hotcakes. 

After about thirty minutes the flow finally subsided and I swam back to shore from the newly formed Killer River.  I pulled off my favorite Hawaiian shirt off, held in front of my wet pants and hailed a cab. 

The drive home was spent with each of us wondering who smelled more like urine.  At least I was, but maybe the cabby was used to the smell.  I quickly ran into my apartment and changed my pants, just as the first of several confused, drunken calls started on my phone.

“Dude, where are you?” “Man, we looked up and you were jumping off the train.  Tell me you saw a hot chick and are banging that right now.” So on, and so forth.

I ran downstairs, called a new cab and met everyone for an early breakfast.  Ironically we met at a all-night joint about a block from where I peed my pants.  It had luxurious bathrooms right by the front door.

Adventures in Profanity

One of my favorite people is Sonny. He’s this sassy, yet conservative, heterosexual 37-year-old Asian guy at work. I call him by name here, but I have to advise that I may be exaggerating SOME of what I write below. I have to add that disclaimer (even if it’s not true) because Sonny isn’t at all afraid to take even a dear friend to court if he thinks he can get $50 out of it.

Sonny likes to think that he has created this mysterious persona that has his friends and co-workers fooled. He uses lines like, “I’d rather not say,” with alarming frequency. He drives a large variety of cars to work (he won’t say which ones he owns or doesn’t own), he won’t tell me where all of his “property” is, although I know he owns several lots, and when he’s backed in a corner, he pulls out the race card. That’s hilarious, because he’s barely Asian. I mean, he was born in Asia, but he’s lived here since he was 10 and is way more white bread and American than most any one else I know. Besides, pulling out the Asian race card just doesn’t have much of an affect- at least in Mississippi it doesn’t. Down here, you’re either “white” or your “black”. I guess sometimes you can be Mexican, but that really only comes up when people are talking about Wal Mart as in, “Why do Mexicans always have 3 buggies and travel in packs to Wal-Mart?” It’s simply an observation, not a judgement.

Where Sonny does show some cultural differences are in the phrases he uses. He often does not understand the “real” meaning of slang. I don’t believe this is because he’s Asian. I attribute it to his wholesomeness and his Michigan upbringing. For example, he once told me that he would “queef” in my general direction. I laughed so hard I almost queefed myself. He also got offended once when I used the term “gentleman caller”. He told me that was inappropriate office talk. I don’t know WHAT he thought I meant when I said that I had had a gentleman caller over the weekend, but his assumption didn’t match my reality. Sadly.

In Mississippi, you hear a lot of funny, country-roots slang thrown around. It makes us colorful story tellers, and that’s important. In the hands of a novice, like Sonny, those colloquialisms get all twisted and he’ll say things, “He don’t know what side his leg is buttered on.” To which I chuckle and reply, “No. I’m sure he doesn’t.” We both leave the conversation satisfied.

Sonny’s been trying to buy a new truck. He’s been getting the run around from the dealership and I’ve overheard many of his conversations. Today, frustrated and put out, I heard him say, “You’d better not be pulling my dick this time. No messing around. Don’t you try and pull my dick!”

I think what he did was merge “pull my leg” with “dick around” and came up with this whole concept of dick pulling being a bad thing.

Again, his conversation left me satisfied.

He seldom uses profanity and I Iove that when he does, it may be off mark. In a way I miss those days. The days when flipping someone off was a big deal and you worried that an adult may have seen you do it. It’s nice that I can revisit those times every time I hear Sonny say something like, “If you grab a bull by the horns, you’d best be prepared to get a face full of ass.”

The Making of a Big Fat Party Animal

image

The great and wise Homer Simpson said, “Only two kind of guys wear Hawaiian shirts:  Gay men and big, fat party animals.”

Personally I like to think I fall into that latter category, but I don’t look down upon the first group.  I just support the wearing of Hawaiian shirts; no matter what the cause.

I am dedicating my life to steering my nephew, Kade toward the Hawaiian shirt lifestyle.  Only time can tell which group he will be a part of.  His daddy is a Coonass so he is undoubtedly pulling for the big fat party animal lifestyle.

As an effort to appease my Brother-in-Law’s preference I also am trying to incorporate the party animal function as well.  Hence the beer. 

He seemed to enjoy it.

I am also going to include a link to see a clip from the awesome Simpson’s episode that Homer thought Bart was gay.  It includes the Hawaiian shirt quote. 

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