RAYMOND QUENTIN SMUCKLES
7/2004 - 12/2008
ACHEWOOD
Follow Ray Smuckles, in this 55,000-word supplement
to his general intellectual methodologies, as he plans his
Friday Parties, travels to Australia, mistakenly visits an
Oriental hair loss specialist of the wrong variety,
grouses about his lackluster sex life, and otherwise
exhibits the proclivities of a man with a curious heart, a
bottomless appetite, and far too much money. These
collected blogs, tottled off in the wee hours during
surprisingly common moments of reflection, describe a
thoroughly modern creature with both traditional
problems and cutting-edge weaknesses.
Mr. Smuckles, a co-champion of the Great Outdoor
Fight, has explored the depths and -scapes of all major
forms of suffering, with the exception of parenthood
and loss of a parent. Despite this, or perhaps because of
this, or perhaps in order to set such wheels in motion, he
can typically be found “blissed to the nines on bongo
sauce and lifties,” usually in or near his room.
—CTO
1
FRIDAY, JULY 02, 2004
I got to get rid of some Nagels
Remember that famous artist from the 80s, "Nagel"? He
did all kinds of what was considered at the time "great"
art. Anyhow, I just found a bunch of my old Nagel prints
down in the garage, stuff that I had on the walls back in
my high school days. I need to have a garage sale. I
could probably also get rid of those dumb fingerless
gloves I bought at The Record Factory when I wanted to
be like Julian Lennon.
Oh man, I just read about Nagel on the Internet.
Apparently he died of a heart attack when he was 39?
How do you do that? Probably it was cocaine, but I don't
want to say that until I know for sure. I would hate to
think of people making up dumb ways that I had died if I
had died innocently of congenital heart deformity.
2
FRIDAY, JULY 02, 2004
A new kind of rum!
Dang, Chris emailed me about this new kind of rum he
found today and I went and picked up a bottle! It's like
hell of old pirate rum, not clarified or anything, and it
looks almost exactly like Sam Adams but without the
bubbles. It's got good nose and it's almost spiced like a
cognac. It's aged in old bourbon barrels, the label says,
and I ten kinds of believe it. I think what I'm gonna do is
decant this action into a plain, clear bottle with no labels
and just have it be my swill. Know what I mean? A
dude's swill. A man got to have his swill. I think I'm
gonna buy a skeleton.
3
FRIDAY, JULY 02, 2004
Nobody around?
Damn, where is everybody? It's a friday night and this
place is a graveyard! I was thinkin' of spinning some
mellow old Police and maybe just keeping low court in
the spa for a couple hours, followed by some 9-ball and
Manhattans and Comedy Central, but damned if a dude
can scare a dude up. I even called Pat, who fortunately
wasn't around. Ain't nothin' lamer than hanging out with
Pat and only Pat. If it's just the two of us he always
insists on trying to teach me various Kanji and the tricks
he has for remembering them. Why does the dude figure
I need to learn some Chinese.
4
SATURDAY, JULY 03, 2004
Sex in the City DVDs
So I ain't never watched too much Sex in the City until I
got Netflix and I accidentally ordered the DVDS (thought
I was getting something with Holly Body, kind of drunk,
didn't read too closely). These discs are pretty funny!
There are the main four women who are like a prude, a
dork, a hussy and another dork/nerd. They have some
problems, but generally there is a cosmo or martini or
two to go round. I could definitely hang with ladies like
that. I'm gonna try to find some ladies who tell it like it is
and like to throw one back, preferably a small group of
them.
Ray's Sex In The City Night With The Ladies
Well, no dice on that “finding a cool group of women, like
the Sex and the City women, to hang out with” thing. I’ll
tell you how it went down if you really want to know.
So this afternoon I flipped through my mental black book
and I remembered that Brittney, Amber, and a whole
other slew of other mall girls get off work at 8pm on
Saturdays and go get outta control at S.C.T!.’s (S.C.T.
stands for “Saturday’s Cool Too!” which is kind of in
response to that TGI Friday’s chain. From what I’d
heard, the founders are doing pretty well with that idea,
warming people up to the thought that Saturday can be a
pretty good day of the week in addition to Friday).
Anyhow, I thought I’d spice myself up with one of my
monogrammed shirts, open at the collar, a few splashes
of Polo Extreme Sport (kind of a fun weekend cologne),
and my new chunky silver chain bracelet before heading
over to S.C.T.’s and joining them for their first few
rounds, while they were still pretty clear-headed and
most likely to be sophisticated and witty.
So I was looking pretty dapper, all with my mug just
5
trimmed three days before so it didn’t look too fresh and
in fact was in its prime, all with some low-rise boot cut
new GAP jeans on, thick black Gucci belt, etc. I was
straight up Clooneying. Anyhow, I pulled into that place
around 8:20 and none of the girls were there yet. I sort of
cooled it and read the kids’ menu and stuff, just waiting
in the little entranceway on a bench. It was quieter than I
had expected--there were just a few families here and
there, finishing up meals with their young kids. That’s
cool, they’d clear out soon enough and my brichichas
would be scootin’ into booths, filling the air with strong,
sassy girl talk. I couldn’t wait. I was gettin’ pretty excited
so I went to the bar in the corner and sized myself up for
a margarita.
Only problem was, there was no bartender. None of the
lights behind the bar had even been turned on, and the
little credit card slider was off. Man, that blew, so I
stopped one of the waitresses and asked if I could get a
drink. She said the bar was closed and I was all like
“yeah I see that but what can you do for me” and pretty
soon she came back with this paper cup that had some
marsala cooking wine in it. I sort of sadly gave her a fiver
and sat and nipped at the nasty stuff for a while, flipping
through the kids’ menu and waitin’ for the ladies.
By 9:30 not a single new person had come into the
restaurant except for a family on a road trip whose kid
had crapped in his pants, so I hit Brittney up on my cell.
RAY: Hey, delicious! What you doin’ tonight?
BRITTNEY: [loud background party music] Ray? Is that
you?
R: Some kid just crapped in his pants! (I had had a few
more cups of the marsala by then and was kind of
addle-brained, I thought it would be really funny to say
that)
6
B: What? Ray?
R: Seriously! Where you guys at tonight? I’m all up in
S.C.T.’s and bringin’ the damage!
B: Uh, look, I got to go, Ray.
[hangs up]
Long story short, S.C.T.’s had lost its liquor license
about a year back and no one went there anymore. I
must have sounded pretty insane, like I was hanging out
blasted at an unpopular family restaurant and calling
women to come join me. No wonder she didn’t tell me
where she was.
At any rate, I’m gonna look on the Internet about how to
make a Hot Toddy. I bet I got all the right ingredients.
7
TUESDAY, JULY 06, 2004
The Dude.
I try to watch Big Lebowski about a couple times a year
and today was my summer cram. I had Conchita set me
up a tray of Ketel, cheap-ass Half and Half, Kahlua, and
ice, all with a lousy little cheap glass, and I roached up a
nice J using my fingernail clippers. I was set. I even wore
this old pair of sunglasses that I found in the street, and
a robe that I lifted from that B-list Ritz-Carlton in
Scottsdale.
Man, I just had the greatest old time. Big Lebowski is so
funny. I had such a great time.
8
TUESDAY, JULY 06, 2004
What a nice afternoon.
It is such a great day around here. It is completely sunny
with a nice breeze, the grass was just mowed and edged
so it is all beautiful and perfect, and the spa is bubbling
away all cheerily to itself. I'm still wearing that Ritz
Carlton robe, which is keeping me at just the perfect
temperature. I had some Pappardelle con Gamberoni
from Luigi's for lunch, and it didn't sit too heavy at all. I'm
having a cold Amstel Light right now and am just ten
kinds of blissed. I wonder how long this perfect feeling
can last.
Answer: about three seconds, because I just saw Pat
walk up my driveway. Crap, there's the doorbell and his
knocking. Why does he always knock AND ring the
doorbell at the same time, it really gets on my nerves.
9
TUESDAY, JULY 06, 2004
That douche.
Okay, so what Pat wanted was to tell me that he just got
his driver's license renewed and wants to take me along
with him to the DMV headquarters in Sacramento so that
he can lodge a formal complaint about something in
person. Talk about your five hour round trips in Pat's
hinge old Mustang that he thinks is so precious. Plus, I
would never want to do that. I don't know why he thought
that would be a treat for me. I told him I had a late
afternoon tee time down at Seven Pines, and he said we
could go tomorrow, and I said that I had standing tee
times at all golf courses for as long as he was mad at the
DMV. He managed to turn my comment into a
two-minute blister about how the state is going down the
tubes because guys like me sit around in robes and
accept the status quo. Then he left. That was nice of
him.
10
WEDNESDAY, JULY 07, 2004
Do I want to go camping?
I ain't much of a camper, I got to admit. I don't like it if I
can't take a shower right after I wake up, and I got all
kinds of problems with campground outhouses/no
outhouses at all. But camping is a different kind of thing,
you know? You are out under the sky and there is a
small square barbecue for each campground, and you
and your friends just act differently because it's a totally
different environment. It can be pretty wild, seeing how
folks come outta the woodwork in various ways. Last
time we went camping this really drunk guy wandered
over to our beach bonfire and kept repeating how many
bottles of wine he had drunk (2 or 3, something like that).
I wanted to ditch out and maybe throw a log at him but
Beef just played along with his rambling, and at one
point helped him back up to the campground to his spot
while consoling him on his recent divorce. Weird how
some cats are.
Anyhow, I can see the appeal if you got all kinds of North
Face and REI stuff all kicked and crunked, just zipped
and velcroed and worked down tight, total gear pro.
Then you can be comfortable, all with some fine leather
Nike hiking booties and black tights to cut down wind
resistance, plus a ripstop wool skullcap that covers the
ears, maybe with some fun dangly ear cords for pulling it
down. Like Sting would have. You can look hell of sexy
in some camping gear. Maybe I'll get one of those Thule
roof racks for the Escalade.
11
THURSDAY, JULY 08, 2004
Ken the Jeopardy Champion!
Man, they got this dude named Ken Jenkins on
Jeopardy these days and he is like a 26-day champion,
winning over eight hundred grand so far! $800,000 of the
flattest! This has never even come CLOSE to happening
on Jeopardy before. Amazing. The dude has great
strategy and timing, but he also just knows every damn
fact in the world, from old sports questions to foreign
politicians to like The History Of The Patent Office.
Incredible. I usually play along with Jeopardy before
dinner and hit a few streaks myself but this guy has such
a pattern, no one can even touch him once Double
Jeopardy starts. He usually wins by five figures.
Funny thing though, 'cause he's Mormon he has to give
10% of his winnings to the church, 50% to old Govvy-D,
and then he can't even have any Scotch while he
laments their cuts (whiskeys are the best liquor for when
you're cold lamenting, ain't they!). In fact, he always gets
all alcohol-related questions wrong. I was thinking I
could take this guy if the categories were like:
* Scotch Producing Regions
* Bar Measurements
* The "Proof"'s In the Potable (knowing %s of various
types of liquor)
* Country of Origin (where was it brewed/distilled/vinted)
* Blind Tasting (they pass around shots and you name
them, kind of a new thing)
And instead of the Daily Double they could call it "Make
it a Double For a Dollar!" You know, like you see at
airport bars.
OK, Ken's on! Got to hustle.
12
UPDATE: Ken got 4 of 5 liquor-category questions right
tonight. I guess he's been boning up on the cocktail
menu at the Chili's in his Radisson.
13
FRIDAY, JULY 09, 2004
It's Friday Night at Ray's!
Man, did we set us up a good one today! Dimitri came by
with some new stuff he's carryin' at the distributorship,
including this hella delicious white beer called
Hoegaarden (got us a keg of that), and a bunch of nice
old vine zinfandels that are sweet and fine to drink all by
themselves. Not that they won't go real well with these
fly Michael Chiarello mail-order ribs I ordered outta his
website, plus some insane pierogi that Téodor's workin'
up down in the kitchen. He loves comin' over to cook
since we got that whole stainless steel viking setup,
20,000 BTU burners, double deep fryers, the works. I
don't let him do the meats, though. Meats are my
territory, no one cooks meat at my house but me. You
can cook smaller side dishes which incorporate meat at
my house, but you cannot cook larger meats, such as
entrée portions. You can cook a hot dog, sure, I don't
care about that, but you cannot cook tri-tip or roast a
bird. That is my job. I cook the meats at my house.
Téodor can put beef or crumbled sausage in his pierogi,
but he cannot for example grill whole sausages and
present them to guests. I do that, me. I cook all meats
over three ounces and above a certain level of quality.
14
SATURDAY, JULY 10, 2004
What a damn fine day.
Feelin' good today. Since Molly and Beef stayed over
last night I had Conchita make us some eggs benedict
and home fries. That plus a tasty bloody mary had me
on my feet and ready to take a big bite outta the day,
which is sunny and warm and just generally damn fine. I
think I'll get the clubs and head on down to the Hidden
Hills driving range, maybe see if Paul can squeeze me in
for a lesson.
15
SUNDAY, JULY 11, 2004
I got to improve my game!
Daaamn, I invited Cornelius over for some pool tonight (I
discovered that he likes to play over a couple
Hoegaardens yesterday) and he cleaned my clock! He
had some pretty lucky runs last night, and I sent a
couple bucks his way, but I figured I'd make it all back
today, you know. Old Ray knows one end of the cue
stick from the other, and has made some mighty shots in
his day.
So C. shows up and since it's pretty early on (not like
last night) we're on a level playing field and all of that,
and I'm feelin' pretty sharp. Right away I start noticing a
couple things I hadn't seen before.
First of all, his break is insane. He doesn't move too
much or put too much heave into it, but damn if every
single one of the balls doesn't make one full trip around
the table! They end up dispersed pretty nicely, and he
starts pickin' them off one by one, always having a real
good leave for the next shot. Then he'll like sneeze and
miss a shot, and I get to lay into it, but I'm usually in a
pretty bad spot and can't do too much. Then he goes on
another run. But it's like, he's just as amazed at his own
good luck as I am at my bad luck! We're just hell of
congratulating each other every time we sink or miss a
shot.
Overall, I think I lost a cool $1300 tonight. I got to
stone-bone study my rhythm. I'm gonna spend a few
hours down at Clancy's Billiards And More, they got a
resident pro and this video camera system that tapes
you from all angles, so you can know what you're doing
wrong. I can't believe I didn't sink a single ball tonight.
I'm gonna get the table checked out too, it can get kind
of humid in that room.
16
17
MONDAY, JULY 12, 2004
I don't think too much of that dude down at
Clancy's.
It must have been their fill-in kid giving the lessons
today, because he wasn't too great of an instructor. He
kept trying to get me to play like a little old lady. When
the situation called for me to shoot with the cue behind
my back he was all "WHOAH WHOAH WHOAH just use
the bridge!" Yeah, right. I don't touch the crutch.
I just needed a little fine tuning here and there, not a
total rebuild of my already solid style! Heck of annoying.
Anyhow, not a good way to spend $75, getting a lesson
from the dweeb down at Clancy's. While he was mincing
around the table with his carpal tunnel wrist thing on, I
got to thinking about what I might be doing wrong and I
think I'm ready for a little action with Cornelius tonight.
Time to even the score!
18
TUESDAY, JULY 13, 2004
What the hell, man?
Man, last night was a hell of a burn! I thought I had my
game all figured out: use the behind the back shot more
often. Why? Because it's a more stable shot. I've always
said this. Think about it: you got three stabilizing points
of contact for the cue (two hands and a back) to totally
keep it steady and shoot true. I guess I should have
practiced it more before the match (Braveheart was on
all afternoon, though) because I ended up losing a bit
more moolah than I care to mention. I even fell down
and hit my face on the table at one point. Jesus. Today
my cheek and eye are all puffy.
I'm gonna look around on-line and see if there are any
heavy-immersion type training camps I can attend. My
faith in my game is pretty shaken after last night.
19
WEDNESDAY, JULY 14, 2004
Oh yeah!
I just checked my e-mail and there are all kinds of
questions in there for my advice column! Sorry I ain't got
around to this in a while. I just got all of the Police
Academy movies on DVD (1-7) and have been all James
Lipton in my home theater. I even got blue note cards
like he uses, but I didn't end up filling any of them out.
I'm not even sure why I got them, really. I guess they
make nice disposable coasters.
I can not get enough of Hightower, he stone brings the
ice. And Larvell, man, I used to spend days trying to get
that good at making sounds with my mouth. No one
does a better squeaky door or lock-pick than him.
20
THURSDAY, JULY 15, 2004
A Dream.
I had this dream last night that I was playing pool with all
these Italians in this weird circus-painted room, with lots
of long heavy drapes and all these different sized fancy
globes everywhere. In the dream I had total mastery of
the game and it was like I could think six shots
ahead...when I looked at the table a map with dotted
lines would just emerge before my eyes. I had this
ancient cue stick, which was like a semi-transparent
frosty green glass with a carved ivory grip. I think there
might have been runes on it? The Italian men weren't
really paying attention to me, even the guy I was playing.
I remember not liking the music, which was that French
accordion street stuff, but with the sound of big ocean
waves crashing included.
FRIDAY, JULY 16, 2004
It's a Chochacho Night Friday.
...and that means old Ray has scared up a mess of fine
ideas for his guests! That sushi counter I rented last
week was a big hit, so this week I got one of those
Mongolian BBQ stations. You ever been to Mongolian
BBQ? You go down this line and put all kinds of chilled
meats and vegetables into a bowl, then you make a
sauce out of like seven possible ingredients, and you
give all that to the cook, who has this huge hot cast-iron
drum with a flat grill top, and he dumps all that stuff on
there and hits it with these wooden swords and works it
all around until it's cooked. Usually they got egg rolls,
too. Anyhow, I had the guys at Colonel Li's set one of
those up and send over their best cook tonight. He's
down there right now gettin' the thing hot and seasoned.
21
Also Dimitri came by with a flat of 24s of Heinie (it's fun
to hold the bigger bottle, instead of those little 12s that
warm up so fast), and just a simple top-shelf spread of
Tanq, Ketel, Jim, Jose, Don, etc. I made sure to get
some Orangina and limes to go with the vodka so that
Téodor can mix us up some of those delicious Voginas.
22
MONDAY, JULY 19, 2004
Kind of a burner Sunday
I got this friend from way back on the grounds, you
know, Smacks Peel. He got his wife all in the family way
recently and I offered up the old Smuckles support style
in throwing the baby shower. We had a good five dozen
over this afternoon, prowling the cold cuts I ordered from
Lucchesi's while slapping their brats on the head and
wiping noses, etc. I put out a mean spread, even trying
my hand at making tomato roses with the vegetable
peeler (like Chinese dudes do). I have to say it turned
out pretty well.
Smacks is a real kind guy with a good heart and he got
this idea into his head that a fun shower game would be
if the dudes had to wear this heavy backpack on their
fronts, filled with water bottles, and run a timed course.
First the dude would don the backpack on his front side,
then tie his untied shoe, then run up a flight of stairs and
down again, then eat either a pickle or a prune and show
his tongue when it was done. After the stopwatch
stopped he would choose a hand-written card from a
deck and it would either add or subtract seconds from
his time ("Constipation! +20 Seconds!"). (The cards had
pregnant lady problems on them.)
I had originally recused myself from the event since I
was hosting the shower, but you know as these things
go I was pretty quickly goaded into participating. Bad
thing was, I had asked Conchita to get me up way too
early to start organizing the shower and I had been in a
pretty ucky way from the night before. I guess I cracked
my first Chimay around 9am, just easing into the day,
you know. By the time the crew cheered me into the
Pregnancy Simulator apparatus I was pretty far gone
and thin on the inside. I was wheezing as I tied the shoe,
and barely stood up again to run for the stairs. When I
23
did run for the stairs I felt like someone was
pressure-shooting Whip-Its into my ears. Fortunately no
one was following me so when I got halfway up the stairs
I fell into a heap and barfed kind of a light mealy
substance.
After a short bit I heard someone coming to check on me
so I sort of weakly scrambled up the stairs and hid in the
laundry room.
I was passed out in there until just a few hours ago, and
when I looked around it seemed that everyone from the
shower had left. Fine, good. There was even this huge
pile of gift wrap in the middle of the living room that I
guess Conchita will have to clean up. Anyhow, I ought to
e-mail Smacks in a few and see how it went. I'm
guessing I didn't win, but you never know.
24
WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 2004
Conchita quit!
What the hell, people?! So this morning she brings me in
my bloody mary and calamari, and real nice I go "thank
you, Conchita!" She snaps, tears off her little paper tiara
and apron, and yells "I quit for you! I no take this
anymore!" Then she storms out. A little while later after I
finish my breakfast and do a little light reading, I go down
to her quarters to see what was goin' on and she's
completely cleared out! All she left was that paper tiara,
crumpled in the wastebasket.
Fine, then! She's been real on edge lately anyhow, it
was makin' me kind of uncomfortable. She would get
especially mad when I would try to be polite to her and
speak a little Spanish. I guess she thought my attempts
to use her language were insulting! A sample
conversation would go something like this, tell me if you
can figure out what her problem was:
RAY: Hola, Conchita! Como te toto polopo!
CONCHITA: Hola, Señor Ray.
RAY: [smiling, beaming nicely] Thanks de the sausages,
Conchita!
CONCHITA: [purses lips] ...de nada.
[Conchita turns and walks stiffly out before I can ask her
to make me eggs]
See what I mean? Just all kinds of on edge. She's a little
bit older, maybe she was goin' through the Change.
Anyhow, I don't have time for that. I'm thinkin' of getting
me a butler anyhow, that would be rad. Dude could lay
all my clothes out on a dressing table, have guests
25
("callers") wait for me in the parlor (I should build a
parlor!), all of that butler stuff. I think a dude needs a
butler, not a maid. It's more masculine. A confidant.
Maybe I'll call Bono and see how he does it.
26
WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 2004
Oh. Damn.
I was talkin' to Téodor today and I got a little more
insight into why Conchita quit. You see, I like to make up
Mexican words. It's a fun and harmless thing I do, you
know? Anyhow, what are the chances that I would make
up a word that turned out to be really offensive? I guess I
finally made up enough words that I found an offensive
one, though...and I had been calling my maid that
offensive word for the last year or so.
Okay, quick language lesson for everybody:
Concha: "pussy"
Conchita: "tiny pussy"
So every time I said "Thank you, Conchita!" it was like I
was this rich man in a bed calling a servant woman of a
different race a...well, I've done my damage. Today ain't
a proud day around the Smuckles household.
I'm serious about gettin' a butler, though.
27
FRIDAY, JULY 23, 2004
Who cares if this week sucked!
...because it's a Chochacho Night Friday! I got Dimitri all
lined up to bring over a NASCAR party! I thought
NASCAR would be a fun theme, all with kegs of Natty
Lite and downmarket Cuervo shots/Mr. T. Margarita mix,
etc. For food we're hella slummin' with like thirty-two
Domino's pizzas showin' up around 8. Appetizers are hot
dog rounds on toothpicks with cheese dip, and Frito pie.
I even got these mad-cool NASCAR pit crew jumpsuits
for whoever wants to wear one. I hope Pat puts one on.
He's doin' kind of a vest thing right now and bringin'
down the party with his whole 70s intellectual thing.
People are gonna think I'm havin' some kind of vegan
party where we just eat raw green beans outta a box.
Oh, and based on Smacks Peel's baby shower I decided
to come up with a party game. I got this piece of paper
and drew a diagram of the yard, but then I couldn't think
of anything so I set up all these different heights of
glasses for quarters. That's kind of a game that
NASCAR people play, right? Oh, I got to get down to the
Sam Goody and get a bunch of country CDs. What
country is good? I don't know much about it. I guess I'll
just try to get stuff by guys named like Tanner Skye and
Cody Flint, and they have a short beard on the CD
cover.
28
SUNDAY, JULY 25, 2004
UNH! Yeah, you heard me!
Man, I knew it was bound to happen. I got my old game
back, I found my form! Here's the story of Ray, the
Comeback Kid:
Old Cornelius came over Friday night a little kicked and
insisted on playin' a bit of 8-ball. I could tell he was a
little slowed down but I don't like to disappoint a guest,
particularly when he challenges my authority at the pool
table.
Now, I'll admit, he's been havin' a lucky streak lately, and
I'm down a buck or two. But you got to look at games
like this as cyclical, being as luck changes from better to
worse to better over time. Friday night was finally my
"better" point in the cycle, and everything just clicked.
Poor dude would go for too complicated of a shot, miss
it, and then I'd just cook. I had some mad runs, and soon
he was peelin' off skins! Yeah, I was in it. I even had
mind games on: after he'd try a tricky shot and miss by
like just an inch, I'd be all "Oh, dude! Next time! Next
time!" and he would keep trying (and missing) tricky
shots.
Man, I am ultra-plussed. I'm gonna have him over
tonight for more ball. I got to restore my rep!
29
WEDNESDAY, JULY 28, 2004
I found an old childhood game
Well, it ain't really a game per se, it's more like one of
those dress-up Ken dolls that you can put shirts and
pants and stuff on. Actually, it is a dress-up Ken doll. My
weird old uncle Aloysius mailed it to me for a birthday
present a long time ago. Aloysius was kind of nuts, and
I'm not even sure if he's still alive. Anyhow, I found the
doll in this old box of stuff I had stored in the garage. I
set him up on his little stand and pantsed him a few
times, just like I used to do. It brought back a lot of good
old memories, so I think I'm gonna keep him out for a
while and pants him whenever I'm feelin' bored or blue.
30
THURSDAY, JULY 29, 2004
Everybody Pants!
Ha haaaaaaa! Man, I am so glad I found this old Dress
Me Up Ken Doll! I had a heap of paperwork to deal with
today, old Sony contract renewals and stuff, and every
so often I'd put down my pen, squint at Ken, and go like
"Eet ees your pantss, ameego!" and just pants him
without mercy. Man, I think I'm gonna start carryin' him
around in like a holster or something, I can't tell you how
relieving it is to attack the little guy and pull his pants
down. It's grounding, you know. Like how some folks rub
worry stones around in their hands, but way more funny.
I can't explain it.
31
FRIDAY, JULY 30, 2004
Waterbury's here!
Already the dude is totally amazing! I told him about how
we usually throw a pretty good dig at my place on
Fridays, and he arranged an entire plan for tonight! We
got a swing band, with some instructors around to give
folks lessons beforehand...he's got a dude outside
carvin' a big ice sculpture for the raw oyster bar, a
sommelier keepin' court in front of some top-flight wines
from Dimitri's private cellar (I ain't never seen a dude get
on so well with Dimitri, who can be a pretty rough
Russian if you know what I mean - it turns out Waterbury
speaks Russian though and they're practically pals
now!)...he's a real class act. He even set out a perfect
outfit for me on this new dressing table he picked up at
Battori's, that Italian menswear shop down in the
Underground, and polished up my brown Kenneths!
And tonight ain't even the limit of it. Real quick after he
arrived he poured me a whisky and soda, offered me a
Nat Sherman from a silver case, and hovered over me
as he asked questions about things like what hour I like
to rise, what I take for breakfast, how and where I like to
receive guests, etc. This guy is totally putting his best
foot forward. I even tipped him a twenty and he accepted
it perfectly, with a gracious nod of the head and a
"Thank you, sir" in his clean English accent. It's nice he
has that accent. That is so classy.
