Sunday, August 5, 2012

50 Shades of hey

I'm back! It's hard to produce an excuse for my lengthy absence, but please allow me to try. I will keep it brief so we can move on to more pressing matters. Do you know any IT people who just can't seem to get their computer to function properly? How about a lawn care specialist whose own yard looks like an homage to The Jungle Book? I've been plagued with this problem as of late. It's hard to read and write when you've been reading and writing all day long. I have been searching for a fix.

The fix:

Wait. Please don't assume I have read this piece of Twilight fan fiction, often dubbed as 'mommy porn', and found inspiration in doing so. Don't assume this, because you don't have to assume. You can be certain. The result is that I am starting the Book Club for Men. I understand if confusion floods the mind when trying to formulate a link between E.L. James' book and pushing for a formation of a book club for men. Let me make it simple. How amusing would it be to be a fly on the wall when a dozen men are discussing the sexual transformation of the shy Anastasia Steele through the BDSM driven Christian Grey? I'd love to see it! But, alas, this will not be the first book we read. We've got to ease our way in (pun intended?).

The format:

We commit to meet once a month. Each member of the group chooses a book, and we will select which book to read based on when each member signed up to take part. What you choose is your choice. If someone in the group has been an asshole and you want to ruin their month, select War and Peace. If Shel Silverstein transformed you from a bastard into a model citizen, and you think you it will do the same for me, suggest The Giving Tree.There is no topic we can't tackle together!

Here are the rules:

1. You must read the book. If it becomes apparent during discussions that you're throwing out platitudes or cowering in the corner, we will quiz you. If our group, as a whole, determines that you didn't complete the required reading then we will dole out appropriate punishments. This is a democracy, dammit! These will probably be delivered to you in the form of a shot of booze. Careful, though. I hardly think a "cement mixer" or "fuck me sideways" should be motivation for you to support illiteracy through your non-compliance.

2. We're reading your book. Bring us some beer. Please make sure it is tied in with what we were reading. Using The Giving Tree as an example, Angry Orchard or Woochuck would be nice. For 50 Shades of Grey, I might like to sip on some Arrogant Bastard. You get the point.

3. Crap. I'm out of rules.

Due to recent Chick-Fil-A adversities and current events surrounding sexuality, religion and the rights of the individual, I have selected the first book to kick off this group. It is, at times, a little shocking. Gay bath houses in San Francisco in the early 1980's may not be a topic some would like to mull over. At other times, it's funny and heart wrenching. Christians, you need heed no warning. After reading this selection, I am not sure how this book got it's name. There is almost no religion mentioned in this book. Maybe that was the point. So, without further adieu, I give to you book #1.

When you're ready to join, please call me, text me, email me, write me a letter or send me a smoke signal if that's all you've got. This group will soon have you saying,

“This is wrong, but holy hell is it erotic.” ~E.L. James

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in the court of love

My blog has been running on silent for the last few months. I attempted on several occasions to write a sequel to wedding blog from the male perspective part 1, but everything came out wrong. Because of this, I never published it and chose to revisit my thoughts after the wedding. Writing about wedding planning from a male perspective should have the same rules as Fight Club. Don't talk about it (outwardly).

My palms perspired in the waiting room of the clinic while I waited my turn to enter the oak-lined office, just beyond the board room.  "There's something we need to talk about," I said. He knew this was coming, and was well prepared. "I want to marry your daughter, and would like to ask for your blessing" is what I intended to say, but blathering would have to suffice. While I will keep most of the conversation confidential, I will always remember the last piece of advice he gave me. "Get ready to hold on tight. It's going to be a wild roller-coaster ride until the wedding."

Truer words are rarely spoken.

As soon as platinum hit the webbing of the her ring finger, the fact that wedding planning is my kryptonite was revealed. I was going to need some help, but Spiderman was being a dick and our wedding planner was a flake...but she has a nice website!

 I'm now a married man. I made it to the other side, but not without a few nights of almost sleeping in my car (as per her request, not mine). To follow this blog vignette will be the tell-all reliving of the strangest, toughest and most wonderful adventure I've had to date. Nothing is off limits, since I am now married and we don't qualify for an annulment. Of course, Victoria and I will probably have to discuss why "Annulment" shows up on our search history.

Next post - Wedding Blog Pt. 2 - The aftermath, or listen and learn from my mistakes

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Wedding Blog from one man's perspective, Pt. 1

After some prodding to write a wedding blog from the male perspective, I gave in. Please understand that I am aware of the dangers in doing so, but I have refused to heed such warnings.  Victoria will understand, I'm sure...but just in case I am too cocksure, like the ignorant almost always are, then I apologize to her in advance. Let me start by saying that moving toward a proposal is like strapping yourself to an  amusement park ride and being pulled up several stories, waiting for your gut to drop. The drop is visible, and you see those in front of you beginning to put their hands to the sky (I'm 29, so I'm seated somewhere near the middle). When let loose, the uncontrollable plummet begins. It all began with her chasing me around the car, trying to gain back possession of this little black notebook. If you read this, honey, you are fast as hell on those two little feet.

I obviously won the footrace, only to find pictures of bridesmaids dresses, cloth swatches, and a guest list. Holy shit! My contributions so far have been mostly been contrived of insisting on playing drug riddled songs by KiD CuDi during the ceremony and deciding that maybe a mariachi band specializing in metal music might just be the right choice for us. The thing is, she went along with all of my decisions. She's willing to put up with quite a bit of my shit.