32
SUNDAY, AUGUST 01, 2004
Super, Waterbury!
Man, this guy is ten kinds of classic! Today as I was just
comin' to he came gliding in with a hot tray of perfect
calamari fritti, and maybe the best bloody mary I have
ever tasted. His calamari are way crispier than
Conchita's ever were, and his lemon aioli is way zingier.
Plus he thought to include a small scoop of lime sherbet
for cleansin' the palate. Oh, and he had brought the
day's papers and a few magazines, and naturally an
after-meal cigarette.
When I got up a couple hours later, he had a totally
classy golf-type outfit laid out on the dressing table.
Some caramel pleated Barry Brickens (Sly Stallone
wears Brickens), sort of a light yellow polo shirt, and
some crimson Bally loafers with a matching belt. I was
fit!
When I got downstairs he told me I had an afternoon tee
time at Seven Pines, and that Téodor would be joining
me, if that was all right. Damn right that's all right!
Téodor swings a pretty good stick, and it's always better
to go out as a twosome, so you don't get stuck with
some old man who just smokes and won't look at you.
33
TUESDAY, AUGUST 03, 2004
Hittin' the links again!
Man, I had a pretty good round with Téodor this
weekend! I put the beat on him pretty bad most holes,
but he ended up few strokes ahead. I think he plays
pretty frequently, and I'd had a few light months lately,
so my short game wasn't true. Bein' that as it is, I had a
couple hours of lessons with Paul down at Seven Pines
today, workin' around the green and outta the bunker.
He had me correct just real slight things here and there:
havin' me grip a little more lightly, adjustin' my right-hand
rollover, stuff like that. We even analyzed some video so
I could see exactly what was going on. I like Paul, he's a
good teacher. I usually tip him a twenty and we each
have a snifter of Oban outta the micro-bar I got in my
bag, you know, while talkin' about tour results and new
equipment and stuff.
Anyhow, I'm feelin' like Phil Mickelson now, so I got to
have Waterbury get me and Téodor a tee time. Maybe
I'll get a crew to come in and install a little
chipping/putting area over by the tennis court! That'd be
a perfect thing to do, also.
34
THURSDAY, AUGUST 05, 2004
Man, that backfired!
I think I played Téodor too soon after my lessons,
because I hadn't fully internalized them yet (this is what
Paul said). You know how you can have a pretty decent
short game, but if you change just one little thing about
your technique, it all falls apart? Like having a car, but
just one tiny thing is missing, like the steering wheel.
There you go, the car is useless. That was my short
game yesterday, a car with no steering wheel.
Fortunately the landscapers just finished building my
new putting and chipping area (I even got a couple sand
traps made, plus a pond with a smoking volcano in the
middle, just for kicks). A couple hours on that thing and I
should be Lightning Man around the greens.
Ooh, but first some salmon dinner! Man, I can not get
enough of this fresh salmon. I been eatin' a lot of it lately
as part of my research for my advice column, and
Waterbury just knows how to cook the hell outta the
stuff. I think tonight he's makin' this famous old English
dish, which is poached salmon with home-made
mayonnaise on top, plus all kinds of fancy garnishes and
stuff. A lot of folks think Mayonnaise is pretty trashy, just
kind of a B-rate ingredient, but in truth it is a classic
old-school sauce, and when it's made fresh it is hell of
good. I mean, I never had a problem with mayonnaise,
but a lot of folks are always moanin' about it and
berating it. I take no part in that. I'm not above having
some mayonnaise. I came up just like any other player,
straight up having mayonnaise as a common dressing
on my sandwiches.
35
FRIDAY, AUGUST 06, 2004
Daaaaaaamn!
It's Friday, dude! What could be better. Tonight's party is
gonna set the New Limits of Doggery. I had forgotten
that I ordered this MASSIVE poster of Phil Collins off
eBay (you know you got to bow to the Sussudio man,
people of all ages), so when it showed up today I got this
idea in my head. That's right, I'm gonna make a robotic
papier mâché Phil Collins to dance around in front of it
while his Hits album plays! Sony sent me one of those
ASIMO (http://asimo.honda.com) robots last year, so I'm
just gonna dress that up and make hands and a head
outta papier mâché. It's gonna be all dancin' around,
totally moonwalkin' to "Can't Hurry Love," all of that! I
even have this one skinny tie with piano keys on it
somewhere in my boxes. Man, that robot is gonna kick it
around.
Food and drink-wise, I thought I'd go 80s, since there is
the robotic Phil Collins and all. Dimitri brought over
ingredients for Magnum PIs, which are basically just
Michelobs...I also spent some time figuring out what
would be in an A-ha, and I decided that it would be shots
of aquavit with a free jelly bracelet in the bottom of the
shooter - sort of a treat! I'm gonna have those set out in
a drilled block of ice, one shot glass in each drilled hole,
with a big photo of the guys beneath the ice. Also, I kind
of think that the food that best represents the 80s is
Burger Buddies, those little 3-packs of hamburgers they
used to sell at Burger King, so I contacted a packaging
liquidator who had a crate of the old Burger Buddies
cardboard boxes and had them sent by courier
(fortunately they were only like 30 miles away). For the
Burger Buddies themselves we're gonna make them
kind of upscale, with like lime-chipotle aioli and fontina,
because fun as Burger Buddies are we're all adults now.
36
We're also gonna have this big bowl of Swatches for
everyone to pick from when they show up, like three
Swatches per person, and a little hairspray station with
crimping irons. Alright, time to work the phones!
Oh, and Rick James died today. Mega setback for the
funk community. Too bad, they'd been making a lot of
progress lately.
37
SATURDAY, AUGUST 07, 2004
Damn.
It turns out that the ASIMO has all kinds of optical
sensors and stuff in its head, so if you put a papier
mâché mask on it, it can't see or hear or anything and it
freaks out. I didn't know that yesterday, so my big robotic
Phil Collins concept literally blew up in my face (he fell
over and short-circuited or something, and caught fire).
The ASIMO has super realistic movements so everyone
got really sickened watching him writhe around in
flames, tearing at the mask on its head, which was
burning pretty good due to being paper.Téodor finally
wrapped the thing in a curtain and after everyone left I
dumped it in the trash. Sheesh. Just tryin' to show you a
good time, people! Now everyone's mad at me for
making them watch that horrible spectacle, and I've got
like five hundred unused Burger Buddies boxes sittin'
around.
38
TUESDAY, AUGUST 10, 2004
Cooking Class
Waterbury found me toolin' around in the kitchen
yesterday, making an Awesome. I don't know if I've told
you about the Awesome before. It's this sandwich I
invented only a month ago but it is already my favorite.
Here's the stacking order of ingredients:
Kaiser roll bottom
aioli
salt
pepper
sliced onion
lettuce leaf
avocado
lettuce leaf
chopped olives
lettuce leaf
3 slices roasted turkey
five slices spicy salami!
lettuce leaf
cooked hamburger patty
sliced onion
brie slice
mayonnaise
top bun
Anyhow, he noticed that I have some creativity when it
comes to food, so he suggested that I enroll in this
Italian cooking course down at Granite, this upscale
kitchen shop in Hidden Hills. They got one of those
"cooking classrooms" toward the back of the store, you
know, where like twenty people can watch a chef
prepare things step by step, and there is a mirror above
him at an angle so you can see what his hands are
doing.
39
I strolled on down there tonight to check the class out,
since the description sounded good. They said you'd
make like osso buco and fresh polenta and you could
have wine and stuff. Plus, Granite is right next to
Napoleon's, this plush bar, so I could just go there if I
didn't like it (the class).
I showed up and it was a pretty decent crowd: some
young hip couples, some wealthier-lookin' older couples,
single guys who you could tell were chefs, and even this
one fine group of four girlfriends. I mean fine.
Sweet-shaped butts, all that stuff. I was definitely gonna
stay 'til at least the break.
So first the teacher got into it, and I mean he really laid
into it. He ran out with two big raw veal shanks in his
hands, holdin' 'em high like they were Olympic torches,
as this really fun, bouncy Sicilian music played. He
totally worked the crowd, and we all stood up and
pumped our hands and shook our hips. So krunked.
Such a good start. I looked over and the ladies were
totally shakin' it.
As he started throwing stuff into pans and making people
laugh, I got a little vibration from my cell phone. It's one
of those new phones that people who are nearby can
use to text you. It was one of the chicks from the class! I
guess she had read my T-Mobile LocalFriend profile,
because she started telling me she was into music and
maybe we should talk at the break. I looked up and sure
enough she was looking straight at the cat hisself. I gave
her the wink and slipped the phone into my Calvins.
The chef was one of those guys who likes to have
audience participants. I don't know how these guys can
always spot me, but as soon as he asked for a volunteer
I knew 100% that it was gonna end up being me. Sure
enough, he tossed an eggplant right at me and yelled
Catch! I caught it easy enough and he waved for me to
40
come up and "audience participate." I tossed the thing
back and smoothed it up to the counter, waving at the
class as they cheered, all in a fun manner. I could see
the fine chica smiling at me. I was ready to crack her up,
and chef had given me my stage.
So we set up to braise off the osso buco, and for that
you need wine, but we both noticed that there was none
on the counter. He asked me to go into the wine storage
room at the back of the store and fetch some Barolo. I lit
off back there, but it was pretty dark. Most of the doors
were locked, and eventually I found one that wasn't but
unfortunately it led out into the alley and before my eyes
could adjust I was locked out. It was one of those big
insulated doors, so no good pounding on it. I ran around
to the front of the shop, but the doors had been locked
since it was after shopping hours, and no one could hear
me knock since the class was pretty far back and all that
music was playin'. I even took out my cell, but I was too
far from the chica to text her.
I was up the creek. I wanted to wait until class got out
and intercept the girl, so I set myself up at Napoleon's
with a double Bisquit and let the stress fall away. The
thing hit me pretty hard, since I'd gone to the class on an
empty stomach, so when I was done I tabbed out and
decided to make for home, completely forgetting about
her. I did remember that we had some new mail-order
Niman steaks, so I picked up a nice red at Hole In One
Liquors, across the street.
The Granite class had just finished, and the chef had
come out with everybody to have a smoke and laugh
and talk about next time. Then he spotted me holding
the bottle and held up his hand. "Thief!" he yelled. I
looked down at the bottle and in an instinct from my
younger days, I bolted.
Hopefully the girl ain't so good with her phone that she
41
has me looked up and arrested. Meanwhile, I don't think
I'm gonna be shopping at Granite anytime soon. They
probably got my photo up in their front door all post
office style.
42
FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 2004
Kind of a Hawaiian Thing!
We got this row of palms along one side of the property,
and today they got me to thinkin' that tonight's party
should have a Hawaiian theme! You know, these
summer days don't last forever, so it's time to break out
the patterened shirts and sarongs and lose it in a Mai
Tai!
I had Waterbury dig a big luau pit (dude can dig with a
vengeance!) and we had these ceremonial Hawaiian
guys come over and create luau pig (I don't know how to
describe it using proper terms). So that sucker's bakin' in
the ground right now, and the ceremonial guys are
gonna dig him up later on (right now they're just cooling
it with some Coors in the bed of their truck). They also
have a friend who is gonna eat some fire and do a tiki
dance. This guy also does some unrelated tricks, like
make his Camaro do a wheelie, etc, so maybe we'll ask
him to do that after his main tricks.
A big part of any Hawaiian party is havin' drinks in
coconut shells, so I got Little Nephew busy in the shop,
sawin' the tops off about a hundred coconuts. He always
loves any excuse to use power tools, just like his heroes
(TV show guys from Monster Garage). Heh! I get a kick
out of thinking that he enjoys using tools. I remember
when I was his age...if you gave me a tool, half an hour
later I would have created an object. Oh, snap!
One thing about Hawaiian food (besides luau-cooked
pig) is that it's pretty horrible. Mostly it's trashy, like
hamburger patties on white rice with gravy and an egg,
or else it's just Subway. Bein' that as it is, Téodor and I
put our heads together and created this sort of Pacific
Rim Fusion menu that is just all kinds of tickling my
fancy. We're gonna have pineapple-glazed grilled lamb,
43
miso-honey basmati, banana-leaf duck, crab and pork
shu mai, beef pot stickers, and my favorite, won ton
soup with those Chinese spoons. He came over and
made all that stuff earlier today.
For music Téodor and I decided just to play a lot of ZZ
Top and Aerosmith, since ukulele music is lame. We
both agreed that ZZ Top and Aerosmith is good music
for parties, because even if individual people don't like
those bands, a *party* likes those bands. Do you get
what I am saying? When you are at a party you like
different kinds of music than when you are alone and
you listen to like metal or classical.
That's pretty much it...I've got Waterbury stringin' my fun
chili pepper Christmas lights all around, lightin' tiki
torches, and setting out lots of straw hats and leis for
folks. Gonna be a lot better than last week, there aren't
so many things that can possibly go wrong (i.e. no part
of this party relies on a robot). Oh, and maybe gonna
meet Téodor's new girlfriend! They're goin' on a date
beforehand and he said that if it went well he'd bring her
by. I'm glad that people can use these parties for things
like that. It's nice to create a haven for romance. It's all
for the common good, and everyone gets fed. Mahalo!
44
TUESDAY, AUGUST 17, 2004
Damn, Téodor!
Man, one thing that sucks is when a friend has his heart
broken. I'm talking about Téodor here, my friend Téodor.
He is a good dude, and I would never want him to have
a bad experience. Yet, because of me he has had a bad
experience. I will explain.
You see, I throw my events every Friday night, and lots
of types come over to make it tight with the drinks and
the dance floor. A lot of women show up, and I can't
vouch for them all, since the gates are wide open, you
know. I often do not know many of the women at my
parties.
Lately Téodor got the Lady Eyes for this slummin'
childhood friend of Boriqua (Boriqua is a nasty-hot
Samoan mamma from the L'Oréal counter. Boriqua got
the kind of rumpus that God writes braggy poems about,
you know) ...anyhow, her friend was this skinny nerd
with I guess the kind of "alternative" look Téodor falls for.
Téodor is super mushy and romantic and he can just fall
in love in like a second, completely having ideas about
permanent feelings.
Anyhow, they had a date down at Grass, but I guess it
didn't go too well because he showed up at my place
pretty early without her.
He kicked around pretty moody for a while, not
socializing at all, but before I could talk to him he took
off. I called him on Sunday, maybe to hit the links or
something, and he broke it all down. He was feeling
pretty sour, he said.
Damn, I hate to see a brother go through this. What can
you do, though. You can't do anything. Nothin' you can
45
do. Not a thing. Life is...life is dirt sometimes.
46
FRIDAY, AUGUST 20, 2004
Operation HOT S.A.U.C.E.
Man, I am already excited about tomorrow. I figured out
tonight, the theme of the party is gonna be “Hot Sauce!”
This is mainly to imply that people will have a hot time
doing the various hot activities I have planned, but also
that spicy foods will be served, all of which feature my
custom hot sauce. Did you know that I have a
custom-labeled line of hot sauce? Waterbury actually
thought this up as an idea for a party, to expose people
to more of my merchandise. He's a pretty swift kitty, you
know. Got a lot under the hood.
So for hot activities, there's gonna be a kissing booth,
and I rented these two hot people to give kisses. As part
of the kissing (a $5 upgrade over the basic $5
admission) you can each do a shooter of my hot sauce
over an oyster before you kiss. That is so brilliant. The
man is this hot cut dude who looks like he plays a lot of
volleyball, and the lady looks like she could be on a TV
show, like as the hot neighbor who plays a lot of beach
volleyball when she's not being a model.
The other hot activity is a dance floor. I got this band,
Paprika, who agreed to come play. Their website said
they do this "erotic zydeco" type stuff, "ga-ron-tee" to
make the people grind 'em if they got 'em! On the phone
the guy said something about mardi gras, and that's all I
needed to sign on the dotted line.
Oh, and as potentially a third hot activity I am going to
write on a piece of paper that the pool shed is a
make-out room. I will put a bowl of Durex and little
single-serving packets of lube in there, along with a
scented candle and a clearly marked trash can (the last
thing I need is a bunch of Banana Slugs on the floor).
47
Food's gonna be awesome! I hired the guy from Sedona
Mona's to bring his bbq trailer up, and he is making a
special sauce based on my hot sauce. Also I got the guy
from Fat Stan's to come and cook up some crawdads,
gumbo, mashed potatoes, asparagus, all that crazy stuff.
Should be a good time! We're gonna have tables with
my hot sauce for sale at all the exits, at a slight party
discount.
48
MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 2004
Dang!
Dang, people! What with me havin' a bad case of
Olympic Fever, I nearly forgot about this little
bloggity-blog! Okay, so here is what I am gonna run
down for you all:
1. The Olympics, so far
2. Operation HOT S.A.U.C.E.
3. Maybe some stuff about my mom coming to visit
The Olympics!
Man, when it comes to the Olympics, I don't think
anyone follows closer than me. I ordered USA team gear
from each sport, and I put on the appropriate outfit when
each event comes on (during the women's events, I
dress like a male coach). So far the US is totally
dominating pretty much all the sports, with huge wins in
swimming, volleyball, running, and gymnastics. A
Japanese lady won the women's marathon, but right
after she finished she puked up like this Elmer's Glue
stuff, very uncool.
Operation HOT S.A.U.C.E.
It was pretty good! Folks showed up in a pretty sexy
state of mind, wearing all kinds of low-cut snakeskin
dresses and other hot club outfits, and they just ground
to the music. The Zydeco band was steamin', the
hurricanes and long island iced teas were drainin' by the
gallon, and before too long it was "show us your tits!" all
over again. Fortunately Waterbury had thought to order
a crate of beaded necklaces, so the economy was in
order.
I even saw Molly drag Beef into the Make Out Room (the
pool shed, which I had decorated by supplying lube and
rubbers and a scented candle) at one point, but when
49
they came out Molly was kind of sour looking and Beef
went and played pool by himself. I was too busy chargin'
Boriqua to ask him what went wrong.
All in all there were only three banana slugs on the floor
at the end of the night, so I just left the pool shed door
open and raccoons ate them.
My Mom
Me and mom really cook it up when she comes to visit!
We'll go shopping, and go to brunch a couple times, and
probably hit Seven Pines and the Cathcart Gardens, and
have some of my friends over for a nice dinner together.
Mom likes to keep up with my friends, and always makes
sure to mention their names when she calls. She always
tells Roast Beef that he is so handsome, and he just
blushes and can never handle it. She'll be pleased that
he's seein' Molly. Anyhow, she might come visit in a
couple weeks, after the Olympics.
Alright, I'm out. Men's airgun is about to start, and it
takes a while to don all that gear.
50
FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 2004
Just kind of a regular party
Whew, I almost forgot to plan tonight's party! These
Olympics are really wearing me out. Let's see, what to
do for tonight's party...can't sell hot sauce again. First of
all, we sold outta both pallets of that stuff, and secondly I
don't want people to think these digs are just
commercially motivated. I want folks to have a good
time, that's the main thing! We ain't on this rock for too
long, so we got to share the love while we can. Let's
see, maybe tonight we'll have a hippie party, "share the
love" and all, and have afro wigs and big peace
necklaces. Nah, that's dumb. Hippie stuff is so tired.
Maybe it'll be an Elton John party, you know, where
when things are going good I come out in a huge fur
cape and star-shaped sunglasses. No, that's not a good
theme. Maybe the theme will be that I have been
watching the Olympics all week and people can come
over. There, good. I'll just get a regular DJ and have a
guy in charge of grilling burgers and chicken. Plus, I will
tell Waterbury to plan the party, because there's some
Women's Track and Field about to start. Gotta go.
51
SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 2004
Waterbury=Swiss Army Knife
Damn but that dude took care of Friday's party! As you
may have read I was not too pumped to prepare the
festivities, and when I called on him he manned the plate
like a pro. He had the dudes from Kayashi set up a
custom tempura bar, which is kind of like an omelette
bar, except you tell them what things you'd like dipped in
tempura. That was a huge hit, and they had even
unorthodox kinds of things to make tempura out of, like
thick avocado slices, chicken breast tenders, hash
brown patties, olives, string cheese, corn dogs, even
those Halloweën-size candy bars. They got really
experimental towards the end of the night, particularly
once the guests started pouring those sake-boxes for
the cooks, who could not decline (dishonor). I think at
one point somebody deep-fried my leather Raiders hat.
That old Cornelius has really got his cook dog on for this
goliath-type broad from the Russian women's volleyball
team (silver). Weird! Anyhow, he was pretty much a
fixture in my living room the past two weeks, constantly
trying to catch a glimpse of her. I think her name is
VOLLEY ZILLA or something. Dude, I can understand a
guy who's a romantic, since I'm pretty much a
heart-on-the-sleeve player myself, but this is like more of
a perversion. Kind of gave me a bad feeling to see him
put his imaginary coat over a puddle for her, so to speak,
right on the tails of Téodor's big heartbreak with that
lawyer skirt. Oh well, bring it, fellows. Old Ray has had a
soggy shoulder or two in his day.
52
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 01, 2004
I like wine!
It's been a while since I had some wine! I got to tell you,
I been kind of avoiding the stuff lately, since I think it kind
of gives me a little gut. They got these new Bacardi 0-0
posters around lately, where Bacardi and Diet Coke has
like zero carbs and zero calories. I been mainly in that
scene. I ain't a carb person, no, I am more in it for the
zero calories. Been feelin' pretty lean lately because of
it.
However, tonight I had wine! Man, it was nice to have a
glass of the rich stuff. I dug into the cellar and got a
bottle of Old Vines Zinfandel to go with this punishingly
spicy spaghetti e polpettone I was cookin' up. I make a
damn fine meatball, old family recipe, and no you can't
have it.
Anyhow, I liked the wine a lot. After dinner though I
walked up and down the stairs a few times, just to get
the metabolism up. I want to get back down to my 2003
weight. I'm currently at my 2001 weight, a little high for
my tastes.
53
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 03, 2004
Tonight's party, kind of a new thing
Me and the fellas got kind of exclusive last night over at
Téodor's, and we came up with this really incredible,
experimental theme for tonight's party. The theme is
cones.
Yeah, cones. Think about it: cones are a pretty basic
part of geometry, and therefore a fundamental part of the
world. Martini glasses are cones, party hats are cones,
bottles are kind of cone-ish...there are more, we made a
list (but I lost it I think on the way home). We went
on-line and ordered everything we could think of that is
cone-like, and then thought up cone-style food. Spicy
tuna hand-rolls are cones, ice cream sugar cones are
cones...an almond is kind of shaped like a cone...
Oh, Jesus. Now we've done it. Dammit, we can't have a
party based on cones. No one's going to care about that
that is clever. Maybe if tonight's party was like a Beatles
cartoon instead, but it's a real party where people don't
want to wear cone hats and watch Conan O'Brien loops
on a big conical pile of TVs.
Crap. What am I gonna do with all this cone stuff? And
what am I gonna do about tonight's party? I better hand
this stinker off to Waterbury, he's pretty good on his feet.
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MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 06, 2004
A damn relaxing Labor Day weekend.
Waterbury totally rescued us from throwing a "cone"
party! Man, with like just six hours to go he rallied up and
rented a huge flame-throwing mechanical scrap iron
dinosaur from this local artist. He also rented this local
circus act called Trompe L'Danse or something, which I
was massively skeptical about, but they put on a
half-hour acrobatics and magic show that was loot. For
food he put out all this "munchies" type stuff, which I
think was his way of winking at me and silently saying "I
know that cone idea was because you were totally high,
and this is my dig on you." Touché, Waterbury.
All the same, we burned one and tore into the buffet:
chocolate fondue with cheesecake balls and snickers on
skewers, a calzone bar, Funyuns, Beef Jerky,
milkshakes, Skittles, Tom's of Maine salt and vinegar
chips, macaroni salad, Dove bars, chow fun, potstickers,
Chicken Tenders, the works. There was even a Coke
machine. Damn, it was a good time...until all these
dread-lock hippie kids showed up. I know they just like
peace and want to be happy, but I don't like dreads on
hippies. My posse played it hard and cold and pretty
soon they dug the vibe and hit the gate. It has been a
damn while since I smelled so much b.o. and patchouli
oil.
For the three day weekend I mainly played it close and
did a lot of swimming. I had Waterbury dress up in a
navy blazer and deck shoes and blow a whistle, and I
would dive into the pool and do a couple laps. He
disqualified me in the last heat for crawling into my
Floatee Lounge and cracking a Coors, but that was cool.
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FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2004
Damn but am I brewing fine beer!
Okay, so as you might have read, Waterbury turned out
to be a spy and he ain't around anymore. That's cool,
because it was getting to be about time that I organized
my own parties once again. I kind of needed to prove to
myself that I didn't need his help to run my life, you
know? If you always let other people do things for you,
you kind of turn into the soft calamari.
So! Tonight's party theme is BEER. I have been putting
together a pretty substantial microbrewery toward the
back of the property, just straight up making ales, stouts,
pilsners, all that good stuff. I flew a guy down from
Oregon to help with the fine points, and WE HAVE
(sorry, caps lock) we have a nice little lineup for people
to try. They can have the six-beer taster, 2ozs. of each,
or just straight up try a pint. I think our best one is a
Belgian Christmas Ale, which has just mad amounts of
subtlety. It's about 6%, so folks should be hell of pantsy
without too much encouragement.
To go with all this we got tons of grilled sausages on this
special Eastern European grill that's the size of a hot
tub. Potatoes are baking up in foil, the meats are sizzling
away, peppers and onions are wilting, we even have a
cotton-candy machine and a little booth that sells amber
jewelry. The old dude that is in charge of the grill straight
up sticks his thumb deep into the cooked potato and
then pushes a tab of butter all down in there! It is going
to be a real old-world night for folks. And if anyone's
low-carb, I have this little table where you can mix
Bacardi and Diet Coke instead of beer.
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SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2004
Back from vacation!
Damn! Chris took off for the last week, stone cold lying
on various sides of his body on the beaches of Kauai,
and right before he left he told us to shove off and take
vacations of our own! I did something really unusual for
myself: I fired up the Escalade, filled the back up with all
kinds of hardcore gear from REI, and headed to the hills
late last Friday night! No one else could come at such
late notice, so it was mano-a-solo. Before too long I got
up to this place called The Sonora Pass, which is pretty
rugged terrain on the way to Nevada. Lots of cliffs and
rivers, perfect for my new rappelling and kayaking
equipment. I couldn't wait to scout out some good rapids
and climbs. Say what you will about Ray Smuckles, but I
do enjoy pitting myself against the elements now and
then. It's invigorating. Remind me to tell you about the
time we went waterskiing.
First things first, I hoofed on up to a nice secluded place
where I wasn't gonna be seen by backpackers, and set
up base camp. I had the new VikingXtreme
ultra-lightweight 20,000 BTU cook stove, a fold-out
chef's prep table, a mini set of Wusthof chef's travel
knives, a snuggly North Face sub-zero chef's jacket and
windproof toque (it had a chin strap and super-warm ear
flaps), and a travel set of infused olive oils. All I needed
was to provide the meat! I figured I'd shoot a rabbit or
wild boar or something, or at least catch a wild trout or
bass, so I set out with Tic Tac and this lightweight little
telescoping Fenwick fishing rod (I also had the toque
strapped on since a wind was pickin' up). I saw a rabbit
run across the trail on my way down to the river, but I
was takin' a blast from my travel flask at the time and
couldn't get the gun out fast enough to drop the hammer.
That was fine, though, as I was gettin' into the idea of
some fresh fish with rosemary oil and crisped potatoes.
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I had on these new Scarpa Freney XT boots, which the
salesman had said were pretty much the best, but they
didn't do too well on this big loose shale hillside I had to
traverse in order to reach the river. You ever been on
anything like that? It's like a 45-degree slope covered a
couple feet deep in broken dinner plates, and when you
step on it, you immediately start sliding. You kind of have
to ride it like you're skiing: just go with the momentum
and stay alert. I got about halfway down when my boot
snagged on a piece of wood and I took a tumble. The
first thing you do in this situation is cover your face:
shale is sharp enough to turn exposed skin into deli
meat. Pretty soon I had come to a stop, and I carefully
took a look around.
Damned but if my entire outfit wasn't shredded to
ribbons. I looked like a spent piñata. Remembering the
flask in my chest pocket, I took it out and drained it
before trying to stand up and see if anything was broken
(they used to do this in the Civil War). It hit me pretty
hard since the altitude was so high—the last thing I
remember before passing out was burying myself under
more rocks in case some hiker came along.
I don't know how much later I came to, but I'm glad I did
because water was crawling up my sides! The river had
risen a few feet due to a rainstorm, and I was in serious
danger of drowning. Something in the Jameson must
have given me unusual strength, because one of the
rocks I had hauled over my legs was now too heavy to
move. I was like, crap. That hiker in Utah cut his own
arm off to save himself, and here I was, wastedly pulling
heavy rocks onto my legs and passing out in a river. No
wonder Brokaw doesn't call.
The water was halfway up my body when I went all lucid
and devised a plan for getting myself out of this tangle.
Long story short, I used the telescoping fishing rod
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against itself, gaining a mechanical advantage from the
reel, having replaced the 12-lb test line with my carbon
fiber boot laces. After a little bit of cranking, the rock had
risen enough that I could wriggle free. As I was getting
up, a big fat trout swam into my open boot, and half an
hour later he was sizzling up in a single-weight
Calphalon with home fries, crumbled andouille, and wild
mountain thyme! I sat with a glass of '97 Cinnabar zin
and reflected on the events as the morning sun rose.
After a good nap I loaded back up and headed home. I
figured nature was trying to tell me something, and I was
all ears. I spent the rest of the week watching Curb Your
Enthusiasm DVDs and working on my new line of lagers.
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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 2004
Saw Tina.
Damn, you know how it is. You are just out, having your
day, maybe shopping at the shopping center or walking
down a lane, and bang. There she is, your ex, totally
unexpected. Your mind goes blank and you don't know
what to do. There is that paranoid silence while you both
gather your thoughts and wonder what the other person
is thinking about you. This is how it went down with me
today.
There is this new product called Komfy Kuddles, it's this
self-adjusting pillow system that helps you be more
comfortable while you're lying on the couch watching TV.
It's kind of like a large robe that you get into, and as you
move around and try to get comfortable it senses the
areas of greatest pressure and inflates a little bit there,
to give you more padding. If you move around some
more, it readjusts. Anyhow, they sell it down at the A
Dansk shop in Hidden Hills, and I was on my way to pick
one up after a pretty long week of watching Curb Your
Enthusiasm and Sopranos.
I was walkin' along, on the way to the shop, just lookin' in
the windows of various vacuum repair shops and soul
food places and dessert-catering companies, when out
of a doorway steps Tina, all by herself, headed in my
direction. We stopped in our tracks and kind of did the
look-on-down and tried to think of what to say. I kind of
wanted to do the hug thing, you know, since we shared
so many sheets and laughs back in the day. Clark Gable
or another classy man would have done that. You know,
decorum and manners. I kind of made like a millimeter of
a move toward her and my hands started to go up for the
hug and suddenly she just jumped all in my arms, giving
me this big old embrace and even that half-meaningful
kiss on the cheek. She had on that 273 perfume that I
had gotten her for her birthday a couple years back, the
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one I picked out specially for her, and damn but she felt
so soft.
I just did not know what to say after we let go. She was
holding both my hands and giving me this really tender
smile and my first instinct was to take us out to Luigi's for
a meal together, even (seriously) imagining getting us a
hotel room for the night and falling back on the old ways.
I got a little bit of control over myself and suggested that
we have dinner sometime, you know, just to catch up. It
may have been going a bit far but I even suggested a
time and a place (tomorrow at The Chophouse, a high
times place we'd been once or twice before). She smiled
and said she would love to.
Man, I know me. I'm gonna be all nervous up until I get
there, then I'm gonna have some Ketel, then I won't be
able to help but charm her in the ways I know she likes.
Like a train with a devil brain, like a machine, we're
gonna wind up in the sack. And the weird part is, I can't
do anything to stop me. It's like Odysseus, he had no
choice.
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THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 2004
Dinner with Tina.
I did it, my doggies. Everything I said. Met Tina at the
Chophouse, gave her a little orchid blossom to tuck
behind her ear, had a white zinfandel waiting for her at
the bar, complimented her arms, all of that. It was like
we were on that little automatic thing at the carwash that
pulls you along, so smooth did it go. After the meal we
walked outta the restaurant and just kind of fell into a big
hug and kiss right on the sidewalk, consumed with the
old passions. We were a little outta bounds on some '98
Cakebread sauvignon, and we fell into a cab headed her
way. Soon her little black dress was sliding down and we
were in the throes. My Barry Brickens were draped
carefully over the dressing-table chair.
I had expected to want to leave immediately after the
deed was done, but it was nice to be back in the old
familiar situation. We talked all about this and that, stuff
we remembered about each other...she even pointed out
how I always like to make sure my shoes are pointing
the same direction before we hop in the sack. I pointed
out the old B-52's postcard she still had on her mirror
and settled back down into the fluffy pillows and big
down comforter. Tina always has kept a good bed.
A little while later she poured us some wine as we sat at
the breakfast bar. She looked good, with her bed-hair
kind of falling in her eyes, all with the same cute old
smile. It was that bad kind of comfortable, where you just
might stay.
Fortunately my cell rang and it was Téodor, telling me
that he had just recorded some new songs he wanted
me to consider for Prime Time. I gave her a full kiss and
pulled out, one more kiss in the doorway as it closed.
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I walked home smelling the back of my hand, which I
had sprayed with 273 when I was in the bathroom.
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FRIDAY, OCTOBER 01, 2004
Friday Night's Party - Get Into The Gnome
Okay, so tonight's party has a Gnome theme. The
people don't got to dress like gnomes, nothing lame like
that. The thing is, there are various gnome-type
concepts going to be scattered throughout the party,
there for people to enjoy. In one corner I put a little
gnome figurine lying down against a tree, smoking a
small pipe and napping. Under the little bridge that
connects the lap pool to the main pool, I suspended a
watchful gnome in a kind of straw and leather "aerie." On
the buffet table (the food theme is choucroute garnie,
which goes nicely with my newly expanded line of
Belgian lambics, all of which are on tap) I had a local
meat artist build a gnome out of various sausages, slab
bacons, kielbasas, frankfurters, and other cured meats.
He is totally styling in his little structured prosciutto
Tyrolean and leberwurst lederhosen. He is even carrying
a little bag of sausages! I love a good meat artist,
someone who really uses his imagination. Anyhow,
some other gnomes are hidden in the Japanese garden,
in the bushes, around corners, all the places it seemed
like a gnome would want to be.
That's not all. Each of the gnomes has a clue, and if you
can put the clues together and figure out the riddle, and
you are the first one to tell me, you win some treasure!
Hopefully someone will win the treasure, but I may have
to give out hints (the treasure is the big new iPod, a
bunch of fancy canned and jarred food, and Bo Diddley's
first Gretsch, which I just bought at auction last week).
I'm not going to blog about the clues until after the party
(I've said too much already!), so go on out and then
come back later!
Gitcha.
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SUNDAY, OCTOBER 03, 2004
Gnome Party clues (SPOILER: read previous
entry first!)
Okay, so I mentioned that each of the gnomes hidden
around my last party had a clue on them, which would
lead to treasure! This is how it worked: each of the ten
gnomes was wearing a ring on one of its fingers. Each of
the gnomes was wearing the ring on a different finger.
Each ring had a different letter of the alphabet on it,
which, when put together in order, spelled something.
The left pinkie ring was the first letter, and the right
pinkie ring was the last letter. What did the ten rings
spell out, when put in the correct order?
tellray27!
That was the clue to come up to me and tell me the code
word, "27"!
Did anyone get it? Oh, hell no. A couple of the gnomes
got thrown over the fence, one of them got tied to a 25lb.
dumbbell and thrown in the pool, and this other one had
his face all burned up with lighters. Most of them had
their rings stolen and taken home as party favors.
I guess I could have provided some sort of instructions
that the party had a hidden theme-riddle based on the
gnomes. Bad move on my part. Next time, people.
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THURSDAY, OCTOBER 07, 2004
Time After Time
Tina and I went to see Goonies down at the Guild tonight
(the Guild plays older flicks, you know, just for fun - last
week they were showin' Superman, for example). She
saw that it was playing and said it was her favorite
movie, in that way that means it's not really your favorite
movie but you really like it and have good memories of it,
so we went. I always like to see that Japanese kid with
all the inventions in his shoes. She laughed way too
much when the fat kid did the Truffle Shuffle (I kind of
slunk down in my seat so no one could see me), but it
was still a pretty good time.
After the flick we went to Toshi's for some nice sushi,
tempura and sake. I wouldn't have chosen Toshi's if I
had known she was on Atkins, but she was a player and
just picked the seafood off the rice, scraped the batter off
the vegetables, and had lots of miso. We talked a little
bit about Atkins, and I do notice she is lookin' pretty trim
these days. I don't think I could ever do a diet which
doesn't include Round Table Italian Garlic Supreme, but
it's workin' for her, and that's all that matters. She used
to be a little thick around the middle, you know, like it
would bunch up when we were in missionary position,
but now that's all gone and she feels a lot sexier.
Since she's feelin' so good lately, she is a lot more
forward in the sack. That don't do me no harm, but since
I found out she was on Atkins I think I notice that her
breath is always sort of funny, like kind of oily, like a little
light puff from a can of cooking spray-oil. Maybe we
need to experiment with positions more. I don't know. I
shouldn't blog about this.
Not really sure where all this is headed, but it's good to
be with her again. It's like, we've both been down all
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kinds of roads and found each other again, maybe a little
bit wiser but also a little bit more vulnerable. I tell you,
there is never any one point where you understand how
this all works.
69
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 09, 2004
Country-Western party!
Damn, I forgot to tell everybody about what I did for
Friday night's party! Sorry, all. I was bidding on these old
board games on eBay right up until it started. (I got an
original 70s Mousetrap, the old quality piece
construction, before they replaced all the plastic and
metal parts with cardboard, and also an old version of
Monopoly from 1935 where the "Chance" cards say
things like "Your negro spilled soup on a Senator!" and
"Your only son is a confirmed bachelor, pay $50 to
finance his musical.")
Anyhoo, the theme of the party was Country Western. I
saw Urban Cowboy earlier in the week and it was
straight-up blumpity, so I went to Salvation Army and
bought them out of old yoked western shirts, tight jeans
and cowboy hats. Then I stopped by to see the guy who
sells flags down by Samoleans' BBQ cart, and he set me
up with his cousin who operates a portable mechanical
bull, so the main event was locked. Dimitri set us up with
a few kegs of Michelob and Michelob Dark, plus Ten
High whiskey, and I contracted a guy called Danger
Chuck's Cooking to serve chuck wagon-type cowboy
food from his special old-fashioned cart. For music, I got
the guys from Black Irish to come pick some rockin'
lowhills bluegrass.
Téodor and Lyle showed up kind of early so I dudded
them up and had them start drinking—this way it would
seem like there were already rowdy cowboys at the party
when folks showed up. For about an hour while he's
gettin' plowed Lyle likes to be real chummy and
optimistic, so he was all about helping Danger Chuck get
his rig set up (Lyle occasionally works in food service as
a cook). They finished off some real nice dutch oven pot
roast, simmered the chili beans, baked up scrumptious
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biscuits and cornbread, basted the rotisserie chickens,
and even made mile-high apple pies for dessert. The
chow wagon was lookin' good when folks started flowin'
in.
First to arrive were Molly and Beef, and I don't want to
be a gossip but they were having some kind of dispute.
They got into the costumes alright, but they were pretty
steamed and couldn't wait to get some beer and
separate from each other. Beef went to help Lyle and
Chuck with the cart, and Molly cooled it with Téodor,
who had set some bottles up and was throwing
baseballs at them, like a carnival. Meanwhile, folks
started to stream in and get into the duds. The Black
Irish struck up and it was all of a complete, promising
scene.
Some guys I wasn't expecting to see showed, like old
Smacks Peel. I blogged about his baby shower a little
while back - you might remember. Anyhow, his wife
apparently kicked him outta the house and told him to
get lost, so he came and wound a couple on. Turns out
he is not happy to be a dad and she has postpartum
depression and he wants to die. I know when Smacks
says stuff like this he'll get through it — dude is a straight
player. I slapped a straw Stetson on him and poured out
a Dark faster than you can say Raymond Quentin
Smuckles.
Over in a corner Téodor was setting the bottles up for
Molly, and when she pitched a ball that took down his
pyramid, they hugged. Beef had been watching all this
from the sidelines, and then he tried to do that thing
where the country guy pulls the country girl off the
premises by her forearm. Molly was having none of it
and kicked him across his butt cheeks (Beef! Dude!).
Anyhow, the guys in Black Irish got all into it and started
to defend the lady, and before you know it Beef was
fighting the Black Irish. He banged one guy over the
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head with his own mandolin before the rest tackled him
and forced him into a pretty bad position. I had to go in
and bail his ass out, and let me tell you, I was none too
pleased about it. I love my friends, but a dogg does not
have to be a dirt dogg at his friend's party.
About this time the mechanical bull was getting pretty
heavy use, so folks started lining up to take rides. Damn
but if Lyle isn't a dynamo on the mechanical bull! He
didn't fall off once, and by about eleven he had the
whole crowd cheering for him. I know the dogg has seen
some serious days, but I never thought he had
experience in honky-tonk pastimes.
He kept going beneath the base of the mechanical bull
and cranking up the difficulty level, and this had the
crowd hooting and hollering. He'd get up, it'd throw him
around for all it was worth, but he never let go. He'd be a
little dizzy when he got down, but he never fell. People
were all over him, slapping him on the shoulder and
getting him beers. I thought he had the thing cranked up
as far as it would go, but then I saw him talking to the
bull operator, who nodded and gave him this special red
metal key. Lyle went under the bull, pulled up this sliding
door, stuck the key into some kind of lock and gave it
this really hard turn. Then he got on the bull, cinched up
his glove, and raised his free hand to signal that he was
ready. What happened next kind of confused and scared
me.
I guess that red key-lock thing is like the turbocharger for
the bull, because it started bucking so fast that the whole
thing pretty much became a blur, whipping Lyle around
like a rag doll. At first people tried to cheer, but then they
just became slowly concerned, and then genuinely
terrified. It looked like Lyle was having all his bones
broken inside the sack of his body. There was no way
his spine was handling all the heaving and dropping and
whipping and turning — he looked like if you've ever
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dropped a raw chicken into a laundromat washer when
it's on spin cycle. I ran up to the operator but he just set
his jaw and pointed: Lyle was still holding on. I guess
that's part of the honky-tonk credo: if the cowboy is still
holding on, you've got to let him ride. People were
starting to yell things like "Call 911!" and "Oh my god,
make it stop!" and a few women (plus Smacks) started
screaming and crying.
The bull has an automatic shutoff feature, so it won't
keep going indefinitely. When the bull finally shut down,
Lyle was leaned over, limp in the saddle, his face resting
on the foremount. His left leg twitched once, and then he
lay still. No one was sure if they could go near him, or if
the bull was still dangerous. The operator got up, walked
over to him, and took the key out of the lock. He
whispered something in Lyle's ear and then, lifting his
head up by the hair, poured something from a small flask
down his throat. Lyle fell back down onto the chassis,
but then, ever so slowly, his body seemed to draw back
into form, and he began to sit up. It had been dead silent
all this time, and now people started to cheer and holler
with a passion. Lyle squeezed his forehead, spat, and
stood up on the bull, his fists raised in the air. The crowd
was deafening. At the back, I saw Beef and Molly turn
and fall into each others' arms.
Later on I went up to congratulate Lyle and he was
standing alright, but he wasn't making too much sense
when he talked. I asked him if I could fill his beer and he
said things like "a muscle in a poke, baby strawberry
pie!" Not a good sign, but probably temporary while his
brain settles back down inside his skull. If there's one
guy I don't worry about after physical torture, it's Lyle.
So, a pretty good party! I nibbled on some chili beans
while Danger Chuck and the bull guy wound down their
operations, and soon all you could hear on the property
was the low buzz of the floodlight.
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THURSDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2004
What's goin' on with Tina, etc
So I guess it's been a while since I last blogged. Sorry,
blog. I was not mad at you. I was living my life, so I
would have interesting things to say in you! Do not be
mad, blog!
Okay, sorry, just being silly. Silly's the thing, though. I
guess it's the main of what I want to talk about today.
Tina and I have been spending just a ton of time
together, and it's been a kick. We'll walk past, like,
Primo's Pizza, and just instantly we'll have the same
memory of the time we had the waiter who sat down in
the booth with us and made us uncomfortable. Sharing
even the littlest old memories with her really made our
dates special.
We went golfing (she loves to drive the cart), out to all
our old haunts (Napoleon's, the Red Room, Smith &
Wollensky), a few movies...we even took this pottery
class together (she had read in Cosmo or someplace
that making pottery is supposed to be sensual, but I just
ended up ruining a really nice pair of Hermès sandals). I
even stayed over at her place a couple nights, and she
made me coffee in the morning. Sure it was instant
French Vanilla, but I wasn't complaining.
Just a couple little things have been getting under my
skin a bit, though. First of all, I mentioned that she is on
Atkins, and at first it seemed like no problem, but over
time it is a huge, I mean HUGE pain in the ass to put up
with. About 99% of restaurants are off-limits, she always
drives the waiter crazy when we do manage to sit down,
and whenever I cook anything for her she tries to be nice
but just ends up making me mad. Like the time I seared
us off a couple filets mignons and set them on a little
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cloud of mashed potatoes with veal/Port reduction, she
took the meat off the potatoes and sliced off the part that
had been touching the potatoes, and then sliced off the
part that the sauce had touched (I guess Port has carbs!
I guess I should be on the lookout for low-carb
Sandeman's!). That made me pretty bonkers, I don't
mind telling you. Plus wine apparently has like one carb
in it, so she didn't want any of the '97 Cakebread Pinot I
had decanted, instead asking me for a vodka and diet
tonic. Fortunately I had some diet tonic around from that
time I was testing out my new shotgun, so I mixed it up,
careful not to add a lime. I didn't even bother mentioning
that I had some baked Alaska in the fridge, because I
think the only part of that she could have eaten would
have been the flames.
That's just a fad, though. Atkins ain't something you can
do full-time, and I could wait for it to pass, but the main
thing that bugs me is that she just doesn't "get" me. You
know me, I'm a silly guy! If someone at a party dares me
to eat a jalapeño, I'll eye the little sucker, hold it up to the
light, pause, pop it into my mouth, chew, and then fall to
the floor holding my throat as I convulse. A few seconds
later I'll stand up and laugh with everybody. Whenever
I'd do something like that with Tina around, though,
she'd get embarrassed and say that I was "random."
One time after a date I came into the bedroom with
whipped cream on my nipples...she just looked up from
Vogue and went "oh no you di'in't" and kept reading.
Also, she does not at ALL appreciate Ren & Stimpy.
Man, there are about fifty more instances I could give,
they keep popping into my head.
OK, I'm done whinin'. I got to get plans for tomorrow's
party together. I'm thinkin' maybe the theme will be carbs
and 'toons.
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THURSDAY, OCTOBER 28, 2004
Tryin' to make this work.
I been really tryin' to make this work. Tina is lookin'
good, and it has been really sensual to revisit all the old
feelings we had for each other and kindle them, etc. This
Atkins thing shows no signs of abating, though, and she
just seems to be an even bigger jackass every time we
go out.
Let me let you in on a little history, here. Last time we
broke up was because despite whatever good times we
had had, we hadn't really seen all that many other
people and I think we both were havin' our curiosities
about what it might be like out in the open market. I
played it pretty free and had a decent time, and she
sprung for all these dudes who were one shave away
from shakin' change cups at you on the sidewalk. Pony
tails, problems with credit, unable to lease a car, all that
crap. I'm talking about guys who crashed at friends'
houses even though they had mustaches. You know
what I mean.
A couple nights ago we went out to Naomi Sushi (yeah,
she had the miso and salad with dressing on the side)
and a flick. When we were pullin' on our coats and tyin'
our scarves, she notices that the busboy is this guy she
dated a little while back —7-ball—and they say "hi" and
all that jazz and pretty soon we're in the alley behind the
restaurant and he bums a smoke off me (plus two more
for later). Of course I ain't any part of the conversation
and they are swapping all these names like T-Bone and
Terry Chrome and I am picturing trucks with Raiders
decals and Calvin going to the bathroom onto the Ford
logo or whatever. I do not doubt for an instant that 7-Ball
is going to go home and mainline Chinese hot mustard
while he gets laid off from his job creating random words
for Spam emails. Finally I hit Tina on the shoulder and
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leave and a little while later she comes and finds me in
front of the theater.
Long story short she needs to go with 7-Ball to help this
one guy yadda yadda and can she borrow fifty bucks.
Yeah I loaned her the fifty and I don't expect it back at
prime. I stuck around through the first ten minutes of this
Chilean art movie about a man who was trying to start
his car and then I bailed for home. I was too steamed to
call any dudes over so I just sat and made stinky lines
rise from my head while I fumed.
That's where I'm at.
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FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, 2004
Tonight's party is gonna SUCK!
Just kidding! Man, tonight's party is going to tear six
kinds of new ass. First of all, the theme is Machete
Madness. I have all these machete-based activitites: a
timed contest where you hack your way through a length
of simulated forest, a doner-kebab where you machete
your own meat off the wheel, a machete arts teacher, a
booth where you can buy all sorts of machetes, and a
performance by Machetes de Fuego, this awesome
machete performance troupe outta Quito. Since
machetes seem kind of South American, I had Dimitri
drop off a couple pallets of tequila, cachaca, rum, and all
the fixins. Gonna make us some mad mojitos and
caipirinhas! Also this mornin' in the Tasting Lab I worked
up a recipe for a new drink called the Piso Mojado,
which has three kinds of mezcal and icy grape purée. It
gets you donked in a hurry.
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MONDAY, NOVEMBER 01, 2004
I should have seen that coming.
Okay, sometimes certain ingredients shouldn't be put
together. In this case, the ingredients are two pallets of
tequila, inexpensive machetes, and a Friday night crowd.
In retrospect, I should not have had a party with the
theme of tequila and machetes. Looking back, I know
that now.
First of all, a machete isn't as easy to handle as Michael
Douglas makes it look (Romancing The Stone, 1984,
Zemeckis). The incredibly powerful performance by
Machetes de Fuego made good machetemanship look
so simple and easy that all the dudes in the crowd were
convinced that they too could juggle six machetes or
fillet a giant salmon in two lightning-fast strokes, if given
the chance. Extremely unfortunately, this was not the
case.
Since machetes were for sale at the party, and that
performance was so inspiring, pretty much everybody
shelled out for their own machete, and soon all sorts of
challenges and contests sprang up. Two dudes staged
an underwater machete fight in the pool...have you ever
had a lot of liquor and then tried to do strenuous
underwater activity? Let's just say that it makes you
pretty "seasick." Before too long their little battle turned
into big surface slicks of half-digested doner-kebab and
mezcal. That was a lame thing to be skimmin' outta the
pool come Saturday morning.
More serious damage was yet to come, though, as the
night wore on. This guy Supreme, one of Lyle's buddies
from some old kitchen job of his, decided that he could
do the machete juggling thing. Before too long a
mis-timed machete had sliced his right thumb off at the
base, and he fell to his knees all screaming and crying
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and holding the stump like Luke Skywalker.
This was just a sign of things to come.
Another guy, some mechanic dude I had invited from
earlier in the week when I was pickin' up the Escalade
after its 500-mile maintenance, decided that he could
swallow a flaming machete. The doctors say that he'll
never speak again, and I say he's damn well never
gonna work on my car again. What a bonehead.
Sothar, this big silly dude we always been kinda
chummy with, got pretty jerked up on the mezcal and
started mocking the guys from Machetes de Fuego.
They are a real serious bunch, and they were not into
watching some chubby guy in Lakers shorts and a "Got
Blumpkin?" tshirt making fun of their craft. He stepped
over the line when he grabbed one of their sacred
machetes and hacked up one of their prop saguaro
cactuses, so they took him out behind the garage for this
ancient form of machete torture. I don't want to say too
much about it, but it involved horizontally slicing every
inch of his chest very slowly with machetes. When he
finally passed out, they put a weird green beetle down
his throat. I didn't watch the rest because I left.
I don't usually do this, but I ended up calling the cops on
my own party. Sgt. Bill don't do me no harm, and his
officers just came and broke it all up and confiscated the
machetes. There were some pretty bad wounds, and
there was a lot of property damage (all the plants in the
yard had been hacked down to the root, including my
nice Japanese maple), but on the whole...well, next time
I throw a party I am probably gonna run the concept past
a few dudes beforehand.
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SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 07, 2004
What Did Ray Do!
Heh. Oh, man. This week was definitely not a repeat of
last week's disaster. Let me tell you why.
Did you hear about how a couple of months ago, Oprah
gave a brand new Pontiac to every single person in her
TV audience? The whole thing was staged as a surprise,
where audience members were told that under their
seats was a little box, and that one of the boxes had the
keys to a new car in it. They all got their boxes and then,
on Oprah's cue, they opened them. Every single box had
a new car key in it! The place went nuts. Extremely
average women were crying, hugging each other,
jumping up and down...Oprah had engineered one of the
biggest media coups of the year.
I thought, hell, if Oprah can do it, so can Ray. My
portfolio has been performing like a stallion this year,
and the music royalties have been particularly pleasing.
Why not spread the wealth a bit? I'm never gonna use
half of it. On that note, I decided to stage an Oprah-type
talk show as my party, only instead of seats it would be
general admission, so folks could mill around and dance
and stuff before I took the stage.
I had the local theater union come and build a proper
talk show arena, but with a couple excellent fast food
options around the perimeter. We got booths from "Hot
Baked Potato, A Concern," "Steam Dog" (a franchise of
hot dogs which are cooked using only steam, ensuring a
better skin snap), "Aussome Lamb" (grilled Australian
lamb by the chop or by the rack), and "The Wurst Men"
(excellent German-style sausages cooked and served by
guys dressed as famous criminals, such as Al Capone,
Jeffrey Dahmer and Ed Gein).