Here is one example:
Before I proposed, we went to bubble gum alley to see The Lord of the Cello Marston Smith wail in the streets of downtown San Luis Obispo.  He is armed with an electric cello, light box and one bitching fan.  I mean, the air moves through this guy's hair like a Kansas tornado as he croons the women in his golden breastplate of armor. There are even videos of him playing atop a mountain, in complete Yanni fashion.

After insisting that maybe he had just played "our song", she continued to speak to me.  I was baffled. Soon after, we settled near the pier at Avila, where a Dr. Seuss quote won her back to my side.

So, I have concluded that this woman does really love me, which is no easy task. I still have the freedom to insert KiD KuDi songs into the ceremony, which I never thought would really happen. On top of this, I have complete freedom in naming our first born son, unequivocally. I'm leaning toward Maximum Force Wood, but am open to suggestions.  I am also curious if there are any proven ways to insure a male is born, though I will love all of my children no matter the sex. Really...let me know, though. 

Here's the deal. She still finds me as a compatible mate. Even after my family hesitated to congratulate us (only slightly) because of our announcement on April Fool's Day, she is still in. Campy street performers can't even drive her away. I'm starting to become grateful of the little black book she so diligently chased me around the car to gain possession of, unsuccessfully. They say the Devil is in the details, and she has the Devil on a short leash.  As a man, unable to fully gain focus on these details, I am extremely lucky to have a beautiful woman to come in and tighten the slack.

Crush a bit, little bit, roll it up, take a hit
Feelin’ lit feelin’ light, 2 am summer night.
I don't care, hand on the wheel, drivin drunk, I'm doin’ my thang
Rollin the Midwest side and out livin’ my life getting’ out dreams
People told me slow my roll I'm screaming out fuck that
Imma do just what I want lookin’ ahead no turnin’ back
if I fall, if I die, know I lived it to the fullest
if I fall, if I die, know I lived and missed some bullets


An afternoon in Hollyweird

My true intentions were to watch the Dodgers play the Giants as the baseball season revved into full swing, but sometime Saturday morning the intent shifted into a goose chase to find  Johnny Depp's mark on the star studded streets of downtown Hollywood. It wasn't my mission, but I felt more than obliged to help. First I happened upon Charlie Sheen's star and decided to simulate a 7 gram rock "bump".

This may seem like odd behavior, but let me assure you that this is one of the least obscene gestures you'll witness in Hollyweird.  For instance, Michael Jackson's still kicking doppleganger hovers over his Walk of Fame star while tourists shove a few creased dollars into his one gloved hand in exchange for a photo opportunity with the King of Pop incarnate.  There are more than a few people outfitted as "your friendly neighborhood Spiderman" and are also willing to pose for profit, and I was physically accosted by Diego (the cartoon character) after refusing to exchange money for photos. 

As religious proselytes chanting "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus..." filled my hands with pamphlets and booklets of all shapes and sizes, I felt the need to get involved.  The countering screams of "Cheeze-its, Cheeze-its, Cheeze-its!..." spread from my mouth to the mouths of other dissenters until there was a clash between followers of Christ, and snack cracker enthusiasts rang throughout the street.  Just as we're about to turn the corner, I am tapped on the shoulder by a fuzzy red hand. I turn, only to see a man-sized Elmo looking me square in the face.  In a gruff voice diabolically differing from the childhood puppet voice that rings with familiarity to Sesame Street  fans past and present, I hear him chant "Cheeze-its, Cheeze-its, Cheeze-its" in my ear as he offers me a red furry thumbs up.  So, Either Elmo hates Jesus, or loves baked cheese flavored wafers.  It's too early to tell which at this point.

There are souvenir shops full of fake Oscar awards, with somewhat generalized placards.  They read "Best Dad Award" or "Favorite Child Award" and such.  I contemplated buying a "Parent of the Year" Oscar for the mother I saw snapping a shot of her over-sexualized tween daughter posing spread eagle over the star of one Hugh Hefner.  She is in the teal shirt, but scattered quickly when we poked fun about presenting her with said award.

Being from Kansas, where the prospect of stardom is about 2,000 miles (and countless tribulations) away from being a possibility, the side effects of notoriety on the Hollywood society is a fascinating case study. Placing the pieces together, those Spidermans, Elmos, and Michael Jacksons are soliciting donations by exploiting what the Hollywood culture holds dear.  While contemplating these implications, I stumbled upon the most somber Spidey I have ever seen.  He sat defeated in a corner along the walkway, aggravated that onlookers would take his picture without offering donations...just as I had done. It reminded me of a child that will end at nothing to garner attention, even if it's negative. Or is he, and those in his similar costumed albeit desolate position, just playing into the star studded spectacle that visitors expect? Maybe he is an entrepreneur of sorts. 

We found Johnny Depp's star, and actually found a knockoff squash-buckling Jack Sparrow asking for photo op donations, but decided to skip the opportunity.  We had completed our mission, and the sun was beginning to fade on the strip. I settled on purchasing a metal Wizard of Oz lunch box as a gift for Toto (Victoria), since leaving town without her means bringing back a meaningful trinket. It reminded me that "there is no place like home". I must admit, however, that Hollywood, California is goddamn entertaining.