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Oh, it ain't lost on me that a lot of these shows secretly
create crowd enthusiasm by handing out tons of stuff to
drink. To get folks most peppy we had a few counters
that served Jack and Coke, rum and cola, and vodka
with Red Bull. No beer kept them from havin' to go to the
bathroom every five minutes and missing any part of the
show.
Anyhow, it seems like every time you turn on Maury
Povich or Jerry Springer or whatever, they're
showcasing some run of the mill white trash problem,
like morbidly obese parents who are upset that their
estranged daughter is marrying a rash model, so I took
my cue from them. The guests on my show were this
local East Achewood family that was all pissed because
the mechanic dad only made thirty bucks a day but
spent twenty bucks a day on smokes. I told them I'd pay
them fifty bucks each and they were primed.
You may be asking yourself how a big audience prize
giveaway fits into all this. Hold on.
Well, we got the crowd goin’ with some AC/DC and
Boston, and before too long they were ravenous for
entertainment. We trotted the guests out one by one,
announcing who they were, and each one got huge
applause and hooting. There was the chubby slut
daughter, the fat son who only played video games, the
fat mom with the carpal-tunnel wrist things and a foam
neck support, and then the dad, who came out smoking
and pumping his fists in the air. He looked lean and
tough, his shop sleeves rolled up to reveal several
tattoos. They took their seats, each one separated by a
standing bodyguard.
I had everybody raise the roof for a few and then got
down to my intro. This was a family torn by an addiction,
I said. “A smoking habit of four packs a day is driving a
financial stake into this family’s well-being,” I said. The
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dad pumped his fists again and the crowd went wild. The
slut daughter and the mom folded their arms and glared
at him, while the son just sat and looked at his own
shoes.
I asked the crowd how they thought the family should
deal with its problem. One by one I walked along the
front of the stage and took opinions. At first I got the
usual stuff, like “he should quit smoking and care about
his family!” Real obvious. One guy said that the dad only
smoked as a way of dealing with the stress of being a
parent, and this got a pretty good round of applause.
The mom even started to clap for a second, before she
folded her arms again and renewed her glare.
We did a few more audience Q&A and then I knew it
was time to let the bomb drop. I was juiced. I had been
waiting for this moment all night. We had all the people
in the smoking guy’s family stand up, and we asked the
audience to be silent while I made a “very special
announcement.” Folks hushed real quick and the
spotlights danced around the stage, one fixed on me.
I took a pause, and then, in a clear voice, I asked it:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, you have a choice tonight. What
would you prefer: that this family is sent on a two week
intensive family bonding and therapy session, or that
one of you gets a grass-fed, sixteen-ounce Omaha
steak?” I pointed the microphone at the family, and the
crowd went silent. Then I pointed it at the crowd, and
they went wild. Back at the family; silent. Back at the
crowd; whooping and deafening applause.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” I continued, “Your choice is
clear. Each of you received an invisible stamp on the
back of your hand when you arrived tonight. ONE of you
received a stamp entitling you to the free steak.
Variegos, hit the lights.” (Variegos was the union kid who
was running the lights.) At this point all the lights cut and
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a blacklight went on. I asked everyone to look at the
invisible stamp they had received on the back of their
hand. Just like on Oprah, the crowd went crazy: they
ALL had the winning stamp!
The bodyguards escorted the family offstage while a
new crew put charcoal Weber grills where they had once
sat, and the crowd went to claim their steaks. Soon folks
were grillin’ and swillin’ and just all kinds of pumped to
have won. It was a great night, and the beautiful scent of
charred beef filled the air.
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FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 2004
Fine, then.
I guess kind of by my own intentions and also Tina's
intentions, I ain't seen her in like two weeks. I think we
sent this one back to the kitchen, folks. No dice, no go.
It ain't surprise me, really. I knew when we were havin'
all the fall-back-into-it rush that that was the only thing
we were really enjoying about it. That rush. The rush.
You do what you can when you feel that rush. It's a free
drug, and it's made of sex. It's made of loins slowly
sliding over each other, and maybe shit is unprotected.
Sorry.
My shit was unprotected. Yeah, it was. I am ten kinds of
anxious while my double-blind HIV test comes back
tomorrow.
I played it all clay dick and now I'm payin' the price with
worry. Man, NEVER let yourself slip like that. It ain't
worth it. I'm tellin' you this here now.
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SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2004
Good news! I ain't got junk funk.
Man was I sweating as I waited for the STD test results. I
was doin' that thing where you keep pickin' up the phone
to make sure the dialtone is workin', which is damn
stupid if you think about it. I'd slam the receiver back
down all quick, but then get paranoid that I'd slammed it
down TOO hard and check again.
Anyhow, Doc Andretti finally called (on my cell, actually)
with the results of the test and they were all negative. I
ain't got gonorrhea, I ain't got syphilis, I ain't got the
'chlam, and nor does Mr. Ray suffer from the big
grand-daddy, the Hi-Five. Phew. Man, I always get so
worked up over medical tests. I always think that the
same day I get any sort of test done, they're gonna
realize I only have fifteen minutes to live and ask if I've
made any arrangements. I watch too much ER, is what it
is.
In celebration of of my sparkly-clean blood and urine,
tonight's party had the theme of Sexual Health
Awareness. I had big bowls of contraceptives and lubes
and plugs and stuff, and I hired the Trojan Girls, a crew
of models in these awesome clear bodysuits. They went
around and passed out Jäger shots and pamphlets
about STDs that are asymptomatic. A spoonful of sugar,
you know. I've always said that.
I couldn't really think up a food and beverage theme that
went along with the safe sex concept, so I just had a
burger bar and a sushi guy and a Belgian french fry
stand. Real creative, I know. Big counter with about
twelve of our brews on tap and six gals pullin'. Just a
normal straightforward party. Got some local Neil
Diamond cover band called Neil Before Us, folks dug
that alright. No major incidents, a real pleasant time. I'm
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gonna watch some ESPN and hit the hay. Got a big day
tomorrow: I'm cookin' my practice turkeys for
Thanksgiving!
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WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 2004
What's Wednesday for?
What does a dude do on a Wednesday? They're doin'
that Monopoly thing down at McDonald's, maybe I'll go
try my luck. Last time they ran this contest I just won a
Big Mac and some small computer speakers at Best
Buy, but that don't keep me down. Maybe I'll get Téodor
to go with me and we can hit the driving range later.
But what if Téodor wins a huge prize that could have
been mine if we'd bought our food in a different order?
Here's what I'll do. I'll call Téodor now and ask him to
meet me in an hour at Battori Uomo, to help me choose
fabrics for new suits. He has to walk past McDonald's to
get there, and I'll flag him down, food for two already
bought and all the game pieces removed. I'll give him a
story about how I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was
(maybe act kind of high) and can he help me out. I hate
to see McDonald's food go to waste.
I guess I should smoke a little now just to make the
situation more believable.
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FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 2004
I forgot to tell you about what happened at
McDonald's!
Damn, cookies! I went to McDonald's like I said and
ordered food enough for me and Téodor (two Big Mac
meals, super-sized, each with apple pies). The first Big
Mac had the Monopoly Park Place playing piece, and
the second one had Boardwalk! I was a little high (like I
said, I had smoked to make it seem believable that I
would order that much food) so I immediately got all
paranoid that I was gonna lose the game pieces and the
million dollar prize. I wondered if they could take the
prize back if you were high when you won it, and if I was
so high that I was gonna leave them on the table when I
left, all that stuff. Real carefully I tucked them into my
wallet and consumed the food at a normal speed.
Téodor never showed up to eat his half, so real carefully
I started to eat that stuff too. By the time I had polished it
off I was feelin' pretty sick and had to put my head down
on the table for a second.
Next thing I knew I guess a couple hours had passed
because I was completely dehydrated and there was this
big puddle of drool on the table. My coat felt pretty funny
— apparently teenagers had wiped ketchup on the wax
paper burger wrappers and stuck them all over my back
and shoulders. These had dried pretty well so I couldn't
pull 'em off without a lotta pain and maybe some hair
loss. Plus, they had smeared mustard all over my
glasses and I couldn't see too well. Like a flash I
checked for my wallet: you guessed it, the little bastards
had boosted it. The winning game pieces were gone! I
felt like I was gonna puke, and lord knows I had the
ammo, but luckily I held it down. I sat and caught my
breath. There is a right way to get smoothly out of any
situation if you think hard enough, and I applied myself.
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I decided that the first thing I needed to do was go to the
bathroom and get cleaned up. The men's room was out
of order so I knocked on the ladies' room, which was
empty. I soaped and scrubbed the sink and made a little
warm bath in it, and had just started to clean my glasses
off when a lady barged in with some kid. She started
screamin' and I bolted, burger wrappers still all stuck to
my body.
I guess the manager had finally gotten around to calling
the police about the passed out, trash-covered bum in
his restaurant, because when I ran out I got intercepted
by two badges who wrestled me to the floor. Needless to
say, they didn't buy my story about getting the winning
game pieces stolen offa' me by some kids, and they
certainly didn't believe that I played golf with Sergeant
Callahan. Pretty soon I was downtown gettin' booked,
and a wino with real bad snot runnin' outta his nose was
completely staring at me.
After about two hours Bill (Sgt. Callahan) walked past
the holding tank. By this time I had managed to remove
all the wrappers and pat my hair down, and the wino had
let me wipe my glasses off on his shirt, so I looked more
like a nice guy who'd maybe had too many the night
before than an insane high maniac who wore garbage
and attacked women in the bathroom at McDonald's. Bill
took one look at me and gnashed his teeth.
"Those morons," he growled.
He unlocked the cell door and I strode out.
"I told those clowns," he said, "to call you about the
wallet we recovered off some skater punk who got hit by
a truck. Looks like they thought you were the driver." He
made his old "aaargh!" sound and raised his fists in the
air, the same thing he does when he misses one of
those two-foot putts of his.
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"Oh," I said, "no trouble, Bill. You're buyin' on Sunday
though!" (we were playin' in a foursome with Mayor C
and Leo who owns the Caddy dealership, and those
guys like to get pretty lit up after a round.)
Before you could say Rusty Nail I had the wallet back,
game pieces intact! Bill even had an officer drive me
back to the pad, and I found five bucks tucked between
the seat cushions in the cruiser.
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SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2004
Thanksgiving blessing.
"I tell you, I got nothing but thanks this year. The good
Lord has kept my spirits up, my friends healthy (except
in a couple instances) and the reaper at bay. The sun
shone, the sweet cream rose, and we woke anew each
day. Thank you Lord, for this greatest gift, the gift of
each new day. Many types do not think how lucky they
have it just to open their eyes and take in the air. So on
that note, let us enjoy this feast of your bounty, Lord.
Amen. Thanks, man. Cool."
That was the toast I said at Thanksgiving. I don't usually
trot out all the religion because I know lots of guests
would get uncomfortable, but I was moved this year. It
has been a pretty hard couple years to be an American.
We live in constant fear of every building exploding and
every bridge being hit by a 747 the moment we are
going across it. Plus, earthquakes, E. coli,
cross-contaminated chicken-prep surfaces, more than
2.5 drinks per week, secondhand smoke, salmonella,
mad cow, limp-leg syndrome, and torqued-up gangster
kids with puberty lip. You see how it is. Maybe we read
too much news. I doubt French people walk around
thinkin' that their chicken coop has two pounds of grey
lightning hooked to a trip on the cage door latch, or that
some dipshit from Fremont is gonna come over and ice
'em because he listened to too many Eminem mp3s.
Anyhow, I meant it, you know? I'm glad we have these
holidays. Helps us think of other people. Speakin' of
other people, we had a pretty mellow little scene at my
place this year. Lyle is in Scotland doin' some research,
Pat is on the lam, Cornelius was in the hospital because
of Pat, and someone said they thought that Todd might
be dead. It was just me, Téodor, Roast Beef, Philippe,
and A-nu$$$ from the Sexual Homeboys, that band that
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used to be on my label. Apparently he had a falling out
with the S.H. That's cool, because I always thought he
was the real talent. Glad to have him back in my corner.
We had a brined, deep-fried turducken, a regular roasted
Willy bird turkey, oyster/sausage dressing, whipped
potatoes, sweet potatoes, green goddess salad, a
Smithfield ham, puddings, a Cornish game hen bar,
bacons, brown and white gravies, prime rib, savory
mince pie, sweet mince pie, pumpkin pie, ice creams, a
taffy-pulling station, two chopped up pineapples and a
chocolate fondue with various dip-ready cookies,
candies and fruits. To drink we enjoyed a couple cases
of '97 Mayacamas Pinot. Delicate enough to go with any
dish. We finished with this port that turned out to be
pretty hinge so we set the extra bottles up on the lawn
and had a little firing range while we smoked.
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SATURDAY, DECEMBER 04, 2004
I don't usually do this, but...
Damn, you all know I wear my heart on my sleeve. Well,
today I was down at Victrolo's for brunch, havin' my
special Metallica Cakes (two pancakes, each wrapped
around a sausage, and the chef draws a little ketchup
electric guitar on each wrap using a squirt bottle), and I
finally did it. I asked Zochelle the waitress out. I can't tell
you how long I been watchin' her fine rumpus walk past
my table...they make them wear these tight black pants
at Victrolo's, and these white blouses that you can
usually see the bra through...Zochelle got that action
goin' on. Girl is to sexy what crime is to jail: the reason. I
mad want to bump when I see her.
So today I'm sittin' there munchin' on my tasty little
Metallica Cakes, and she keeps walkin' by and fillin'
peoples' water glasses and coffee and stuff, and I'm
havin' my bloody, and I decide to step up to the plate. It
was one of those moments where you kind of step off
the bungee platform, you know? You think to yourself,
I've just got the one life and I sure as hell want to go for
broke. So I decided to attempt to get those
chumptylicious thighs into my bedroom.
She was walkin' past, and I was looking pretty good. I'd
done myself up with a slick a.m. getup and was sporting
a sick Movado chunky silver bracelet. I held out my hand
and intercepted hers. She wasn't really ready for it, you
know, kind of jerking it away real fast (I let go, you don't
want to seem like a rapist) but then when she got a look
at me she stopped and smiled. I put it on the trowel and
spread it heavy, fellows.
Turned out she was off for a half hour pretty quick, so I
wolfed down the Cakes and closed the tab. We met
around the corner at Tabla Hawaiiana, this fun
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Hawaiian-Mexican joint that specializes in eye-openers. I
got her a Banana Sunrise, and I had a 7&7, and before
too long her tight blouse and mad thighs got me cookin'
up a banana sunrise of my own, in my pants.
We got poverty-style pretty quick and before long she
decided to quit her job and come screw at my place. I
was all ears for that and ten minutes later we rolled into
the crib. She did a sexy little walk as she slid outta her
black pants, and then in front of my bed she undid her
blouse, button by button, totally staring into my eyes as
my banana sunrise rose once again.
Damn, but sometimes you run into a liquor nut. Right in
the middle of some pretty givin' slippy, she bottomed out
and changed her tune from ooh ahh and started railin'
about how rich guys like me keep her class down. I got
to tell you, this came outta nowhere. I was lovin' this
woman like a derrick and all of a sudden she starts
showin' teeth. Before you could say Dry Rubbah she had
run off to the bathroom and locked herself in there.
Once she started retchin' I voided the Lady Privacy rule
and unlocked the door with the skeleton key. She was
buck nude in the tub and blowin' chunks, so I did the
right thing and sat it out, occasionally wiping various
things off. I pumped up the little aerobed mattress and
set it right by the front door. I figured we didn't want to
see nothin' of each other after this, so I put some
Odwalla C-Monster and aspirin by the side of the bed.
Soon she was all tucked in and she had left by about
7am this morning.
I think I'm meeting Téodor for golf this afternoon, and
maybe gonna go pick out a Christmas tree. I hope the
Christmas tree lot doesn't try to force that damn free
coffee mug with their name on it on me again this year.
That is such a damn ugly mug.
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MONDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2004
Roast Beef, Housemate.
It's kinda fun havin' Beef as a housemate! It's like old
knucklehead times, straight back into the days when we
skated curbs and tried to learn Axel F on the piano.
Doggies get up around 11, shuffle through the delivery
menus (he's been gettin' the Oprah lately, which is this
mad meatball calzone from Pizza Ciao, but I been
deliciously in love with the Hot and Sour Noodle they do
down at Seven Flavor Kitchen). We play some pool,
crack some brew, and pick a flick for the afternoon
(today we watched the whole Fawlty Towers DVD set,
so funny). Then we dude out for a couple hours, checkin'
email or readin' or swimmin', and decide what to eat for
dinner. It is mad simple. Tonight we roasted this big
bunch of partridges that we saw Emeril make; it was
scrumptious along with his mushroom bread pudding. I
opened some Cakebread and the flavors sailed on up.
It's kind of like the Odd Couple, you know, except I don't
know which of either of them to compare us to.
Anyhow...tomorrow we decided to buy remote-control
boats at 75 Hobbies, and we're gonna make little
jump-ramps outta floating styrofoam wedges.
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THURSDAY, DECEMBER 16, 2004
Holiday-Themed Party!
Damn, the holidays really snuck up on me this year! I
been pretty busy (readin' a lot of the magazines that
have been pilin' up around my place — this is something
I do at the end of every year) so I didn't even start
plannin' my big holiday party until yesterday. Even still,
it's gonna be a real class act! Now, my holiday party isn't
a big blowout like what I usually do in the yard on
Fridays. It's a classy indoor event, and I only invite about
twenty of my closest crew. I don't go so far as to make it
black tie, but I do ask that the men wear coat and
necktie. Also acceptable is a sport coat with a nice
turtleneck, since that is what Pat always wears. He
refuses to wear a necktie (which if you ask me is kind of
childish since a man looks damn good in a tie) because
he says ties are symbols of oppression. Maybe when he
sees the rude orange Hermès I'm gonna full-Windsor-up
tomorrow he'll change his mind, because when I tie that
one on I look nothing like oppression.
Food-wise, I got all the holiday classics. Big old
pepper-crusted prime rib, roasted goose, stuffing,
Yorkshire pudding, green bean casserole, cream-corn
casserole, figgy-dowdy, and that nasty rock-hard
spumoni like you get for dessert at bad Italian joints. I
know everybody hates it, but it's my tradition, like how
some folks always gotta serve fruitcake. For whettin' the
whistle I'm gonna spring a few cases of 1972 Chateau
Mouton Rothschild I won at auction last August. Sure,
it's a pretty pricey glug, but as the old man used to say,
"It don't do anyone no good in the bottle." Word up,
Ramses Luther Smuckles, wherever you might be.
Peace.
Anyhow, before dinner there's this nice string quartet
gonna play the classics (Greensleeves, Jingle Bells, Red
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Toad Holler) while everybody dips into the eggnog and
Hot Toddies and chats about the year. After dinner we're
gonna just stay and mingle for a spell, and then I'll hand
out my gifts to everyone in front of the tree. In the past
it's been Segways, kitchen remodels, Ski-doos...
somethin' nice tailored to each person's interests, you
know. This year I'm pretty excited to give Téodor this big
copper Turbot poaching pan I found at WilliamsSonoma, along with an imported Turbot. Damn, that's an
ugly fish. I was lookin' at it earlier.
Alright, if I don't see you—happy holidays, all. Nice.
-=Ray=-
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WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 2004
Christmas!
Damn! I did the most unusual thing for Christmas, but I
felt pretty damn good about it! It was a couple days
before the 24th, and I was just plannin' on havin' the
regular old time, you know, fuckin' around with the boys
and getting dumb on brandy and champagne, opening
gifts and stuff, but then on Bravo I saw this show about
moms. I was like, Ray, what have you done for your
mom lately. I ain't see her much, and I know I should call
more often, and dammit, this woman carried me around
in her belly and gave me love when all I could give in
return was a load in my pants. Ray had to do somethin'
for his momma.
Next thing I knew, I had booked us into separate suites
at Napoli, that swank new J. Vincent J. Lemoni
hotel-casino down in the Vegas underground. I met her
at the NSTL line just outta town and got us a limo to the
hotel. I had the works lined up for her: fancy lunches at
Spiedo (even one time at the chef's table in the kitchen
so she could meet Vonrieght Auf Den Krightenmueller,
her favorite celebrity chef and the owner of Spiedo),
massages, an after-hours tour of the Frank Sinatra
museum, and the black-tie Christmas dinner at the
Algiers followed by the signature Bellini brunch at Bel
Forno. Lemoni himself was at the dinner, and we traded
some market banter before I noticed mom gettin' bored
talking to his wife, so I had to cut it short. Too bad. It'd
be nice to get in with a whale like that. I bet that guy
plays golf courses that even the CIA doesn't know about.
Like, on Mauritius.
Oh, and her Christmas present? You guessed it:
shopping spree in the Napoli Premier Shopping
Concourse. She was so thrilled, but I wish she had
picked out more stuff. She is so humble about presents
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for herself. I had to kind of force her into getting every
little thing, from a new scarf at Prada to a new pair of
sandals at L'Imaggio. She would always be like "Oh but
Raymond, it's so expensive." I told her that anytime she
mentioned the price of anything, she had to choose
something additional from the same store that cost more
than or equal to the thing she was looking at, but it's
hard to change people's ways. Especially if that person
is a mom who is used to commenting on expensiveness.
Fortunately, I made mental notes of stuff she acted
silently interested in and went back later to have it
shipped to her house. I got her this one freestanding
green marble globe with gilded latitude and longitude
lines that is gonna look mad-dope in her little parlor
where she likes to sit.
For her present to me, I gave her my credit card and told
her to pick something out for me from one of the shops
while I had a Whangee Breeze at the Whangee
Blenderdrinks, Esq. cart. She was so cute about it. Half
an hour later she showed up with this little two-pack of
short socks they had on clearance at Foot Time, saying
how she always thought I could use more warm socks. I
talked her into an Amaretto Whangee and she told me a
bunch of stories about dad that I had never heard
before. It's cool what your parents will tell you when you
get older and they think you can handle the information.
It turns out that dad was a pretty slick dude and a real
ladykiller, and that he had a motorcycle.
Huh. Looking back, I guess that isn't too much of a
revelation. She also said that he had a hat. I don't even
know what kind of hat. She thinks it might have been
brown.
Anyhow, I could tell that mom was touched that we spent
this special holiday together, and I feel pretty great that it
all came together. Guys, if you have a mom who is alive,
or even if she's dead, do somethin' nice for her. Ain't no
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other person in the world who done for you like mom has
done. Mom lived to make you, and wiped a million
different things off you, and acted like it was a big deal
when you fell on your knee, and buys you socks so your
feet can be warm even if you have sold thirty million
albums.
Alright, time to plan my New Year's party! Out,
chochachos.
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THURSDAY, JANUARY 06, 2005
What is it with eggs?
Man, have you ever really thought about eggs? I have
this hunch that eggs are like the explanation of the
universe. Not only is the egg the most versatile food in
the world, but it is also the vessel of life. You can do
anything with an egg, from whip up a tasty soufflé to
incubate a chicken that will be perfect for roasting. Did
you know that some native cultures use egg whites as a
base for face paints? I have been doing massive
research on Google.
My interest in eggs started earlier today when I was
makin' some hashbrowns. I wanted to think of what style
of egg to have with them: Eggs Benedict (which also has
a sauce made out of egg), fried eggs, scrambled
eggs...damn! This helped me to realize what a talented
little fellow the egg is. Eggs are used in all kinds of
baking, in meatloaves, in pasta...it kind of makes you
wish that as adults we had to do reports on stuff,
because that would mad motivate me to put together a
binder on egg information. School's funny that way: just
about the time you start to get interested in stuff, you
graduate and people stop askin' you questions. Maybe
I'll hire a teacher to require me to do stuff.
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FRIDAY, JANUARY 14, 2005
Time to Pah-Tay with Ruh-Ay!
Man, it's been a while since I had a really big do on a
Friday night. I think folks are all back from New Years'
stuff and ready to drain the brain, so this should be
good. Oooh, pappy! I am thrilled to sink my fingers into
the Yellow Pages and start workin' my magic in '05.
The first thing I need to arrange is the food. I'm pretty
down on Asian lately (ate somethin' that disagreed with
me earlier in the week) so I'm thinkin' either Tex Mex or
Mex. Are there other kinds of food besides Asian and
Tex/Mex? Oh, Italian and Indian. Duh. Well, Italian food
ain't no good to party on, so I guess Indian. That's cool
— wait, no. Indian food is always all like really wet
stews, and parties need finger food. No wonder people
at Indian-culture parties are always sittin' around with
some paper plate that is slowly bending in half in the
middle, wondering why nobody is dancing. Damn,
planning the food without Asian options is harder than I
thought it would be. I'll do this part later.
Hold on, I have to take some medicine that Doc Andretti
gave me to help me sleep. I was havin' kind of bad
dreams lately, he thinks it was brought on by the food
poisoning I had earlier (the Asian thing I was talkin'
about).
Ok, popped two down and I have about an hour to plan
this party before I fall into some restful-ass sleep. The
meds plus this tasty double Ketel Kat should have me
snoozin' like a baby.
After planning the food comes music. Now, it's kind of
cold out so
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My health was bad but now I'm ok! Please Read This.
Damn, I went through a spell there. I was pretty bent
outta shape from some Korean food poisoning from this
damn Korean place we ate at, and I actually had to have
my 'tomach pumped. After that my internal systems
(digestion, chemistry, hormones) were all outta whack
and I was having mad trouble sleeping and even lost a
little weight because I had this weird phobia about food.
A hamburger was not at all appealing to me, and even a
simple soup contained problems, as far as I was
concerned. I couldn't even eat clear stuff (Nutritionists
classify this level of phobia as type 1-A) so I was in a
pretty bad way. The only thing I would take in was Tums
chewables, so for about a week there all I got was
antacid and calcium. Have you ever taken a perfectly
cylindrical pink poo? I did that. Twice. About three
inches, each time. Perfect as day.
Then I decided it was time for a change.
If there's one thing that resembles a phone call from the
person who is in charge of the day that you die, it is the
nature of your bad stuff. You know what I mean. We got
to be honest with ourselves and interpret these "tea
leaves" a little smarter, 'cause they're the only "e-mail"
that we get from our internal organs, man. Put some
stock in that poppycock (true definition - look it up).
That's why I'm thinkin' about starting a brochure about
diagnosing your own tank 'kank and learning more about
what your pancreas, liver, kidneys, septulum, and
stomach are doing to contribute to the nature of your
taddle. Do you follow me? This may be the most
important letter you ever read.
Ray Smuckles
Achewood Estates
January 24, 2005
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FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2005
Man, what was I talkin' about?!
I ain't been around this blog in a long time, and just now
I remembered about it. Man, last time I blogged I said I
was gonna write a brochure about analyzing poop!
I...what the fuck, man? I remember I was in a pretty bad
way after some food poisoning, but I barely even
remember goin' through the eating disorder stuff. I was
probably exaggeratin', anyhow. I was probably eatin'
steaks and delicious fries that whole time, and just acting
like a wimp for attention. Shame on Ray.
So, needless to say, if you were waiting around with five
bucks in your hand waiting to buy my upcoming
brochure Understanding Poop, you can put that five
bucks away, 'cause it ain't happenin.
Well, what's new? Had a pretty big wingding lately, and
ended up wreckin' the Escalade. That's one thing that
kind of blows about drivin' - if you wreck your ride, you
just gotta leave it and bail, and the humans tow it away
and you can't get it back, or even your CDs. I was miffed
'cause I left my new Sugar Loadzz demo in the car, and
they don't have enough money to make another one, so
I just have to sign them and hope for the best. I
remember thinking that I liked the drums.
Also, in other news, it is raining pretty hard, so I'm inside
checkin' out the new Escalade ESV Platinum Edition. It's
got some pretty nice features the base model doesn't
have, like heated exterior door handles for those icy
days, and plus it's 1/2" lower than the standard edition,
so it presents a smaller aerodynamic profile, and
probably gets better gas mileage as a result.
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FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 2005
I got some art supplies!
You know how you kind of have a fond memory from
childhood, like about a wheel-eraser or a little stump you
used to blend up pencil lines? Like that you probably
found in the desk of a teacher or old school principal? I
had that feeling the other day when I came across this
Pink Pearl eraser on the checkout counter at
Heigenmann's Car Audio. I was signin' the receipt for the
sound system on the new Platinum Edition Escalade and
I saw it there. Instantly I was transported back to a time
of simple things, when I could spend all day just
scribblin' and figurin' out how to draw a porch or a belly. I
immediately went home and ordered a ton of art
products on-line.
I also went to Purple Gypsy Art Supplies and picked up a
few paints and sketchbooks and stuff, since I really
couldn't wait to get back into the art game. I was
debating between this one oil paint set and this other oil
paint set, and just like outta the blue an employee came
up and we hit it off real well, we were completely
connecting. She had this fun scarf tied around her neck
and she was completely like that fun chick in Fisher
King, kinda kooky but really intuitive, you know? It was
like, I didn't know anything about art supplies, but I had
the basic language and mindset so that we made
art-concept sense to each other, and it was like there
was this chasm between us, but we both wanted the
chasm to be smaller! Anyhow, I got her number and
we're gonna make bread together on Sunday. I
know...bread! Man, that is killer. I was totally unprepared
for that. I'm really into this chick. Her name's Scarlet.
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TUESDAY, MARCH 01, 2005
My date with Scarlet.
So, I don't think I told you about my date with Scarlet
from Purple Gypsy Art Supplies! Well, now I will. Okay,
blog? Okay, good!
Anyhow, it was on Sunday, so naturally I called her the
day before to confirm and ask if there was anything I
could bring. You got to do that, if you ever want to get
anywhere on a woman-hosted date. Also, always be
exactly seven minutes late. Trust me, fellows. She said
everything was on and that she even had some
"sourdough starter" ready for our bread-making activity!
Well, I knew what else was on. That's right -- I used
some of the art supplies I bought at her store and made
her a little painting! It wasn't too much to look at, just a
little watercolor of an orange sitting on a plate. I had
forgotten to paint the background first, so when I did it
kind of "bled" into the orange pretty bad, but I figured it
would seem "cute" and like she had a lot to teach me.
Some women like that.
I got there wearin' some pretty fly new Uomo dungarees
and this hot cargo shirt like Jeff Probst from Survivor
wears, you know, all with this leather necklace that had
some kind of little artifact hangin' down in front. Totally
Probst, man. I figured she'd have an apron or something
I could use to protect the duds.
She answered the door and was still kind of scattered.
Her hair was completely wet and there were wetness
spots all on her shirt, and she didn't have any pants on.
Yeah, the shirt was kind of long, but not so long that a
pair of pants would have been obscured. She worked in
an earring while walking back towards her room and said
to make myself at home. Since I knew that she didn't
mean to fire up a joint and call in some Waiters On
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Wheels, I set my bottle of '02 Cakebread on the counter
and opened it for us. My nerves weren't bad, but I
poured us out two glasses anyway and by the time she
had finally finished gettin' dressed I had drained mine, so
I quickly filled it back up again.
She said "Ooh, wine!" in this excited voice and sucked
down her glass. That got me kind of pointy, you know,
totally interested. Here was a woman who knew how to
throw down and have a good time! I did the same and
pretty soon we were laughin' about how funny it was that
we were makin' bread together. Man, she had this great
sense of humor; it was like, everything that I did totally
cracked her up and kind of broke the ice between our
two completely different worlds. Since I was so happy, I
usually laughed at what she said and tried even harder
to be comical. When I gave her the painting, she totally
cracked up, and that got me goin' too.
It turned out that she worked at the art store part time
and also had a job doing some bookkeeping for her
uncle's apartment complex. I don't know why, but that
got me kind of hot. I could picture us sneakin' up into
some uninhabited apartment and just goin' real quick
and hasty in the middle of some plain brown carpet in a
big empty room. I was thinking about that idea when all
of a sudden I tuned back in just in time to hear her say
that her mom had died last year in a car accident. I filled
our glasses and offered a solemn toast "to your mom."
She really liked that and we drained our glasses yet
again. I think she may have been touched; it was
definitely the right move.
Before long the Cakebread was gone and all she had in
the house was Everclear, which she used for "painting
dry pigments onto fondant," which is some kind of way of
coloring a hard type of cake frosting. I think maybe like
that marzipan stuff. Apparently the high alcohol content
in Everclear helps it spread quick and evaporate fast or
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something? Anyhow, we didn't want to drink that stuff
straight so we looked for a mixer, but all she had was
little Strawberry Kool-Aid packets. Troopin' on, we mixed
it all up with some sugar and ice and made a pretty
passable punch. She even had this fun ice cube tray
where all the cubes looked like little Jesuses, so pretty
soon we were drinkin' Strawberry Stigmata (her idea; I
laughed) and getting ready to make bread.
It turned out she didn't have any aprons, so she loaned
me this old women's denim jacket that was about three
sizes too small. I didn't want to ruin my new Probst shirt
with flour so I took it and put it on. It was so tight that my
arms stuck out to the sides and I had a hard time bringin'
'em down, so I just let them stick out that way, and we
both laughed. She put one of those silly-straws into my
drink so I could take hits. I really liked the way she was
taking care of me, I think that is definitely one quality you
look for in a lover.
Pretty soon she's got the dough mixed up into a lump on
the counter and every once in a while I kind of swing a
stiff arm over and move my whole upper body so that I
can bring my hand down and slap it. We crack up every
time I do this, and I take a big sip of SS. I got to tell you,
that stuff had me pretty looped pretty fast, and judgin' by
how skinny she was, she wasn't going to hold out much
longer either. At a breaking point in the bread prep, I
approached her as smoothly as I could and leaned in for
a kiss. She totally came back with some mad passion. I
couldn't put my arms around her and carry her to the
couch, so we just stood there makin' out for a little while.
It was kind of crazy, like that S&M stuff you hear about.
You know?
Anyhow, pretty soon she starts walkin' backwards and
motioning with her finger for me to follow her to the
couch. I'm only too happy to oblige, and my mind is
racing about what she has in store for me in my kinky
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condition. She pushes me backwards onto the couch,
and it's kind of deep, so I can't get up and do anything
while she walks kind of sexily back to the bathroom,
working her pants down a little to show me some thong!
Then the door closes and she's in there for a while. I'm
kind of looking around, taking in the fun ironic modern
advertising posters and wine bottle-candlesticks...bored.
I'm kind of losing my pointiness, if you know what I
mean, and I can't get to my drink.
Like a coked-up turtle I finally worked myself off of the
couch and onto my knees, and had a hell of a time
getting to my feet what with all that Everclear in my gut.
When I finally did I went over and swung my hand at the
bathroom door to knock. Surprisingly, it opened, and
there she was, completely passed out on the floor in
front of the toilet. Dead to the world, as they say. At that
point I wasn't feelin' too sexxed up anymore, but I didn't
want her to be in a bad way, so I managed to lob a
plastic bowl and a bottle of water from the kitchen at her,
and even pulled a towel down over her exposed legs.
I thought I'd look pretty dumb walkin' back to my place
like that, so I voice-dialed 321-CABS on my two-way and
yelled for a pickup out front. I had the driver undo the
jacket, and tipped him a twenty before we even got
started. Pretty soon I was on my way home, more than
likely never to see old Scarlet again. She's probably
alright.
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THURSDAY, MARCH 24, 2005
I am a good gardener!
A lot of people think they know that I am a pretty bad
gardener. Well, in the past, they would have been right.
Every spring I would get pretty serious about growing my
own celery and green beans for bloody marys, but then
a couple weeks after I did the planting my little backyard
planterbox would look like Night of the Triffids, all with
mad weeds taking over everywhere and if I was lucky, a
single small green bean hanging off a dead brown vine,
kind of dangling like the thing a butterfly comes out of. It
was never the kind of thing you would want to put into a
bloody mary, at all.
Lately though I have been doing pretty well in the
garden. The main thing, I think, is to hire a dude to take
up all the weeds. I hate pulling weeds. I'm kind of like
Monet, you know, just wanting to have everything ready
for me so I can concentrate on my vision. Picasso was
also much the same way, as was Einstein. For as mean
as Einstein was to his wife, they definitely had some
awesome situation worked out.
Anyhow, I hired a local botanist to weed all my gardenand flower-beds. Usually she's done before I even get
up and put on my slippers to walk outside, which is
basically fantastic. I ain't got to feel bad that she is doing
all kinds of crappy yard work, and I am free with my
blank canvas. I think I'm gonna plant a lot of thyme and
rosemary, you know, herbs that get on real well with a
naked chicken. Lots of herbs. Gonna do a French thing,
all with tarragon and lavender. Ray gonna start an herb
colony called the Succulent Tongue. Crossin' the line
between fragrant garden greens and hot thighs rollin' in
thick crunchy duvets under afternoon springtime sun.
Ray is gonna get it on with his gardener. Ray is gonna
bring the sex act.
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SUNDAY, APRIL 03, 2005
No luck with the gardener lady.
So I was pretty sure I could move the beans with my
gardener, who is this cute young chick that comes and
handles the basic maintenance of my bloody mary
vegetable beds. She's kind of intriguin', in a
not-Ray's-typical-date type of way. Sorta mousy and
skinny, like vegan-lookin', but with real worn-out overalls
and real plain hair and Ben Franklin glasses. I don't
know why that turned my motor, but I guess I'm just a
sucker for the female in almost any form. She has this
special quality of a real nice ass, I should mention.
Despite her mad-skinny and no boobies frame, she got
some phonky hippo buns jumpin' in the back of those
overalls. It is crazy that a chick who is so skinny could
have such a luscious-seeming ass. I guess that's one of
the main deals in life, though: there is often a good
surprise.
Anyhow, I managed to get up before she left one day,
and I sauntered out with a nice little pitcher of mimosas
and a few Atlas flutes on a wooden tray. I was all about
quenching her thirst as she finished her shift, and I was
decked out in a pretty fly Brooks Brothers spring tennis
sweater and slacks. I was an ad, basically, for the high
life. Right there by the vegetable beds. If you showed a
person me, they would want the high life.
So I set it all down on the teak picnic table I had installed
by the garden and sat down to light a Nat. Soon she
sees me there and I wave and say "Come have a tipple
with old Ray!" She stands real quiet for a few seconds,
then points at a little jar of sun-tea she's got brewin' on
the birdbath.
Now, I felt like she might be just feelin' shy, and not want
to interact with the master of the house. I assured her it
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was okay to join me, wasn't no photographer watchin' in
the bushes. She came over to the table real
business-like and asked me what I wanted.
I am not usually accustomed to someone doing that.
There was a tray of cocktails, and I was decked out, and
it was a lovely springtime day, and there was a seat for
her. It was like watchin' two Hydrogen molecules not
bond with an Oxygen molecule. Rules just wasn't bein'
followed, you know?
I could tell this was gonna be tricky, so I asked in a real
polite voice that she have a seat. Any decent person has
a seat when offered, right? Not this dame. She said "No
thank you, I think I'll stand," and crossed her arms. What
did I ever do to her? Would I act that way down at the
dump co-op she lives in with a bunch of gutty old hippies
and 19 year-old dudes who throw nails on the highway?
You bet your ass not! Ray Smuckles is the cream. He
has decency.
Since she was standin' there and it seemed like we were
about to have a conversation of official sorts, I collected
the situation and said that we had no choice but to let
her go. She did kind of a vegan snuffle-type thing and
turned and walked out. She banged the gate real hard
and yelled "capitalist pig!" at me.
In my mind, as I sat there with my mimosa in my
fresh-pressed sweater, I thought: if I am a pig, they why
did you come and do what a pig wants. Why did you do
work for me. What does that make you. If you are so
principled, then why did you take bucks from a pig in
order to make him happier and I suppose more pig-like.
Also, I am sad I never got to press my junk between your
goddess ass cheeks.
As it was, I went inside and fried up an awesome piece
of leftover Easter ham and did a pretty fine Eggs
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Benedict with a ton of french fries on the side. My drink?
You guessed it! A fine bloody mary. Life is good on my
terms...that's the only way to live.
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SATURDAY, APRIL 09, 2005
I am horny.
Man, lately with my crud luck and the rainy weather, I am
basically a member of the Klondike Club! I said that
phrase earlier to Beef and he didn't have any idea what
the Klondike Club was. Basically, the Klondike is like this
area of Alaska or somethin' and it was mainly an area
without women, mainly bein' explored by extremely
grizzled dudes who had no outlet for sex for months or
years at a time. That is what I meant by that. Beef said
he understood and said something about Jack London
and a mink pelt, but I didn't catch most of it 'cause he
was mumblin'. You know how he is, all intellectual.
So what's a fellow to do? I'm probably one of the few
guys who doesn't j/o, and I ain't that into the idea of a
plain old alley b/j from a chick who just ate barf on video
tape for heroin, so I'm thinkin' maybe a high-class escort
is the name of the game. I met this player at Seven
Pines who rolled cognac large, usually with a posse and
always travellin' to St. Moritz or Bath. You know the type.
I hit him up for the lowdown on how to get in touch with a
classy escort and cool as day he flicked out a business
card and wrote a private phone number on the back with
a delicious Mont Blanc fountain pen (yes, diamond on
the nib, tha Qínky). Dude gave me a wink and said to
use his name when I called. Twenty-four hour service,
anywhere, anything. Then he and his dudes smoothed
off and got into this sick Bentley, his man at the wheel. I
tucked the card into my pocket and privately canceled
that afternoon's round.
I sent Little Nephew to the arcade with a little roll of
Jacksons and poured myself a glass of Moët. I wanted to
be primed and in the luxurious mode. I put on my Prada
sandals and sprayed some Tom of France.
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Here's how the phone call went:
RAY: [dials new Nokia hands-free]
[RECIPIENT OF MY CALL]: This is Treasure. What can I
call you?
RAY: Hey sweet thing, this is Ray. Imaginationn sent
me.
TREASURE: Aww, that's nice. He's a real good friend of
mine.
RAY: Maybe you and I could get to be friends?
TREASURE: You sound like a real nice man, Ray. I'd
like that.
RAY: So, is there a hotel where we could see if we are
friends?
TREASURE: Your choice, player. [giggles]
RAY: [EXTREMELY horny at this point] come to my
house
TREASURE: Ooh! I'd like that. I'll be there in half an
hour, Ray.
RAY: I'll ice the Moët, Treasure. Wear something black
that shows you off a bit.
TREASURE: My pleasure, Ray. Byyyyyye.
Five minutes later she called back to get my address
and that was that. I'm expectin' her any minute now. I got
another Moët on ice and a couple jimmies slipped in
convenient places around the bedroom (under pillow,
under glass of water on nightstand, hidden in sock on
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floor by dressing table, taped to bottom of Aveda soap
bar in shower, etc).
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SUNDAY, APRIL 17, 2005
Treasure.
Dang, I nearly forgot to say anything about Treasure, the
high class escort I had recommended to me by
Imaginationn, that dude at the club. Last week I called
her up and we arranged a little rendezvous at my crib,
and I was six kinds of ready to mack. I was Clooneying
in this crisp new Battori Uomo and my classic Tom of
France.
I guess I was expectin' kind of a Tina Turner-type black
stockings chick. Treasure was this little tiny person who
seemed like a teacher who was real anxious to get done
and leave. She was already taking quick glances back at
her car while I said hello and let her in. Her enthusiasm
did not improve. Her car was this kind of bad purple Ford
Tempo with minor sun damage to the roof and hood
paint.
When I suggested we have some Moët and cool it on the
King-Size she got real nervous and said she didn't know
about that.
Now, I am not a stone cold psychologist or anything, but
I could tell right away this wasn't the same chick I had
talked to on the phone. I took down a few suds and said
as much, in a pretty nice way. I slapped her on the
shoulder real friendly and said, "admit it!"
Since she obviously wasn't a pro she broke "character"
and started to cry a little bit while she held her purse real
tight against her chest. I handed her my handkerchief
and said we could talk. I like when afternoons get weird,
and I was ready to roll with this.
Apparently Treasure had been double-booked (she was
having a bad time with her new scheduling software) and
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so she asked if her cousin, a third grade teacher (!)
would turn my particular trick. She (the cousin, my guest)
had never done that before, but her class was on a field
trip with a different class, and since teachers get paid flat
dick, she acquiesced. Turns out she don't drink and she
only ever been with this one guy who left to go into the
Army and he was coming home in six months and he
had proposed to her on AIM during a latrine break.
I ain't a homewrecker, so I swilled some more Moët and
gave her all kinds of pep talks about life. I said it was
great to be a good person and obviously she had what it
took because she was even willing to help out her cousin
Treasure. We even laughed a little bit about how
Treasure might have made some bad decisions in her
life.
To keep from having to do awkward kisses or hugs or
even any contact at all when she left, I carried down the
mostly empty Moët bottle and both glasses and also this
one couch pillow that I said I had been meaning to wash.
I showed her to the front door and said Good Luck In
Life and that Treasure didn't need to call me back. She
kind of said a small squeaky "Bye!" and walked with her
head down toward her car. I closed the door.
Through the door I could hear that the Tempo's starter
was bad. Her engine didn't turn over for about ten tries,
then she gave up. I watched out the window and about a
half hour later this AAA truck showed up and gave her a
jump, and she drove off. I think her crappy little car even
left an oil stain on the flagstones.
Oh well, every idea for a good time can't necessarily turn
into a good time. As for me, I ain't plan to call Treasure
anymore, 'cause that was a wack-ass move to sub the
lay out to an untrained amateur, so I guess I got to head
down to Napoleon's or the mall and see if I can't bungle
up some thonky bootay.
122
123
FRIDAY, APRIL 29, 2005
Gettin' back into the advice game.
So, I had a couple old advice letters that never got
answered in 2004 (I'm talking about my once-defunct
advice column, Ray's Place, which you can find on the
Achewood website). They'd been kickin' around in my
inbox for a while just doin' no one any good, so the other
night after a little Braveheart and Blue Label I was in
kind of a noble mood and decided to take a stab at them.
Funny thing is, I really got a kick outta it! Guess I just
needed a little time away to help me realize that I really
do enjoy tacklin' the messy situations folks get
themselves into.
Some tips for writing in to Ray's Place:
1. Brevity is best. I got like a five page email from some
dude with fifty thousand details and I could not read it. If
it's too long for me, then it's definitely too long for
someone who doesn't want to help you. Try to write
about a paragraph. Don't know what a paragraph is? It is
three sentences maximum and none of them involve a
self-estimation of your particular level of "skill with the
ladies." I'll decide that, Mr. Writes-to-a-Cartoon-Cat.
2. Have a clear problem. This one letter I got was all
about a long-distance relationship gone sour, trouble
getting baseball tickets, and car trouble based on snowy
weather. In the end the guy just thanked me for reading
and signed off. No question mark anywhere. What?
3. Don't just copy-and-paste the latest Letters page from
Nugget Magazine, Mike from Seattle.
Okay, I got a pretty good bag of questions this week and
I think I will use some time to answer them soon. But not
here. You have to go to Ray's Place for that.
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-=Ray=-
125
SUNDAY, MAY 01, 2005
I ain't gonna lie — I need to get SCREWED,
man!
I ain't need to tell you what this is like. There's nothin' in
the oven, there's no bread on sale, there's...aw, this ain't
gonna wind up as no kind of good poem. You know what
I mean — I am stone cold in need of some pushin'! It's
been too damn long! I don't know how I let my
Needliness go unattended for these many months. How
did I do this? What the hell is the matter with me? If I
want a meal I make a tasty hamburger or I arrange to
have one made. If I want a shirt, either Battori Uomo or
Hermes.com can provide. Ray got to take a nap? Ray
goes to sleep.
I been thinkin' about this, chochachos. It's like a
snowball: the longer it rolls, the bigger it gets. In my
case, the longer I go without some pushing, the more it's
like "why ain't I getting any of that sweet pushing? Is
there a problem with me? Maybe I finally got to that age
where the women just don't stop by any more! Oh no,
man! I'm like George Costanza's dad!"
I got to stop the snowball. Maybe I got to lose some of
this winter weight. That would put some spring back in
my step and pretty soon I'd be sporting a sick new Fila
track suit, open at the collar, chunky old piece on my
wrist, just a hint of Gucci Rush around my edges.
Or maybe I shouldn't lose this winter weight. Maybe I'm
meant to carry a few extra pounds! It all comes down to
confidence. I seen a heavy dude like James Gandolfini
just wielding so much power, I oughta explore that route.
Ray likes Ray. Ray likes the good life. Ray likes women
who appreciate a man who likes the good life. Marlon
Brando was extremely heavy.
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MONDAY, MAY 16, 2005
Did I get a job at Taco Bell? Yes.
Yeah, I got a job at Taco Bell. I applied for the job, and I
got the job, and I did the job. If you want to read the
story, then you came to the right place.
I was puttin' a few back at the Smoke with Téodor last
week, and it was one of those lazy afternoons that turns
into a crazy-amped night. By about three we were into
the Jack and Cokes and just all kinds of muckin' it up
silly. Pretty soon he dared me to get a job at Taco Bell
and I cold took the bait. We walked two blocks to the
Taco Bell and I filled out an app.
Three minutes later the manager was puttin' some
purple uniform shirt in my arms and sayin' mad stuff
about bathroom cleansin' schedules. I acted like I took it
in and I waited until he was done talking so I could go
into the bathroom and put the outfit on. I looked like a
complete idiot! It was hilarious, and Téodor was gasping
as he took pics of me walking around behind the counter
and touching different parts of the food-cooking
machines.
The crazy thing is that none of the five other
food-cooking employees acted like I was out of place,
and every now and then I would electively squirt a dollop
of sour cream out of the caulk gun onto a Taco or Bean
Burrito. It kind of got me respect, in a way, to be the guy
who controlled the upgrade item and used it at will.
After about a half hour the manager figured out that I
was just fucking around, and Téodor had slipped me a
little of his voddy flask, and I was feelin' no pain. The
manager tried to corner me by the hot metal tray that
keeps the Churros warm, so I pulled my sour cream
caulk gun and drew a nice white-outline necktie on him.
127
One of the workers, a skinny boy, laughed at this but for
the most part it didn't cause any disturbance on the line.
We jumped pretty much immediately and walked on
back to my place. I guess that I am fired from Taco Bell
but perhaps I will get a bonus or a lawsuit settlement
when the union does its annual union stuff.
Ray.
128
TUESDAY, MAY 17, 2005
Poetry from Ray's Collected Stickies.
Yo, so I had some poetry published in the Achewood
strip a little while back, and Chris asked that I pony up
some more lines since folks was askin' for more outta
my collection. I went through all the stickies on my
desktop and got some of the better poems.
HOW HANGS YOUR DIRT
I wear my current dirt to Brubeck;
I wear my current dirt to John Alveoli.
My dirt goes to the Italian restaurant with me.
I have soft white ankle socks;
I just sideswiped you and made you think I am a rich girl.
I wear my deodorant one wipe at a time
I apply it in terrible cheap moments as the water drains
through my cast synthetic sink.
I am a moderately aggressive man.
The raiment of man is dirt, in the guise of wool or
cotton¬
We wear things,
and we dust for prints,
and in the end we are worn.
Because in approximately a thousand years
whatever molecules I was
my electrons
they will be redistributed.
So no, I am not going to return your email,
because I am depressed.
Ray Smuckles
May, 2005
129
THURSDAY, MAY 26, 2005
Ray's Collected Stickies Poetry, No. II.
Dang, this one guy bought my "How Hangs Your Dirt"
poem for two hundred and eighty bucks! It kind of tickled
my fancy for posting more of my poems, so here goes.
This is the second poem I ever posted here, as far as I
can remember.
ALL THE HAPPY MEN
Here come the happy men
up the escalator from the subway.
They do not keep floating up
when they reach the top, however.
They do not/keep floating/at all
They disperse wide and to the left
and buy a Wertzel's Pretzel with Jalapeño Cheddar
or also consider looking at the orbous Mexicana
at the jewelry cart
where no-one ever goes.
There go the happy men
They blew through this place
The Mexicana has been looked at;
The gourmet pretzel sits on wax paper,
half-eaten,
on top of a trash can near the exit.
It looks like a sad greasy mess.
The morsel left behind
Unloved and unfulfilled in purpose
Who will care about
the morsel left behind.
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Who?
The sad men.
------—Ray Smuckles.
So, I wrote that one afternoon when I was down at the
mall and it was around five fifteen. All these workaday
dudes, from lawyers to bankers to students and clerks,
got off the subway and kind of whipped through the joint
like a ripple of nature. I people-watched for a while, and
when I was on my way out I saw this one five-dollar
pretzel half-eaten on top of a trash receptacle. For some
reason that wasted food became the emblem of
everything that is wrong with America. I ain't a big
America-hater, but I do know that we could do a little
better about wasting stuff. I felt kind of a pang when I
realized that the pretzel was just going to sit in a landfill
until diseases and a hyena ate it all up. A pretty sad way
to go, if you think about it.
Okay, I will probably post more poems later. I've been
going through them and I have some stuff that is sort of
meaningful to me. Contact me about purchasing these
poems.
131
SATURDAY, JUNE 11, 2005
Back in the Party Way.
So, doggies, you must have noticed that I ain't been
writin' up too many of my friday parties lately. In truth, I
been kind of in a different place lately, not really so much
into the friday party. This ain't to say a friday party ain't
been happenin', but rather to imply that I ain't had much
of a hand in planning other than handin' the budget and
checkbook over to Téodor. I knew I could trust that dude
to get the bevv and the dance music on, and also look
after the food angle.
From looking at his receipts this last quarter, I trust he
done alright. In the third week of April he did up some
Russian-themed party, complete with catering by some
company named Ucszero, which came in pretty steep at
$2,325.04. Itemized receipts show expenditures such as
cabbage, potatoes, ground beef, sevruga, squab,
imported herring...not to mention some seriously
unspellable vodkas and beers. They got that Russian
alphabet all goin' on, where it's like they took the
American alphabet and commissioned a smartass to
make fun of our letters.
I know the Rooskies can spin a seriously dishonorable
transaction, but I'm just gonna go with this one. I heard
good stuff about the late-April party and apparently even
Spongebath ended up getting a tugjob. I mean, that ain't
the best thing about any party, but it is indicative that a
dude in a Lark scooter who is in a pretty bad way could
work things such that he got tugged. I have a good
feeling after I analyze evidence like that.
132
THURSDAY, JULY 07, 2005
I'M throwin' the party this week!
I ain't mind to tell you, I was a little concerned that
Téodor was gettin' taken for a ride by some of the
catering/beverage vendors he was usin' to run my last
couple parties! I still manned the books on all that, and
this one company alone, "Ucszero," was way outta line
in terms of charging the right price for things.
Therefore, proven thus, and in all kinds of sincerity, I
bestow upon you the fact that I am once again running
the Friday Night Party at the Smuckles Residence!
That's right. I been away from the game for pretty long,
and I guess like the farmers say, ideas been all fallow in
my kaboggin. It is High Time this sucker punched the
clock again, much like the time Elton John took over six
years off yet still came back to work after then and
donned dalmatian-fur shades like the way a rejuvenated
Rocky would come back into the ring, all bouncing
around and cocky.
What kind of theme does the hidden master throw down
from the yew tree? (this is an Asian reference.) Yeah, of
course you have no idea. The master, of course, throws
down a concept that you might not at first think is
anything to do with a party. In time, though, you will
come to see that I was all-knowing in my exact concepts.
And that is why I leave you with this teaser, this single
thought, as to what tomorrow's party is all about:
The Rock Star Died at 27.
Nice. Check you later.
133
FRIDAY, JULY 29, 2005
The Rock Star Died at 27!
Dang, I forgot to post about this for like three or two
weeks! I am such a knucklehead sometimes, I swear it.
Anyways, I took the party-plannin' reins from Téodor
because I was concerned that a Russian outfit was
rippin' him off when it came to catering our parties, and I
got deep back into the swing of event coördinating.
Since it was my first time back in a while, I threw myself
an extra-curvy curveball in terms of a theme, just to
make sure I was on my game: "The Rock Star Died at
27." Now, how you gonna party around that sentence?
Not many, and indeed perhaps less than one man in ten
thousand could get action going around such a concept.
First of all, I set up all these big glass cases around the
property, in both dark and light areas, which contained
completely animated life-sized mannequins of all the
main rock legends who died at age 27: Jimi, Janice, Jim
Morrison, Brian Jones, Kurt Cobain, even old seminal
bluesman Robert Johnson. Folks could press on a
button at the base of each display case and the
mannequin would spring into action, saying a little bit
about the circumstances of their death. For instance,
Kurt Cobain by default was in this indian-legged sitting
position with his Fender Mustang, but when you pressed
on the button he sheepishly stood up, pulled the hair
outta his eyes, and said, "Hello, I'm Kurt Cobain. I blew
my head off on April 5th, 1994. Would you like to hear
'Smells Like Teen Spirit,' the hit single that many
consider my rock-and-roll masterpiece?" At that point
Kurt would freeze and the button would blink to let the
folks know to press it to continue. Naturally, there was a
guard at each booth, who could unlock it so that you
could have your picture taken with the star. This was real
popular, except for the Jimi Hendrix one, which was
having electrical problems and sparked this one dude
134
pretty bad.
In addition to that "meet the stars" lineup, I also had the
crew build little sets of where each star had died (i.e. the
bathtub for Morrison, the swimming pool for Jones, with
the appropriate music from each artist) so that guests
could live the death out moment for moment. Talk about
your conversation starters! "So, what went through your
mind when you were lying on the carpet next to the
puddle of chewed carrots and sleeping pills?" It's not like
folks get a lot of chances to compare such experiences. I
noticed a lot of new couples forming in the little areas
between the sets, talking real excitedly to each other and
just laughing in that way a guy and a girl do when they
both realize that they are excited to meet each other and
have something to actually talk about.
For beverages we had some pretty rock'n'roll stuff: Jack
and Cokes, 7&7s, Jack, brew, cheap jug wine with a
pinkie ring, even some Ripple (they still make a version
of it in Chechnya that Dimitri from the distributorship
found for me). Food was a design-your-own-sausage
bar, where you went down a line of meats (ground pork,
lamb, beef, veal, rabbit, boar, venison, etc) and then
added spices, herbs, and fats. At the end of the line a
couple of professional butchers would grind your stuff
together and shoot it into casings, which a third dude
would then throw down on the grill. I was pretty proud of
this concept, and although it has nothing to do with rock
and roll, it worked really well. The trick is knowing how to
prevent bottlenecks (in this case, the two butchers
instead of one, and posting basic recipe suggestions
along the meat/spice bar).
The whole night went pretty well, and had a great
carnival-type feel, except for one incident. Round about
a quarter of midnight the party was going full steam, with
people crowding the dance floor, giddy couples running
off to darker corners, dudes inside playing Grand Theft
135
Auto blazed outta their minds, and full-on vodka pong
over by the hot tub. Healthy lines were still forming in
front of the mannequin cases, which pleased me
because I had been particularly proud of that innovation.
Gradually, though, I noticed that a larger than usual
group had formed around the Hendrix case, which was
unusual because I thought it had shorted out earlier in
the evening. I strolled over to see if one of my
technicians had managed to revive it.
It was kind of hard to get to the front of things and see
what was going on, as a large and noisy crowd had
formed in front of the case, but bit by bit I managed to
worm my way through and eventually I had a view of the
action. It looked like Sothar, this big dude we always
been kinda chummy with, had broken his way into the
Hendrix case and tried to take the mannequin's guitar.
The mannequin was writhing and fighting back, trying to
push Sothar off with pretty realistic anger. This was
weird, because the mannequins hadn't been
programmed with artificial intelligence or anything. If
anything, it should have just shut itself off, as per the
First Law of Robots. But no, it seemed genuinely pissed
at him and when it finally got an edge up, it knocked him
to the ground and hit him real hard on the head with its
Stratocaster. Sothar went limp like a rag doll and
crumpled into a heap. This is when things got kind of
weird.
The mannequin started lurching left and right and
emitting all these howls, like a sort of primitive victory
dance, and I noticed that all the lights on the property
had started to slowly dim. Pretty soon it was completely
black, and the crowd got that hush over it like it wasn't
sure whether to watch or run. Then, from outta nowhere,
a light inside Jimi's case started to glow and spin in all
these psychedelic colors, and he launched into a
blistering instrumental version of Purple Haze, so loud
that all the muscles in my face kind of involuntarily went
136
to one side. The crowd stood rapt at attention, all eyes
on the case, caught in Jimi's sonic tractor beam.
Purple Haze melded seamlessly into Foxey Lady, which
he then whipped with much madness into Fire. After
about thirty seconds of riffing on Fire he dug his pick into
All Along the Watchtower with such heft and blast that
off to the side you could almost visualize a Jumbotron
video of The Edge, back at home in Ireland, scampering
under his bed in a pair of Robin Underoos.
The crowd was transfixed, frozen to the spot. Jimi didn't
give a damn about any of that, though — he went on
ahead and nailed us extra with a Star Spangled Banner
so pure and loud that you could hear every coil on his
low strings fit to bust. As the tune rose to its highest
point he doubled his picking and then quadrupled that,
until it seemed like we were all being shot through the
head with pure lasers of American sound. Just when we
thought there was nothing more that a man (?) could do
with a guitar, he tore his shirt open at the chest,
smashed his Strat all around until it was in kindling, and
screamed, "NO EARTH CAN KILL ME!"
At that, the case burst into flames. Folks cleared back a
few feet to make a perimeter, and we watched as the
rubber flesh melted off the Jimi mannequin to reveal the
simple aluminum armature inside. It fell to its knees, then
forward against the glass front of the case, then slid
down, leaving a trail of polymer slime with a bandanna
stuck to part of it. By the time some dudes got to it with a
hose, the whole unit was pretty much a heap. Everyone
who had been watchin' kind of tried to believe that it had
all been part of the show, but I hadn't been privy to any
such plannin'. A dude here and there slapped me on the
back real falsely, and would say things like "amazing,
man," but I knew everyone just wanted to get pretty
much away, because everyone knew that a mannequin
wasn't supposed to have maliciously maimed Sothar
137
(who, incidentally, had been pulled to safety by a couple
of guys before the pyrotechnics).
The party cleared out pretty fast after that. I like to stroll
the grounds after the last guest has left, and I took a
careful look at the melted Hendrix case. The extension
cord ran from the case, under an insulated runner which
took it through a rose bed and a hedge, and then to the
stinger, the power hub where the gaffers plugged in all
the powered units. Oddly, I noticed that the Hendrix cord
wasn't plugged into the stinger. In fact, the prongs had
been clipped entirely off.
I know it doesn't mean anything, but I went into the
kitchen, grabbed a bulb of garlic, and scattered it all
around the burned-out case before I went to bed. The
next day, the crew came and took the cases away, and
in this weird way they didn't take my deposit for the
ruined Jimi unit. There wasn't even any mention of it. I
just signed on the dotted line, they smiled and shook my
hand, and then all was gone. Just to be safe, I'm putting
all my Jimi CDs into a drawer in my tool shelf in the
garage, where I am unlikely to find them for a while.
138
FRIDAY, AUGUST 12, 2005
I hurt my foot, man.
Serious times, dogg. Paul down at Hidden Hills was
helpin' me with my short game a bit earlier this week,
showin' me how to blast outta sand with a little more
conviction than I been showin' lately (hint: don't stand
anywhere in any direction from me when I'm hittin' outta
the sand trap, because you are guaranteed to get
smacked by my ball). Anyhow, you know me, I can't
resist a little fun in the cart, so when we were headin'
back to the clubhouse (we were both pretty lit up from
takin' blasts of Caramel Riyadh outta my hip flask) I took
the wheel and we tried to see how fast I could drive it
between these two big old lava rocks they got just off to
the left of the seventeenth green.
Turns out you can't drive between the rocks at any
speed, 'cause that shit is like a foot and a half too
narrow, but whatever. There's the answer to the lava
rock/rate of travel question. Anyhow, my foot got stuck in
the steering wheel as I was ejectin' through the front of
the cart, and it got all twisted to hell. Paul straight up hit
the roof pillar and has this huge bloody line up the
middle of his face, which serves him right because as a
resident pro he should damn well have known that you
can't fit a cart between those two rocks. I mean,
seriously, what is he doin' there all day?
So Doc Andretti's got me in this ginky old cast (I chose
the hot pink tape to go with this ill black Fila track suit
with pink piping) and says I got to wear it for damn
weeks! It ain't crampin' my game too bad though, since I
just been mostly watchin' a lot of TiVo this summer and
examining the products of a lot of mail-order food
retailers. Tonight instead of hangin' down at my party I
put Téodor in charge of logistics and am holding court up
here in my khrybb, you know, my box, and it's low-key
139
with cigars and some plush chairs for just a few dudes at
a time, a little Santana played real quiet on the Bose.
Beef and Téodor were up here for a while but they got
into this heated discussion about "graphic file formats,"
(Gif? Ping? You know, jay-peg stuff.) and you could tell
they both wanted to "honor" the other guy's opinion, you
know like how dorks act, but you could also tell they
were not going to change their opinions, so I got damn
tired of that and told them to go down and send
somebody else up. No one's been up in twenty minutes,
and I bet they're both just continuing their dumb
argument on the other side of my door, so I am typing on
the computer. Alright, maybe this cast is crampin' my
style at least somewhat. I mean, I am using a computer
while at a party. No one should use a computer while
they are at a party unless that computer is a pacemaker
which is running their heart.
140
FRIDAY, AUGUST 26, 2005
Good help is hard to find, chochacho.
Damn. So, as you know, last year Conchita quit on me,
and even the chick who was tendin' the vegetable
garden ended up gettin' herself fired at the peak of
vegetable season. Not to mention Waterbury bein' a
famous spy or whatever and then leaving. Between
these three, I been havin' a pretty bad run with the help
lately. Today was no different.
For a couple months I been havin' this kid Darius come
clean the pool, and he's been doin' a fine enough job. He
gets all the maple leaves out, and disposes of the dead
potato bugs in the incinerator like I ask, and even is
careful about scrubbing all the grout. The problem? He
usually comes around 9am, and I been real weird about
wakin' up early lately (I still can't bring myself to get the
diabetes test), so I always see him, and he smiles WAY
too much. The kid smiles even after he says "good
morning!" and gets back into his work. I'll go back inside
while he's smilin' at his scrub brush or whatever, and
maybe get some fresh shorts outta the dryer, then look
slyly out the window and he'll still be smilin' away like a
nut. Shit drives me crazy at 9am when all I want in the
world is to be left alone with my Bloody Mary and
morning calamari. To have a young man constantly
smiling at you is no way to live.
So, I gave him his notice this morning. He wandered into
the yard, and I was standing there with a hardhat and a
couple rolled-up scrolls of paper, looking extremely
tense. He started to smile and asked me what was goin'
on, so I laid it out real simple for him: I said I was tearin'
out the pool because historical maps revealed that there
used to be a graveyard where my property is, and I was
worried about skeletons and the spirit world and such.
He smiled real big and said that if I ever needed any
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help around the yard to give him a call, and then he gave
me a smile and left. Shit almost destroyed me.
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SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 03, 2005
The world was made for me!
Seems that way sometimes, huh? On Friday I told
myself that my Labor Day weekend resolution was to
burn at least five jays a day, on account of I been a total
old lady in the weed department lately. You ever go
through those phases where you practically never burn
one for weeks at a time? It's crazy, since the first instant
you bite back into that smoke you're like "man why did I
ever quit oh ha ha hee hee oh meeee!" [spins in
nutty-ass circle on one foot]. Anyhow, I mucked up a
c-bag, rolled some tasty tips with my little machine, and
laid in like a soldier come Saturday morning. (I did not
get high on Friday night because we were doing a
vertical tasting of the current Grgich Hills lineup and if
I'm stoned, my notes are completely meaningless. I'll
write stuff like, "'99 Cab. brilliant! Main flavor, if likened to
sun, surrounded by hazy corona of phosphorus and
emergent dry straw. V. emergent.")
I was feelin' good like you do if you just stick with wine
the night before, and around 10am I hove the knuckle,
you know. I sparked the first of many mean ones.
First order of business was to feel the rush of cool, then
look around me and go, "why in hell ain't anybody
ordered decent breakfast around here?" It was only
seconds before I had the Tiffany all ablaze, Niman
sausages on skewers, hella grizzlin' up over the flames.
I kicked on the pool house door until Beef answered, and
put on my meanest Jamaican landlord voice:
ME: Wot you do, mon! It make me crazy you no cook de
breakfas' egg!
BEEF: Oh uh hey uh oh I got to uh listen man I —
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ME: You no gon' cook de breakfas' egg you gon' talk til
de donkey he lose he back leg mon?!
BEEF: Dogg I got um I got a —
MOLLY: Beef? What's going on? Is that the guy you
called to fix my ten-speed?
ME: Whoah, sorry man. I didn't know you were ballin'.
BEEF: Jesus man don't be crass I mean I uh we uh
ME: Molly! Cook me de breakfas' egg, white woman!
MOLLY: Beef? What's going on? Is everything okay?
BEEF: I'm not sure yet babe
ME: [noticing huge spiderweb in plant by door, with
enormous alive spider in the middle] Fuck, dude! Fuck!
[jumps back]
BEEF: Oh yeah uh that's the spider
ME: Well no shit, man! Jesus! Hold on, I'm gonna get my
shotgun.
BEEF: [slams door] [yells] GET DOWN!
ME: [goes into garage to get 12-gauge]
I got distracted on the way to get the gun and wound up
spending most of the morning eating the sausages on
the living room floor and listening to old Police albums
real, real loud. I didn't remember about Beef and the
spider until later, so I gave him a call but they weren't
around. Oh well. If I've done my math right, and who
cares if I didn't, it is once again time to apply the flame to
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the drug that absolves all shame, or however that line
goes.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 01, 2005
Some critical news about my ding dong.
Just kidding! Hi, man. Thanks for dropping by old Ray's
blog for some news that is definitely not about my ding
dong. I mean, unless you want to write in and ask me
what's the latest haps with that little sucker. I ain't at all
shy about that stuff—I think it's ridiculous to act like this
one thing that all dudes have is like completely weird
and different between each guy and needs to be hidden,
both mentally and physically. Who's Wes Craven, again?
A guy's ding dong would be, like, if Wes Craven [I think
it's Wes Craven] made a movie about a man who had
this terrible secret and always wore a lead codpiece and
at the end, during the heartbreaking final scene where
he is on stage and a famous doctor removes the
codpiece to show what made the man so insane all
these years, the audience would see his ding dong and
go "ah, so that's what it was. A blasted ding dong!" You
know? The people could be like turn-of-the-century
English.
I'm real glad we got silly words like ding dong and
ding-a-ling to sort of take the seriousness out of the
subject. I mean really, people, why all the fuss? You'd
think the little thing could glow and pass laws,
everyone's so up in arms about the peter all the time.
That actually reminds me of some news about my ding
dong. The other day after I got out the pool I noticed a
grain of sand on my ding dong, and I tried to scrape it off
but the shit wouldn't move. I was immediately all like,
"aw crud, a herpe! What did I ever do?!" but then I
remembered that herpes are concave and so after a little
more examinin' and some time spent pressing my
bozack into the Google search field, I discovered it was
145
just a little old ingrown hair. Tweeze, tweeze! No more
"fool's herpe" for Ray.
[dramatically pulls burgundy velvet cape back across
self, hiding ding dong] AND THAT...IS ALL FOR THIS
WEEK!
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TUESDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2005
Should I do a ding dong update? I got a lot of
good mail.
Did folks like my ding dong update? I mean, I got a lot on
my plate already what with updatin' Ray's Place all the
time and keepin' Prime Time on the rails and all that, but
if people were interested in a side project where I
regularly said what was new with the ding dong, I might
be into that. Will have to wait and see how it plays out.
On a more serious note, I would like to take a look at
some problems that I have with the United States
Constitution. In Article 14, it clearly states that...heh, I
really had you goin' there, didn't I!? Today in the shower
the ding dong looked pretty normal, and the water ran off
it in wonderful ad hoc rivulets. (I been thinkin' of studyin'
law, hence the legal terminology.)
Had some good corned beef and fries for lunch, on down
at the Gate. My Prime Time artist Curmudgeon was in
town, and he straight-up loves on some pub food even
though he is cOld World Queens. Funny how a dude is,
but then again, I dig on sushi despite that in Japan they
eat vending machine underwear instead of Starbucks.
Or is that too old of a funny reference? Might be. Peace
though.
147
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2005
I guess I'm havin' a bad week!
So, bad week two ways (doesn't that sound like the
name of a Chinese dish?!) —
1. A woman wrote in to tell me that she hated my
ding dong updates, and to stop them!
Honestly, why do people think they should tell you what
to do? Maybe I should write her back and say, "don't
read my ding dong updates, instead!" If you know you're
going to get a face full of my swinging, blinging ding
dong when you come to my opinions website, then
maybe it is YOU who is making the bad decision! My
decision to run this website is great (and so is the ding
dong! No instances this week!).
2. My Halloween costume got shot down by Beef.
Dudes, I spent the better part of eight hundo getting this
fancy custom Italian silk Harlequin costume made, and
Beef goes and doggs the thing immediately! What kills
me is that he was right, I didn't look too cool. I had been
up super late lookin' at some old Picassos and I
gradually came to see the Harlequin as a beautiful,
tragic figure, and before I knew it I was like, "Hey, it's
daytime in Italy, I'll call 'em up!" Significativo Doctore, a
specialty art/clothing house, FedExed the thing the same
day, and it was on my doorstep by the time I woke up
later the next afternoon.
Anyhow, I got to re-think up some Halloween costume
ideas since I ain't going to get it on the waist-line
dressed as no clown. I might be James A. Folgers (of
Folgers coffee fame - I been into the idea of havin' some
muttonchops lately), or just maybe a topless steelworker
with a couple Tecates in his toolbelt. I already got most
148
of that stuff lyin' around — I'd just need the safety
helmet, tool belt, and weathered work boots. Oh, and the
leather gloves and safety goggles. Pants and Tecate:
check!
Alright, I better get on down to this shindig of mine and
throw my hat into the ring. I been pretty Klondike lately
and I got some designs on Boliqua, this bubble-butt
Haitian on from down the bar at Rodrigo's that I invited.
Daaamn but she got some bubble butt!
Peace logo with peace finger-sign flying wings,
-=RAY=-
149
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 03, 2005
I got a cold, but I did not get bubble butt. Unfair.
Man, I just got me the nastiest old head cold this fall
season. I think it came from usin' the vanilla powder
salt-shaker
they
got
on
the
Starbucks
straw/napkin/spices counter. I think a dude sneezed on
that, and got his infected snot molecules down in
through the holes, into the vanilla powder, where his
germs could roam free, thrivin' on simple sugar
structures. I ain't never again goin' on into that place and
usin' their publicly shared ingredients. My nose is all
swole up like the ass of a baboon watchin' his first stag
loop, and it itches to all hell besides. Man, SCREW that I
got to feel this crappy! My eyes also are itchy.
So, what's new with me...I didn't get any play at my
Halloween party, mainly because Boliqua didn't show
up. There were some skinny chaliquas down from the
Stila counter tryin' to mack it up, but I was holdin' out for
the bubble butt. When, by 1am, the bubble butt did not
arrive, I just laid into the gimlets with my fellows and
ended up doing a brief Google search for "bubble butt"
before hitting the hay. (I know that I tried to do a Google
search for "bubble butt" before turning in because the
next morning my browser was still open and it turns out I
had typed in "bubble boot," which had resulted in lots of
pictures of Popeye's shoe and the shoes of other
characters like Popeye).
150
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 2005
Friday party, naturally!
Man, you know how this crazy big world is. At all times,
while it spins, there are dudes dotting the surface of it,
completely doing the best possible job at their respective
tasks. There are always dudes out there who are giving
not just 110%, but, at times, 100% factorial (do not
challenge me at math concepts, I have Toilet Tim's Big
Book of Manageable Math, and I am owning at all ways
of thinking about math).
Tonight, while planning tomorrow's week-ender bash, I
am one of those dudes. Sure, a man is probably sitting
in a computer laboratory somewhere in Wisconsin,
completely jazzed that he figured out how to create a
computer code that automatically reduces the amount of
computer code it takes for itself to exist, but my party
plans are also humongous.
For starters, I have Zen-embraced the basic idea of the
party. In the past, I have just made available a lot of
things that partygoers like to enjoy, but I have not given
any deeper thought as to the complex reasons why they
enjoy them. Sure, if you put a drop of blood on a
microscope slide and then on Friday evening around
eight o'clock you put a drop of Bombay onto that blood,
the blood will be observed as having more fun, and
listening to Aretha Franklin and The O'Jays, but there is
more to it than that. There is also the romance of the
animal brain. Stay with me, people.
A man goes to a party, sure, he likes that he can put on
the booze bag and eat snacks of delicate cheeses and
teriyaki drumettes. But WHY does he do that? It's
because he wants to find a lady (or, in certain cases, a
playful dude). Now, here's where Ray gets a bit outta'
town: why does he want to find someone?
151
It's life, man. And I don't mean life how like a distraught
lady takes over her dead dad's established chimney
sweep company and it goes bust because all his
old-school customers don't think a female can do that
kind of work. I mean life like this basic signal in all our
cells that says
GO
GO ON
GO
MORE FUN
GO
I guess that's my way of sayin' that life wants more life.
Some old grumpies use the sentence, "misery loves
company," but that ain't at all what I mean. I go against
that sentence. Life, me, wants to see life, you, havin'
some fun. Life wants to share. Sharing is the essence of
life. A party is the essence of sharing. Hello. Come to my
party. I have a lot of activities where life can seek itself
out. I have trampoline Twister, which really blurs the
lines between contact that was intended and contact that
may only have just been subconsciously wanted. I also
have a crepe bar, and a place where you can change
into your swimsuit such that only your head and legs
show, and in the middle is a 36" plasma TV showing old
workout videos from the 1950s.
You know what? I forgot Little Susan's. That was my
Lazy Susan-themed restaurant where each table...
You know what? I'm high. I'm not kidding. This may be
the first time I ever broke into a thought to relate my
situation, but I am high. I've got like six guys down in the
152
living room all completely amped up to watch
Braveheart, and it looks like I typed over seven pages
about some kind of idea about a great party, but I am
high and I just don't care. Sorry if you think this is bad or
low to abandon a thought like this. I kind of see it as
convenient, and easy. Sure, there will be a party
tomorrow, and everyone will have a great time. It only
takes me like half an hour to get that stuff together,
including twenty minutes where I read magazines on my
bed. Oh, man. I really need to get downstairs. What if
everybody's mad at me? What if they LEFT? Crap!
153
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2005
Thanksgiving wishes to all my chochachos.
Hey, all. Yeah, this is Ray, here. I got much good wishes
for you all this year. I myself got much to be thankful for,
including another year of good health, good business,
and finally some progress with Boliqua, that bubble butt
Haitian on from down Rodrigo's. We had a little chat this
weekend and it turns out she told me her favorite local
restaurant, which is Celia's, which is a pretty ass-crap
kind of a local mini-chain with way too much melted
cheese on everything, but I guess that's what powers the
bubble butt. So I'm gonna hop on through there during
happy hours and see if I can't catch some of that tail.
Thank you, Celia's over-portioned cheese. Thank you for
the bubble butt.
Thank you also to the guy who takes away my trash
every week. I know you don't care, but I'm glad you do a
nice job of it, and shake the can extra hard to make sure
that all the Starbucks cups that are stuck to Taco Bell
burrito wrappers that are stuck to the inside of the can,
still come out. You are good at your job, man. That is
rare these days.
Thank you to people who took the time to make old
movies. I saw Sunset Boulevard on AMC last weekend,
and it was waaay good. It was like an equation. You
could see the stuff on the left of the equals sign start to
pile up, and then the equals sign happened in this real
elegant snap of the fingers, and then the stuff on the
right of the equation started to add up. Is that a good
way to describe a movie? As a science problem?
Probably not. End of thought. Dash this thought to the
ground. The option is yours!
I am thankful for the conditions that make life possible.
154
Thanks to the dude who delivered my pizza tonight. You
came fast, and remembered that I like an extra package
of hot pepper flakes. You were polite, and seemed like
you were a PhD student during the day. I'm guessing
Operations Research, by the cuffed corduroy pants.
Do you have a list of things you are thankful for?
Honestly, you should print one out. It'll surprise you how
little time you spend thinking of things like this. Here is a
handy template you can copy and paste:
1. _______________________
2. _______________________
3. _______________________
4. _______________________
5. _______________________
PhunkyListMaker template © 2005 Ray Smuckles
Happy Thanksgiving, fat old world!
155
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 2005
A Thanksgiving call to mom.
Alright, so I didn't get out to see mom for Thanksgiving
again this year, and she'd been leavin' all kinds of
messages on my cell about not callin' her back, so I
blocked out a good hour of time, fired up some calamari
with mustard aioli, and cracked some Moët. Moms
should be treated to the finest of phone calls, and if that
means that the caller is lavishing calamari and bubbles
on himself, then I think that just makes all kinds of
sense. Getting a phone call from me when I'm munchin'
and sippin' on the crispy brut is like talking to an
enlivened spirit from Silk Dimension 9. You get better
energy.
So, I have a few bites of the hot crunchy squid and throw
back a glass, just to fortify myself for the long call ahead,
and then I dial her up on the speakerphone. While it
rings I trundle over to the bed and get my tray all
balanced on a pillow that puts it at a comfortable level. It
rings a few times, so I have the chance to put a few
pieces in the old boca, which makes me cough a little.
She picks up sort of outta breath, and seems kind of not
herself:
MOM: (real strict) Hello. Hello who is calling please.
RAY: ACK HACK KHACKH ACK HACHK
MOM: Raymond! Drink a glass of water!
RAY: HRRRHKAKH HRKHAKH
HRRR-R-R-R-RHR-HR-HR
MOM: RAYMOND!
RAY: (tries to slug from Moët bottle, which is a mistake,
156
as it explodes out of my nostrils and dribbles from my
lower eyelids) SQWRF! PFFFFFFFFFFPFFFFPFTTTHTTTH
MOM: Raymond, can you hear me? Are you drinking?
RAY: No, mom! No drinking here!
MOM: Is that Coca Cola, then? You always did drink
Coca Cola a bit too fast. It will rot your teeth, Raymond.
RAY: It's diet, mom! It's diet! [places hand over phone
and vomits tiny piece of calamari that has a huge piece
of dried chili pepper flake stuck to it] [slaps chest twice]
So how you been!
MOM: Are you okay?
RAY: Yeah, mom! But how YOU doin'?
MOM: I've left you seven messages, Raymond!
RAY: Aww, mom! We gon' talk about that or are we
gonna talk?
MOM: I just don't see why you can't call your mother
back.
RAY: I am callin' you back! Right now!
MOM: Why didn't you return my calls?
RAY: I am, right now!
MOM: I called you seven times!
RAY: And I'm returning those calls!
MOM: I don't see why you can't call your mother back.
157
RAY: I. AM. ON. THE. PHONE. WITH. YOU. RIGHT.
NOW.
MOM: I just wish you'd call me back, is all.
RAY: Well, maybe I'll call you sometime!
MOM: Raymond! Did you just sass me?
RAY: No, mom.
MOM: Good.
RAY: Sorry, mom.
MOM: Good boy, Raymond.
RAY: Did you have a good Thanksgiving?
[seventeen hours of Mom talking]
RAY: Uh huh. Well, I guess we all hope that the troops
get home safe.
MOM: That's right. Now, I have to get back to Circle.
RAY: What's Circle?
MOM: It's my workout gym. A bunch of ladies my age do
a weights-circuit. It's all planned out.
RAY: So long as you enjoy it!
MOM: I love you, Raymond. Thank you for calling.
RAY: I love —
MOM: [click]
158
159
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16, 2005
Happy holidays...to everybody! That's right,
everybody!
Hey, there! Happy holidays to you! And you there,
behind the big leather chair! Happy holidays to you too!
Yes, I see you! Ha ha! I saw you peeking around the
corner!
Happy holidays to Brian Merriwether of 608 Scanlon, in
Ardmore, Pennsylvania. I just looked you up at 411.com
by guessing that someone had that name. I don't know
you, and you don't know me, but that's what Christmas is
all about. Good will to fellow man, be he stranger or foe.
Happy holidays to the next 500 people who drive past
my house. Seriously! Wave — if I see you, I'll wave
back. Person #501? Happy holidays to you too, but I'll
probably have gone back inside. It's nippy around here
at 10PM.
Happy holidays to anyone who is in a CT Scan machine
right now, at this exact moment. I hope it's nothing
serious.
Happy holidays to the dude at Crispy Wok who totally
fucked up my last order of mu-shu. Rinse out the damn
wok after makin' nasty-ass fish dishes! I threw that gross
mu-shu in the trash.
Happy holidays to EVERY Italian.
Happy holidays to racists. (This one is tough for me, but
I'm a man of my word.)
And lastly, happy holidays to you, for readin' this. I want
you to pour yourself out a Doublewide With A
Foundation, which is kind of like a An Angel Got His
160
Wings, except you substitute sweet vermouth for dry
vermouth.
I LOVE THIS NUTTY OLD PLANET! DO YOU HEEEAR
MEEEEEEE PLAAAAAAAAAANET
-=RAY=-
161
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 25, 2005
Damn fine Christmas news!
Good news, everybody! Not only was Christmas fun, but
I got a great update from a dude I been workin' with to
publish a new book concept I had! Read on, but only if
you hate information that sucks.
So, for a while now I been pitchin' this idea to Simon &
Schuster and various other publishin'-arena Daddy
Warbucks. My dude at Cantnell Osovich Derillio finally
bit, and this spring you should be seein' a hilarious yet
important new title on the shelves: Brand New Words
and the Celebrities That Created Them!
As you may know, one of my hobbies is living on the
outside edge of the evolution of language. Here's a little
excerpt from my foreword:
Dear Reader,
Somewhere between an accepted, clearly-defined word, and a
total nonsense group of sounds, lies the area in which new
language takes hold. Shlemiel. Shlimazel. Chochacho. At one
point, none of these words was considered more than nonsense.
However, today, they represent powerful concepts that all can
agree on.
More often than not, a celebrity brings these new word-ideas
(WORDES) to the public via their great means of visibility (tv,
radio, ads, etc). Their wordes may be mistakes because of a
quick confusion of the mind, or they may be intentionally
constructed after hours sitting at a writing desk with the OED.
Either way, their flowering malaproetry deserves a showcase.
This book is that showcase. Note how it is bound in "clearlamb,"
which is what Tom Sizemore once insisted was the word for the
tanned skin of an unborn lamb, as he talked full-tilt with
friends outside of an L.A. nightclub.
[...]
You and I are on a journey, and language is both our coach and
162
our impossible goal. Speaking the English language is like
jumping a sports car through a gap in a quickly-passing train,
only to find that on the other side is a table full of girls from the
Clinique counter who get quiet and then call you "random."
I hope you buy this book. I know I did.
Ray Smuckles
Achewood Estates, California
December, 2005
163
TUESDAY, JANUARY 03, 2006
Crazy-ass Raccoons!
Daaaamn! I was just out on the back deck when all of a
sudden, beneath the boards, something like sixteen
crazy raccoons started havin' little squeaky rape-babies
and growlfights! I mean, I don't know exactly what was
goin' on, but that was my mental impression. I stood out
there with a broom in one hand and a brick in the other
and just made all kinds of sure that they didn't get
anywhere near my door. After a spell a pretty fat raccoon
dude charged off across the yard and up a fence, and
the fight sounds stopped, and all that was left was
squeaky little baby raccoon chitter.
Is it a thing that the man raccoon makes fighting sounds
while his little raccoon kids are gettin' born? Because I
don't think he was actually fightin' anyone. I think he was
just showing what a loud stud he could be. Totally
low-class, you know. After a while his wife was all like
"Steve would you PLEASE go get some wipes from the
gas station! This baby is here NOW!" And Steve was all
like "squitter squeek hell yeah I gonna go get some
wipes now that I made all my badass sounds."
Anyhow, I might flash my Maglite down between the
boards over there tomorrow to make sure there ain't no
corpses or whatever, in case I actually mis-heard a bad
gangfight or weird extreme fetish group all into
mortal-ponyboyin' or deathsmothers. Raccoons are real
crass, gettin' into just the lowest of stuff, and almost
*always* on other people's property.
164
THURSDAY, JANUARY 12, 2006
Damn raccoon made a dog bark!
I was out on the back deck havin' a smoke just now
when I heard another damn raccoon messin' around
beneath me. Needless to say I hadn't bothered stickin'
my head down there after the last time, so I never really
took care of the problem, although I did try takin' a leak
over where they were, to try and do that "markin'" thing.
I'd been havin' Amstels, though, and my scent might
have been kind of diluted, cause obviously this dude
wasn't scared. I guess I wouldn't be too worried about a
bunch of digested Amstel Light layin' on the dirt, either.
Anyhow, I got kind of mildly pissed and yelled down at
the dude.
RAY: What the hell, sucker?! You KNOW this ain't your
damn house! You know this is MY house!
RACCOON: squitter squeek squeek
RAY: I KNOW you heard me! Your kind didn't make it
this far not bein' able to tell when a dude was pissed!
RACCOON: chitteroo! chit chit! squiteeeek-eek-eek!
RAY: Yeah, I know you only got dog-type language, but
it ain't like you don't hear the tone in this voice!
RACCOON: teek-teek-teek! teek teek!
RAY: [alternates slapping open palms on chest, like a
gorilla] Ray! Ray! Ray!
RACCOON: squiteek! chitter-pik!
RAY: I...AM...RAY!
165
RACCOON: [chewing on something]
RAY: I PEE HERE. THIS IS MY LAND. DON'T MESS
WITH THE RULES.
RACCOON: [silent]
RAY: GO AWAY.
RACCOON: squitter squeek squeek! [it sounds like he's
stepping on tin foil]
RAY: Damn raccoons. [goes inside]
So, again, not too much progress with the raccoons, but
a dog next door started barkin' at him too, and pretty
soon the whole dog switchboard lit up, and I wouldn't be
surprised if the whole nation was listenin' to the "dog
Internet" barking five minutes from now. I bet this could
be scientifically tracked, how a single dog bark in like
Japan could wind up with a little Corgi barking in
Buckingham Palace like six hours later, and the queen
slaps him on the nose, and the Corgi is like, "Well, shit,
dude. I was just sayin'."
Anyhow, kind of complicated thought. Sorry. Totally 90s
of me.
166
FRIDAY, MARCH 31, 2006
It is a damn fine evening.
Hey, Chochachos.
It is maybe not even twice in every five years a man has
a feeling like this. All our spent dudes who came out to
congratulate us on the Great Outdoor Fight finally
wobbled they' asses home, some like T havin' actually
slept less than us, and all kinds of a mess. Me and Beef
stayed at the low-key festivities 'til the end, both knowin'
we kind of had to wrap up and rap on it before we hit the
hay. Once Lyle had done his thing with the cops, and old
Cornelius made fishin' plans with somebody, we sat real
calm at that boss Smith & Hawken teak I got by the pool
and lit up a few quiet ones. He took off his busted-up
woodshop goggles and set them on the table. It was cold
Epilogue.
Thing was, we neither could say the big-ass things you
got to say at times like this. Ain't no eloquent-assed
Ralph Fiennes gonna be playin' my part as I go, "dogg,
that was a stone fuck." And ain't no war-weary Laurence
Fishburne gonna be pullin' off some dusty goggles as he
replies, "I ain't pooped in five days. Excuse a man."
But the thing is, we stuck out and dapped and he walked
kind of shaky to the pool house, which is unusual 'cause
he is always so steady, and I made my way upstairs for
a real hot and thorough shower. Old dust flowed down
the drain in long dark streams, and I the hell felt much
rejuvenated. That kind of rejuvenated where you
immediately want to fall into crisp white sheets, though. I
just wanted to tap this down before the moment escapes
me. Tomorrow I fully expect a well-rested us will hold
court a little more fully. For now, no man in the world has
earned his bedtime like I have, and I am going to
SLEEP.
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TUESDAY, APRIL 25, 2006
I can't decide if I like helicopters or not.
So, a little while back I mentioned this dude
Imaginationn, a cognac roller with a posse who I often
see down at Hidden Hills. We're kinda familiar, I'll
comment on the new bespoke options for the Maserati
Quattroporte, he'll clip us a couple Cohibas, you know
the style. Anyhow, last weekend I'm down at the
clubhouse tryin' to find which pocket of my bag I put my
keys in (truth be told, I was pretty smoked up on the
Jamaican tumbleweed, so it's a good thing I didn't find
'em), when I notice that a certain area of the parking lot
is cordoned off and a few security dudes are at the
perimeters. The cords weren't around my car, so I knew
they hadn't seen me burning that bowl off the 15th and
eating that sneaked-in salami sandwich, which made me
feel like celebrating with some Chateauneuf-du-Pape at
the clubhouse while my memory cleared.
So there I am, havin' not only gone in for the wine but
also nibbling on some juicy porterhouse with merchant
potatoes, when the whole place starts to get this subtle
rattle. Like when you're ridin' in a car that gets a flat, and
you think a helicopter is above you? Only this time, it
really was a huey. I went outside to see what foreign
dignitary or oil executive might have been touchin' down
in my back yard, and slipped a couple of my slick new
"name-only" business cards in my pocket (you know, the
kind where you hand-write a personal, private number
on the card based on the recipient).
By the time I get out there, a little crowd has formed
around the landed huey and who is gettin' out of the
pilot's seat but Imaginationn. Damn. That is a hell of
classy move. We're talkin' next-level, here. Any chud
with a couple hundred bucks can pull up in a rented
Rolls, but landin' your own chopper? Stone-cold
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unquestionable. Oh, and before you ask: his logo, two
roses making love to a clock, is on the tail. (It's kind of
hard to describe. There's no penetration, or motion lines,
but the idea comes across real clear.)
Right away, I know how to play it. It's his first time landin'
his bird here, and he's gonna be high on the rush. I get
back into the clubhouse dining room before he can see
me. Before long he wanders in by his lonesome, and I
glance up from my magazine and steak.
"That your bird I heard outside?" I ask.
"Mm-hmmm," he replies. "Real smooth. Lovin' it. Best
investment I ever made."
"Maybe we take it out later and you help me look for my
drive on thirteen," I say, smooth as day. (The tee shot on
the 13th hole is along this huge ravine, and what with my
hook lately, I been sendin' a lotta balls down that way,
and a lot of people are familiar with my problem, which is
becoming something of a local phenomenon.)
"You got it," he says, flyin' his classic handset hand jive
sign. He walks off to the bar and orders a neat
Herradura and some chicken goujons. Dude's style is
live. I never would have thought to pair those two, but I
immediately realize that the lime-chipotle relish the club
serves with the crispy golden goujons matches perfectly
with the tequila. Every movement of his is a statement of
proof that the dude has polish seven layers deep. The
dude has lacquer.
Since I'm the only other dude in the dining room he
comes and sits opposite me at the table. No "may I," just
an understanding between gentlemen that to have sat at
any other table would have been a social abomination.
Pretty soon he's offerin' to take me up in his ride and we
go. He talks the talk and gets me a date at the
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dealership in Tempe. I'm jazzed. But now that I'm home,
I'm...I'm of two minds about it. I won't kid you.
One the one hand, helicopters are fabulous. They are
like the pedestrians of the plane world, all able to land
anywhere, at any small resort or rooftop party. The
helicopter is basically your ticket to any gig in the world,
'cause who is gonna turn away the guy that shows up in
a half-mil piece of equipment. Everyone wants to know
that man.
On the other hand, if a helicopter's engine goes out, you
don't just float there like Mickey Mouse, all unaware that
he's just walked off a cliff. A helicopter does not glide to
a delicate stop. You are stone cold tuna-can meat,
perhaps on fire for several minutes after crashing, your
lips and ears doing that Raiders of the Lost Arc
covenant-opening thing.
So, at this point, I really want to consider the copter, but
for some reason I have developed this itchy phobia
about them. I'm not really a phobia person, but it's like a
gear in my head is sticking. Normally I'd just have the
thing delivered, but something is telling me, "stay away."
I don't know. I need to think about this. I shouldn't just
buy a helicopter because Imaginationn got one. A
helicopter is serious.
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WEDNESDAY, MAY 17, 2006
My favorite personal sports
Alright, so I ain't gonna lie. I stone cold do not enjoy
jogging, or distance swimming, or marathons, or most of
the other main ways of keeping in shape. They are
amazingly boring, to the point where someone should
write a coffee table book that examines why the main
popular exercises make you want to bury your feet in
cement and hop off a pier. What we need in this day and
age are some sports that are fun, where you don't even
notice the time passing. I give you:
1. Badminton.
Everyone, but everyone, can play badminton. It is like
tennis, but the birdie is way less crazy and doesn't
bounce all over the place if you miss it. You can almost
always get to it before it lands. And the court is smaller
than tennis, so you won't turn into a big grouchy jerk with
spine problems, like Ivan Lendl, who is way rough on his
kids.
2. Tomato Tennis
Alright, so you're reading my blog, and you're like, "what
is Tomato Tennis? Is that a thing from Letterman?" No,
man! It's my fun sport that I invented. The idea is that
you stand almost thirty feet away from your friend, and
they have their mouth open, and you try to throw ripe
tomatoes in. Ripe tomatoes are extremely soft, and
cannot cause injury at any distance. If you get a tomato
in, you have scored a Tomato Tennis Point. Three points
wins the match.
3. Kites
You may laugh, but a kite can be a real calorie burner.
You ever get one of those suckers up into the air and
then just follow it for a few hours, like a sky-dog? I'm not
mainly a dude who will say to ingest LSD, but a healthy
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serving of THC will serve as a great gateway to deciding
to see how a kite acts over a period of several hours.
I'd write more, but I want to go downstairs and eat some
fresh gourmet hot dogs that I bought today. I got these
specific rolls to go with them, they are just so right.
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THURSDAY, MAY 25, 2006
I got to quit settin' myself up for a disaster.
Alright, so I was down at T.G.I. Friday's, and that ain't
normally a hang for me, but I was needin' some fried
artichoke hearts in a bad way, and ain't nothin' better to
go with some artichoke hearts and ranch dip than some
sweet-ass rum and Cokes. Yeah — that drink totally cuts
through the lingering fry taste, and hella cleanses up the
palate for the next bite. Scientists call it symbiosis.
It was around eleven-thirty, and it was pretty much all
families and kid birthday parties in there, but I had a little
booth to myself in the back corner and was able to read
my USA Today in peace. The hearts showed up, with my
rum and Coke, and I was poised. I had my fork in my
hand. I hit the hearts, still sizzlin', with a dash of salt and
squeezed a little lemon into the ranch. I flattened out an
article about some kid in Ohio who's the national sit-up
champ, so I could read it with no hands. I sunk the fork
into the tender, crispy heart, wiggled it just so perfectly in
the sauce, and raised it to my mouth.
Some damn guy was standing there drawing my picture!
He had on this Uncle Sam top hat, and a checkered
tailcoat, and a big goofy necktie that was like eleven
inches wide. I told him to cut it out, didn't he see it wasn't
my birthday and that I wasn't five, and that I had a rum
and Coke, but then he spun some bummer rap on me.
He looked over his shoulder to see that the manager
wasn't around, then said all these sad things about
needing to raise money to finish art school and he had
no rent money and even some stuff about his mom
recently having passed. Just to get Whiney Dan outta
my face I stuck a ten-spot in his coat pocket (still sewn
shut, of course, so I had to just drop it onto his clipboard)
and awkwardly ate my hearts in silence as he finished
the portrait. Man, I had to strangle every damn bite down
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my throat, what with this kid obviously starin' at my face,
knowing that he had just bared his (possibly fake) soul to
me and I was sitting there eating a salty little treat and
having a cocktail. It was real uncomfortable — I don't
even think I tasted the food.
When he was done he handed me the sketch, which
was actually pretty decent — although he made my nose
way too big — and said that he worked for tips. That kind
of pissed me off so I pointed out that the ten-spot had
been his tip, and he just walked away. Just walked
away. Jesus, kid, you're gonna get exactly nowhere bein'
a cock to people who just gave you ten dollars to draw
them with a nose the size of a baseball.
I already had bad memories of the drawing, so I looked
around at all that knicknack crap they got on the walls at
TGI Friday's, and found a framed picture of Annie
Oakley that seemed about the right size. I tore it outta
the wall (no small feat considering all the screws they
use to hold their stuff down), inserted my picture, then
worked it back into its original mounting place. I stuck
the picture of Annie Oakley (cut outta some elementary
school history book, can you believe it?!) to the gum on
the bottom of the table, dropped some cash, and
dodged. Don't you hate it when something as simple as
a lame guy ruins something for you?
Man, I bet that guy didn't even work there. I bet he has a
thing where he tells the manager he was hired by one of
the eighty-five birthday parties goin' on. Not like a
manager at T.G.I. Friday's cares about anything other
than going home, doing crank and watching The
Terminator DVD on 4X speed, mind you, but still.
Anyhow, the upshot is that I'm gonna get a recipe about
making fried artichoke hearts at home, and I already
know how to make rum and Cokes, and I'm gonna hire
Téodor to draw my caricature while singing O sole mio.
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He may want to use Adobe Illustrator on his laptop,
which is fine with me, so long as he's singin'.
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WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2006
I owe the world a damn favor.
Alright, I can't even be bothered to look up when the last
time was that I wrote about my regular Friday night
party. Truth be told, I missed a few. I been damn busy
lately, and ain't always brought any game come the
weekend. Not anymore. Not this week. It is Wednesday,
and I am going to put ALL of my emotions and reasoning
into this bash. I may explode an actual bomb — I don't
know. But you can see the scale I'm thinkin' on.
First off, I'm gonna call the event ENORMOUS BY RAY
SMUCKLES. That will be the name of the party. There
will be no small beverages. Everyone will be handed an
unlabelled magnum-size bottle of whatever they order at
the bar, even if it's gin and tonic (the bottle will have a
shoulder strap, made out of a modified guitar strap, like
a bota bag). This should get everyone enormously
honked up and making bold claims by 9pm.
The food will be enormous: I've got this special
Japanese dude who is making "six-meter noodles," one
long continuous udon in hot-ass broth. And instead of
deep-fried shrimp, we gonna do deep-fried lobster tails,
which curl up like shrimp, only crazy-large, and with an
aioli dipping sauce. Did you say that you want Eggs
Benedict? Well, ours is made with a poached ostrich
egg, served on top of a ham steak the size of an LP,
over a special English muffin flown in from Brazil. It's
served with three pints of Hollandaise. I recommend it
for groups of 20-30.
"Yeah, yeah, so your food and beverage is enormous,
but what else? What else can you really do that is big?"
Well, read on, sucka.
You know how most parties have an entertainment
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portion? And how it would be, like, "enormous" to have
U2 or the Rolling Stones? Well, that's all fine and good,
but it ain't enormous enough for me. No, I think a little
larger. I had some of my guys at Pixar Beyond Demand
(a renegade project group in-house at Pixar) figure out
how we could have a massive 3D hologram of unlikely
duets by famous singers who never met. We gonna
have Jim Morrison coverin' "The Humpty Dance" with
Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. We gonna have Sting
dressed as a human-size keyboard, and he hits the keys
that run up and down his body, which play the notes of
his own voice, and he performs Little Richard's "Tutti
Frutti" in the classic hambone body-slappin' style. Some
of his slappin' gets insanely fast. Oh, and for a closer we
gonna have a hologram of George Michael gettin'
arrested in a public bathroom, but not for what you'd
expect. Let's just say it involves Marvin Gaye and some
sweet, sweet sangin'. You'll just have to attend.
I'd write more but I am much into designing the outfit that
I'm gonna wear. It ain't my regular Fila track suit, shower
shoes, and precious metal accents. I got to go all-out
this time. I may travel through the party, strapped to a
gurney pushed by six hot-ass vixens, a Cristal IV
plugged into my arm. Strapped down like I was crazy,
you know, and I just might be, mainlinin' champagne
through a very real and very dangerous direct-tobloodstream IV.
I got to fly it like that, I got to flap it like that. For something to be truly ENORMOUS, something massive has to
be on the line. In this instance, it's my own brain. I may
hit you up with a review next week, but I may not, you
know?
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MONDAY, JULY 03, 2006
What in the damn hell is going on around here?
Yeah, so last I posted, I was hosting ENORMOUS BY
RAY SMUCKLES on Friday. Huge layout for food and
bev, incredible entertainment, the works. I even planned
it a few days before usual, so people could clear their
calendars.
Not a damn single person showed up. I had the roaming
searchlights in the sky, the text messagin', the phone
tree, the email service announcements, the works.
Everybody with a heartbeat and one functioning iris
knew about this party.
The bartender stood there, chewin' on his nails. The
udon guy, Fukuya, got pissed as batch after batch of his
six-meter noodles got overcooked and mushy. He
cussed real often and threw the ruined food directly onto
the ground out in front of his little stand. And yeah, you
guessed it, we basically tossed about two grand worth of
deep-fried lobster tails.
I had figured that people would be millin' and chillin'
large without my presence, so I didn't have the vixens
wheel me in on my gurney until about 11. Imagine my
confusion as they pushed me around the empty
grounds, the Cristal IV fully patched into my arm. At first
I thought I was just hallucinatin' from the booze, but then
I realized that the vixens were kind of acting weird, and I
could tell they were not down with pushing a rich guy
around his empty party on a gurney. I will be honest with
you: I felt WAY awkward.
Long story short, we threw away much food later that
night, and I got like no idea where everybody was. Not
even my bros showed, my tight crew like Beef and T.
Can you believe I actually spent some time around 2am
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trying to use Google to see why my party sucked?
Weird, doggs. I'm feelin' weird about all this. What in the
hell?
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WEDNESDAY, JULY 19, 2006
I'm just bloggin', you know?
Man, I am doin' this right. I got a mimosa all fresh by my
side, some chubby Marvin Gaye on the speakers, and
even a little snack bowl of peanuts and cashews. My
fingers are just flutterin' over the keys as I type this. The
window's open, and a cool breeze is helpin' me relax on
this stone cold mellowed day. I am bloggin' in real-time; I
wish you could read this word for word as I write it, my
pacing is so smooth and even. Daaamn, I wonder what
idea I will come up with to blog about?
Oh, crap. That's right. Leo from the Caddy dealership
just died. Man, I keep meanin' to set aside proper time to
mourn the dude, but I been real busy lately. It's like, I
know I got to mourn my boy Leo, and I better do it before
services on Sunday, 'cause I got to give a real proper
eulogy and people are gonna be able to tell if I ain't
mourned yet. If I don't, my speech will be filled with
cliches and lame jokes about the "big Beach Boys
reunion tour in the sky, Leo all in his white shorts and
favorite red Hawaii-print shirt, double-fisting Herradura
margaritas." You don't say something like that if you
have class. No, I got to dig down deep and wonder
about the thin line between bein' alive and bein' a dead
body.
Anyhow, let me blog about somethin' else. Did you know
that I haven't seen the Simpsons in over two years? It's
like, I like that show, and I always enjoy it, but for some
reason it stopped bein' a part of my routine. I wonder
what replaced it? What if...what if it was bloggin'? Is that
what I do with my spare time now? I been doin' this blog
for over two years...damn, that's it! I'm gonna cut out this
damn blog entry right now and go watch Simpsons. I
hope it's that one where somebody tries to steal that
janitor dude's grease and he gets all wigged out.
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SUNDAY, JULY 23, 2006
Leo's service.
Alright, so like I said, I finally had the chance to mourn
the dude. I ain't need to talk about it; you ain't interested.
Long and short of it is that I finally got a proper eulogy
together, and I gave it on Sunday, down there on the #1
fairway, with all Leo's dudes in attendance, plus some
guys from the handicap trials, and his mom, Dolores
(Doris? Sorry).
Here is the text of my eulogy. It was hard. Man, it is a
stone fuck to put a cadaver into the future with your
words. I didn't like any part of it.
LEO FONTANETTE
A EULOGY BY RAY SMUCKLES
--Leo's family came from Italy, in 1971. He was one. Their
name was Fontanettini then, on the papers. Yes, his
family was Italian. One imagines large dinners and the
huge faces of friends, of the old country. Garlic bread.
Fresh salami from the butcher. Grandma sneaks you
another piece while she is cooking her famous Salami e
Bruschetta.
Leo was a lot of fun, and he knew how much he wanted
to eat, always. I mean, I ain't gonna count calories, but
the dude played it bad sometimes. Damn.
Okay, I want to say some fun times I had with Leo. Fun
times we had. There was that time in Vegas, with the
modified automatic rifles at the outdoor shooting range.
For a dude who swore by American cars, I have never
seen a man blow so many holes in his rented PT
Cruiser. I mean, he actually got inside and shot the
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interior of the car, then popped the hood and shot the
engine bay at least fifty times. We weren't even
supposed to take the rifles off the range, but as he
walked outta the stalls he just threw his wallet on the
ground and said, "Charge me. Like I give a shit." That
was classic Leo. The dude was sure about things. I
didn't edit that.
In Leo's memory we have a message: love life while we
have it. Do what you want. I wish every child across this
land had Leo's bold approach; maybe then we would
already be done in Iraq.
But enough of that. Temper your approach to life with a
sensibility about calories. Calories are the reason that
my friend Leo isn't with us today. Damn you, Leo. Damn
you for makin' me wait 'til I get to see you again.
Thank you, everyone.
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TUESDAY, AUGUST 08, 2006
Don't huff!
Damn, I just was downtown pickin' up these new pillows
for my media center couch (the old ones were
completely squashed and stank like a nightclub), and I
saw these two "huffers." You know — two dudes who
live kind of in a bad mis-planned alley behind a gas
station, like one that backs up against a creek, and cops
can never drive back there and scare them away. They
sit back there all day spraying spray paint into paper
bags and then huffing the fumes, and all their teeth are
gone, and they have "crazy-look" eyes, with that smile
like a Hanna-Barbera dog who has *just* been smashed
on the head with a shovel. I don't know how these dudes
get by, but they seem to operate in pairs, like a couple of
old modems that are constantly shooting streams of
either exclamation points or question marks at each
other, and somehow they find a balance.
Well, you know me, curious old Ray. I am always
fascinated by the real gone ones, the souls who looked
in the gutter and said, "let's do this." Maybe you
remember my old story about drinkin' with Punch Man.
Anyhow, I picked up a half-rack of Molson from the gas
station, and plonked on down with the Huffs. They ain't
violent types, I didn't have to worry.
The main huffer, who I'll call Joël, pushed his hand
playfully around the base of my shoe as I sat there
sipping on my Molson and trying to offer him one. He
was like a chimp, playfully exploring my personal space.
It was as though he had shaved about five million years
off his mental evolution. His support huffer, who I'll call
Pfiggin, in kind of an elf-sense, watched us both for
signs of change (for example, when I would offer Joël a
Molson, Pfiggin would notice, and then he would look at
me).
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Joël never really got that he was supposed to take the
Molson, which confused Pfiggin, who got upset and
stayed silent. Joël got tired of my shoe after a few
minutes and real rudely stood up, only he didn't really do
it right, so he staggered to the left for about twenty feet. I
wrote off the Molson and rolled. It was sad, man. Two
guys long gone on solvents. Ain't no comin' back, ain't
no helpin'. Man, this is like doubly depressin' after all that
crap with Leo, to see actual *livin'* dead. What is goin'
on here? Why am I so tormented? This crap is, like,
German.
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SATURDAY, AUGUST 26, 2006
My friend made a sex magazine! Read it!
Man, I am pretty happy for Roast Beef today. Dude is
makin' big strides in the publishing world, good first
steps. Dude just released the second copy of his 'zine!
Here's some backstory on how my crazy computer
programmin' friend actually has a first love of printin'
sass by the pound.
First, in early days, he was always makin' small booklets
of our times, like maybe just a page folded over and a
fake cover with a title like "CRUDDY CHRONICLES" that
had a decent drawing of him sticking his hand about
halfway into a rain gutter spout and making a shocked
expression.
After that he did THE PRIVATE EYE in high school, and
that actually got a lotta people talkin'. He would break
stories the main school paper wouldn't carry, like about
how the social studies teacher jacked off. He always had
a flair for that stuff.
Then for a while he just sent pretty funny emails to
everyone, like for years, and you could tell he still liked
to tap-and-sass. Me and the fellows would even talk
sometimes, when he wasn't around, about his funny
lines or the certain way he had used an uncommon but
normal word, like "scrounge." He would use a word like
this against a backdrop of incredibly simple language,
kind of like the word was a lovely red hat or screaming
blue policeman in the center of a pure white gymnasium.
You could tell the dude liked to type and trot out words
like they were unexpected steaks in a communist
building. Anyhow.
Now he's got his 'zine thing goin' strong and I am proud
of the dude. I don't agree with the scope of his vision,
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but I can certainly appreciate a player poundin' it out
even when nobody cares. Dude keeps it real, and
doesn't risk much money. Dude plays it tight. That's my
boy. My boy is Roast Beef, and he has so much sense
he can barely get outta bed each day.
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WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 08, 2006
Butter, where have you been all my life?
No, I ain't met some sex club worker named Butter,
though you could believe that. I'm talkin' 'bout fat little old
mister butter—spread him on toast, melt him on noodles,
drizzle him the hell on popcorn. You know what I'm on
at, and you afraid to listen, ain't you!
You see, what with the health craze of the last couple
decades, butter totally got shoved aside while people
pretended to eat baked potato chips and olive oil. Don't
get me wrong—olive oil has its place. That place is at
the store, while you are buying butter. Remember how
for a while people were sayin' you shouldn't eat eggs?
And now they say you should constantly eat eggs or
you'll die? Yeah, it's like that. You should eat what
makes you happy (except fatties, who should the hell
take a damn walk), and let the health press duke it out
on the newsstands, which you don't patronize, 'cause
newspapers and magazines have to say bad and scary
stuff about everything or they'll get bought out by
Reader's Digest Large Type Edition.
Anyhow. Man, I been thrillin' in the kitchen with butter.
And I ain't took it too hard on the waistline, either. It's
like, the whiny newspapers and celebrity diet books have
us all in constant confusion about food, but once in a
while you get that 2001: A Space Odyssey moment, like
the ape with the bone who beats the ass of an ape who
had no bone, and you go...BUTTER! BUUUUTTTTTERRRRRR!
I'm picturin' this: I'm an Amazonian tribesman, all in
some loincloth with a snake necklace, and I'm runnin'
through the jungle with this fresh grilled whole snapper in
my hand. I stumble into a clearing, and rising up into the
sky before me is a ten-foot tall stick of butter, the size of
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a fridge. I drag the sizzling-hot fish across the butter,
then devour one side of it. As the melted butter and fish
juices run down my face, I fall to my knees and scream
to the heavens: "BUUUUTTTTTERRR!"
You know, that sounds like a good opening to a movie.
The rest of the movie could be in the present day, about
this guy who believes in butter but keeps getting doors
slammed in his face. At the end of the movie, he lowers
his vegan nemesis into melted butter, then laughs as the
hours pass and the fat sets and the vegan's body is
slowly crushed.
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THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 2006
I forgot everything I knew about computers!
Yo, peppers! I finally did it! A little while back, I learned a
ton about computers. I'm talkin' from parity bits to the
delicious seven layers of a TCP/IP stack. I even was
gonna meet with a guy who taught introductory compilin',
a secretive master from the old school, flew by the
handle of 01100001-A. I was a super-fly "houndy-ass
root boy," totally setting the permissions for all kinds of
stuff—even starting to pwn on some users who had
gotten out of hand on my IRC. (And getting results, I
might add.)
One day I was buggin' on some l00p3r who'd been
spazzin' out about god knows what, and I kind of had an
awakening. I was like, "Hey! I ain't need no guff from
some fools in this improvised fake-scape! What the?! I
got to get into my yard and bust a fat jay and grill a pork
medallion so tender it trembles when a butterfly flaps its
wings in Japan!" (a chaos chop). I realized what a waste
of time my "virtual" life was, when I saw that I was
getting all my pleasure from changing "permissions" on a
typing line.
I could see the appeal of computer worlds, for sure. I'd
got in that far. You just learn a few words and ideas, and
all of a sudden you're, like, fast-tracked to a corner office
where a kid named @kr0n_12 wants to repeat
everything you say to everyone he knows (three guys
from the WHATS-YOUR-WPM boards). Hard to ignore
that kind of easy ass-jockeying. Shame on old Ray for
fallin' into another easy vice.
Anyhow, I been workin' with a hypnotherapist, and we
got me to the point where I no longer desire punchin' in
and batch-glockin' a bunch of eight-character goons with
some vengeful kill -9 action. You get me down in front of
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a command line terminal, the hell I want a ham sandwich
and a stroll 'round the pool. I find the whole concept
distasteful, but I do not condescend. My guy is good, he
has finesse. He keeps me gracious even in the face of
my ghosts.
Have a good weekend, everyone! It's great to be free of
computers again. I may hit the links, or drive a thousand
miles in a direction, or try to buy one of those golden
ducks with the hanged neck like they got in Chinatown.
Either way, you can bet that I will not be aware if Internet
avatars of Super Mario and Rivet Soldier Masobungyi
are mad at each other over "religion" in the General
Discussion channel.
-=RAY=-
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TUESDAY, DECEMBER 05, 2006
smallest party ever
Yo, so I'm still, in a way, gettin' over the failure of the
ENORMOUS BY RAY SMUCKLES party that I threw in
July. I swung so big and took nothin' but air?! Yeah, it
messed a dude up. For a while I was havin' actual
issues, settin' up parties that I knew were less than I was
capable of. One time, a single fondue bar for three
hundred people. Another, a pony keg of Mickey's and
Doritos as the only food. Beer lines snaking around the
property like a new ride at a goddamned non-Disney
amusement park, and crap for them at the end. I was
ashamed, I was low, and I did not mingle much. It was a
dark time, and I think every dude has those. Every dude
I care to talk to, anyway. Yeah, that's right — old Ray
been takin' himself through the wringer these days. But I
think I worked it out last Friday night.
Yeah, I threw no bash on Friday. Not for anyone else,
anyway. Gates locked, put out a few calls, had Mayor C
plant a few utility crews around the sidewalks of my
place to look like electrical or sewer was goin' on. I was
in my room, a little puffed, tryin' somethin' new.
Yeah, I threw the smallest party ever. Absolutely the
smallest. SMALL-N-TINY BY RAY SMUCKLES (original type was 3pt
Times). I had some of those small dancing stick-figure
pixel animations open in different browser windows on
my monitor (no stick figure more than eight pixels tall),
and I was at my desk with earbuds in (smallest way of
listening to music). I had dialed in a band I found that
played only one piano note every five seconds. Some
college thing. So little music. So little to listen to.
For food I put a cashew, a Goldfish cracker, and a Frito
on a small white coaster. To drink, I had that thimble
from Monopoly and I used an eyedropper to squeeze in
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Ketel One from a little airplane bottle. My one decoration
was a single chili-pepper light, powered off my USB. I
did not move from my chair for the duration of the party,
although at certain points I would quietly let out a little
"woo-hoo" or "uh huh" under my breath.
The party lasted exactly one minute, which is the
shortest measurable time a party can be said to last. In
that stripped-down space I gained a huge new
perspective on just how little it takes to have a good
time. I ain't even get to the Frito or cracker, because I
was cold focused on how nice the cashew tasted, all by
his lonesome, with just one single piano note fadin' away
in my ear. It was so...Japanese Nihongo. Minimalist. It
sounds lame when I say it, but that cashew was really
nice to eat, sitting at my desk with the tiny computer
pictures and drop of Ketel.
So I got some ideas for my next party, which will be real,
real subtle, but not so subtle that it surprises you. Even
the way you get told about it will be subtle. I may hire a
street team to personally tail each invitee for a day or
two, discover like a urinal or park bench they always
use, and then, like, write "Party at Ray's, 12/15" in the
grout, or Sharpie it on a scrap of paper taped to the
bench. Then, when they show up, this one older Asian
man each of them will have seen walk by immediately
after they saw the note will greet them warmly by first
and last name. Yeah, keepin' with the Asian theme.
Nice. The staff will all wear white, and little islands of
flowers and candles will float in the pool. Ooh, this is just
too good. This is like The Game good. I am SO not
giving any more away on my blog right now.
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WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 31, 2007
I am proud of that little man.
You know what? I am proud of Little Nephew. He got
himself a job drivin' pizzas around (for delivery), and he
has been making a good little income from it. Most
importantly, though, is that he's been at it for a couple
months now, and has never even gone in late, let alone
missed a day of work. That's the kind of values that our
grandparents used to have. Sometimes it's good when a
kid goes retro in a way that doesn't involve wearing your
old clothes in order to look hilarious to his friends.
He's down at Colonel Luigi's, this fusion pizza place
that's actually pretty all right. Couple times a year I golf
with Luigi Wong (he's half Italian and half Chinese) down
at the club, and he's got a real smart operation going.
Clean, books are good, and damn but if it don't run like a
clock. Guess that's the Chinese half. Anyhow, his pies
are killer. You can order a half pepperoni and
mushroom, half "ginger bee" (his ginger bees are little
fried popcorn chicken in a garlic/ginger sauce) and green
onion, or just a straight up fusion pie, like hot sausage
and spicy kimchee (you would think this is terrible, but
it's not). He even has this "crust two ways" deal, where
half the pie is a regular pizza, like bell pepper and ham,
and after cooking they fuse a half made outta that
steamed pork bun rice dough to it. On the fusion half
they got that sweet and sour pork bun filling, and they
sprinkle over some sesame seeds and chives. Damn but
if that ain't some tender, delicate, springy pizza. I got to
talk to him about franchisin'.
Anyhow, I just wanted to say that I am proud of Little
Nephew. I rarely get the chance, you know, what with
him always snappin' pictures of his crotch for MySpace,
or lyin' about drinkin' from the Chivas I use to clean the
rims on the Escalade. It's like, if I see him doin' somethin'
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actually good, I got to jump in there immediately before
he starts drunkenly snappin' pics of his crotch while
loggin' on to MySpace. Feel a man's pain, America. Feel
a man's pain, the world. This is the situation.
-=RAY=-
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FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 2007
I had a rad-ass day, m'buches!
Hey, you dig how I did that little African thing there,
callin' you all "m'buches"? Yeah, that's a thing I been
feelin' like sayin' lately. "M'buches." Rhymes with
smooches, but is still just a tiny bit hard. Don't worry,
you're all still my chochacho(a)s.
So, why was today rad? Well, I been on a lessons kick
lately. Like, I'll want to learn how to do something, and I'll
stone cold ring up a private teacher and they'll come
over and teach me. It's really that easy.
Here's who came over today ALONE! Like I tell you, I
been packin' lessons into nearly every daytime hour
lately, so don't act like I'm not telling the truth.
1) Muffin lesson. Thought it made sense to start the
morning off with a muffin lesson, since people always
nibblin' on muffins in the morning. I asked the guy if we
could work some bacon and cheese cubes into our
muffins, and pretty soon we had a rockin' breakfast
muffin. I made us some doubles from the Jura and we
chatted about how hard it is to quit smokin' (out of
politeness, I didn't have a cig until after he rolled).
2) Dumpling lesson. You know how good dim sum is,
right? Well, so do I. A couple days ago I called up this
guy Wayne Shoy and slotted him in for 11am-noon. We
did up some rude soup dumplings, and some pork buns,
and even some real tender beggars-purse type action.
He was hella fun and we even grilled up some dogs
before he left.
3) Calzone lesson. Ain't nothin' worse than a homemade
calzone by some lousy friend who thinks they can cook
just cause they bought a pizza stone. I had the guys
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from Pizza Bel Forno come on down and give me a real
thorough demo of everything from makin' the dough to
bakin' the show. As we were samplin' the finished
product I could tell they wanted some Sambucas, so that
was chill. They finally pulled out around four, which was
cool because my evening tamale lesson guy needed the
driveway space to set up his steamer cart.
Anyhow, I'm totally blissed on education, you know. At
my age, it's pretty good to think that I still got a whole
lifetime of lessons ahead of me. I ain't so arrogant as to
think that I already know it all. That is the main problem
that a person can have.
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TUESDAY, MARCH 06, 2007
NOTHIN'!
Man, today was TOTALLY unimportant! I just did
COMPLETELY regular stuff. Here, let me lay it out for
you -- it's so boring, it's almost hilarious:
1) Got up. Didn't want to, but sometimes a player just
has to roll with the punches. Tried to be humorous about
it, all makin' a pile of shavin' cream and then throwin'
Tylenols into it. Kind of made a mess.
2) Had to throw away my new talkin' pedometer durin' a
round of golf at Seven Pines. Just as I was drawin' up
into my backswing, the thing busted out with all this
calorie analysis chitchat, and Mayor C sprayed me with
his Coors. Honestly, this was my bad.
3) Saw a dude farmer-snottin' behind the bank. You
know, pushin' one nostril shut while blowin' the payload
outta the other one? Anyhow, I saw that.
That's about it. Hope you had a good day, or are havin' a
good day, or whatever (I know some people in Australia
read this).
-=Ray=-
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MONDAY, MARCH 19, 2007
That chump.
Yeah, Bacon of the Month Club, whatever. It's like
Onstad just discovered the post office. That amateur.
I'm sorry, I ain't all about hatin'. It's nice to see the guy
spread his wings a bit. I say this with a tummy fulla'
echidna banh mi, of course. Had my boy Vi Hao air drop
'em out by the bridge; I was coolin' it in the Caddy,
watchin' for his long-short-long tailsmoke. Player even
threw in some salt dung-cured Shetland short ribs. Love
that guy. I know he takes a loss on those, what with all
the trimming, so the gesture was super-large. Gesture
was krackety. Dude has pride in those ribs. All dungy.
So tasty.
Good luck with your bacon, Onstad. Good luck
mattering, that is. Bacon ain't exactly news in recent
centuries. Whoops, there I go again. Why I so crotchety?
Oh yeah, it's 'cause Onstad's frontin'. Dude has some
new bacon the way a kid joins the cub scouts: just weird
circumstances, no real passion.
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SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 2007
I went to a museum, doggs!
At first, it didn't seem like I was gonna go to a museum
today. I got up at like 5am so dehydrated that my eyelids
took literally three seconds to open or close (the eyelid
pulled slowly across the gummy eyeball like a slug), then
I went down to the kitchen and guzzled at least a pint of
ice cold Pellegrino. Man, never do that. I nearly fell over
as all of my blood dropped like fifty degrees and my
organs started lookin' around on medical websites to see
if they could find someone who would take better care of
them. I swear, I think I almost bit the dust.
After that I played it cool in bed for about six hours, just
on-and-off sleepin' and tryin' to mentally plan my
Saturday brunch feast. The usual calamari and bloody,
of course (fish is mad-good for the brain), but maybe
English chip-cut fries this time, along with my Eggs B.
Nice, right? Little newspaper goin' on, some French jazz
on the Bose...heaven. I got up, zipped into my dope new
Fila coveralls (they even got slipper feet sewn in), and
padded on down to the kitchen.
I cooked that action up BY MYSELF, HELLLOOOO
FOOD NETWORK, and, on a whim, picked up this
cheese-ass local paper that I never read. While flippin'
around in all the ads about sleep dentistry, Pink
Floyd-enhanced LASIK, and eight dollar halibut specials
at 3pm, I found this little "local interest" article about a
general store from the 1850s that had been preserved in
its original state and turned into a museum. It hit me, you
know? I was like, I had this sense of if I went there, I
would get an idea of how similar folks always been. They
wouldn't have iPods, or even disco roller-sluts headin'
south on ten kinds of Marky-Mark, but they'd have their
own kind of fun. Pretty soon I was in the Escalade, and I
even used my XM satellite to tune in the 1850s channel
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(Millard Fillmore, reprahZZZent!)
First up, the building was in this hilly, pretty dense area
with a ton of ancient oak trees, and not a lot of folks
were around. It seemed very 1850s, except for this one,
like, two story Lexus LX (ugliest SUV on the market, all)
with a Vuitton-sportin' mom wrestlin' a half dozen brats
into various types of kiddie seats. Already, just in the
presence of this old structure, I thought of how it would
have been in the day, some pioneer mom named like
Clarabelle shovin' twenty-six kids into their two story
CUS (Catholic-Utility Stagecoach) and lashin' wooden
crates of groceries onto the roof.
I stepped up onto the walkway that skirted the building,
and it creaked in this mad-dusty Clint Eastwood kind of
way. It was large, and I felt like I was there to shoot
whoever was running the museum. Amazing how
powerful squeaking wood can be. Eventually I found the
front door (back then, front doors of shops were just like
regular house doors, so to the modern eye they seem
like you should not just open them at random), and it
squeaked as I walked inside. That ancient smell of
varnish and dusty wood filled my nose as I walked
across the squeaking floorboards to the nearest display,
which was a tray of old extracted teeth that the town
dentist-grocer had removed for a dollar each. Not even a
glass case over them! Very cool.
I looked around the empty place to see who was in
charge, and there was this young dude with like a real
forced smile on his face, a real tight squint, standing
behind some kind of counter. I smiled at him, his own
tight smile intensified, and he nodded like a
half-millimeter. Real strange energy from that dude. I
looked at a display of old lumberjack saws (again - just
mounted bare on the wall, not even any ropes keepin'
you out of arms' reach), and some ancient pictures of
handlebar mustache dudes cutting down a tree twenty
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feet wide. I could feel the guy squinting from the other
side of the room, so I went into another room,
floorboards squeaking like crazy, where there were all
these ancient bottles of whisky and local wine on open
display, not even behind a glass shield. There, I thought.
Even before the transcontinental railroad, when San
Francisco was just a few muddy streets thirty miles
north, you could buy at least ten varieties of booze in this
small room in the middle of nowhere, a spot that was on
the way to nowhere. History, you're just like me.
I perused a set of framed ledgers, but I could still feel the
dude squinting, and kind of squeaking in place on a
noisy floorboard.
It was starting to get on my nerves, so I briefly looked at
a display of historical pants, slipped a fiver into the old
wooden barrel that said "donations," and squeaked my
way across the threshold. I looked back and said
"thanks" to the dude, and he just shot me the most
intensely squinty-eyed smile I have ever seen. Really
confusing. Why would anyone hire a guy like that? A
museum should be a mellow place.
I walked around the building, since there were more
outdoor displays, and real delicately the dude came out
a side door and kind of wince-walked a few steps before
noticin' me. When he saw me he pretended to check the
axle of this old ox wagon that probably hadn't moved in a
hundred years, and then carefully let himself back inside.
It hit me. The dude, workin' alone, had been in there for
hours with all those bratty kids and dangerous displays,
and hadn't taken a leak since god knows when. Every
second I had been in there had been agony for him.
There was only one right thing to do.
I squeaked my way back up the front walkway,
squeaked the front door open, and stood in front of his
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counter, arms crossed.
"I've been thinking," I said. "I want you to tell me
everything there is to know about this building. We can
go room by room, piece by piece."
This broke him. His squinty grin melted into a pleading,
begging face, one he couldn't control.
"First," I said, "let's start with the pisser."
I smiled, and let myself out again.
He got me, and as I was headin' to the Escalade I saw
him walkin'—with his knees essentially together—to a
modern outbuilding. I'll imitate it for you sometime if I
ever see you at a Friday party.
As I was drivin' away I saw that his car, the only other
one in the lot, was a pretty bad ten year-old fake Pontiac
sports sedan, all havin' some stickers about the
government holding a bake sale to buy a bomber, so I
slipped another fiver under his windshield wiper. I
wronged the dude—didn't read the signs—and even
though I was kind of interested in the museum, basic
protocol always comes first. Any Smuckles will tell you
that.
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FRIDAY, MAY 25, 2007
I had to put the push on the guy
Man, you know how Roast Beef is. Dude has talent ten
ways from Tuesday, plus he cleans up real good since
he walks all the time. He's got old-wired manners in all
areas and that World War-style ethic where he just does
not quit until he has got it right. Main Sentence: my boy
Roast Beef needs to get with his long-abidin' girl Molly.
You know me, I kruck down money on escorts and
chicks and basically play it single. It's my groove, and
nobody bugs. I'm flappin' it that way for now. Sure, I may
want the Thanksgiving table and beamin' pearl-earring
wife sooner or later — probably later — but to each at
his own pace, dig? It's different with Beef. Dude never
had a Place to be from, never had a swell situation. He
hella wants to nest, you can tell, but since he is who he
is he can't allow himself the right. Problematic. Some
types need pushin'. It ain't a Discovery Channel thing
where you ain't supposed to interfere with the animals
and watch as they starve to death — we all wound up in
each others' lives for some reason. I guess the dude's
got me around at least a little 'cause he likes that I'll give
him a push here and there when he needs it. Ain't
nobody no dummy when it comes to their root selves, be
honest.
New Paragraph
Anyhow, I think it's happenin' this time. Molly is stone
sick for the dude...alright, maybe not the best way to say
it. Molly ain't goin' nowhere, she is gone on him. Beef
ain't one to play the market, and he's lucky the right thing
landed in his bag on the first try. It's a match. Mega-bitter
ancient Chinese dudes on blankets, all lookin' at Zodiac
charts and stuff, they'd probably grin at this one. Just
some time now. Ain't like people half their age in worse
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situations ain't been makin' it happen since before time
began. Dude, just put the symbolic ring on. The real ring
went on basically when you met.
See you all at the ceremony/party. Should be big. I'm
gonna insist he does it at my place — I got mad plans for
the catering and traffic flow. Gonna be the best Friday
ever!
206
TUESDAY, JULY 10, 2007
Goin' to Australia.
I'm thinkin' bout goin' to Australia for a spell. Maybe a
month or so. Strap on some rude external-frame pack
from REI, some hella cush tennies, and a bedroll. I been
watchin' all this Aussie TV on YouTube and I got to tell
you, Australian people put the damn mack on. The
dudes are all like the friendliest jocks you ever met,
totally slapping your back the first moment they meet
you, and if they've had enough lager, they'll moon you
until you both god damn pass out on the floor. In the
morning you'll both wake up with a bad head on, and
they'll crack you a lager and go, "Aagh, crikey! After you,
mate."
The chicks? Man, they are harder than any American
chick, even a switchblade chicaloca from raw angles.
First of all, any Australian chick would shoot a goat in the
side with a rifle. That's number one. I don't mean they'd
do it out of spite; hell no. I mean they'd do it to kill the
goat in a real quick way, just hitting the heart, and before
you knew it they'd have that bad boy strung up and
bleedin' for Sunday dinner. Ask some raw angles
chicaloca to blow a goat away, you'll see what I mean.
You can't put question marks on the table, chica. They're
tough down there — they all intern on farms and
ranches, I think, instead of military duty (Australia has no
military that I've heard of — who's going to invade them,
Princess Cruise Lines?).
But not only are the chicks super-hard, they get up to
even more good fun than the dudes. And I mean DUDE
fun, not some Steel Magnolias french-braid-a-thon. All
chicks there play paintball, even the quiet ones (and
there ain't many of those), and they all will arm-wrestle
you. Sit next to some real-estate lookin' middle-aged
lady at a cafe table, plant your elbow, and you're on.
207
She'll beat you with a beer in her hand. A cold Foster's.
Then she'll get back to her niçoise salad and cell phone
call.
Yeah, I'm goin' to Australia. They got this resistance
swimmin' pool at the club — I'ma get a surfboard and go
see how well I can cut water. Build up the old triceps and
delts. Been a while.
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THURSDAY, JULY 12, 2007
Gettin' ready to go to Australia.
I tell you, man, I am seven kinds of beamed over my
upcomin' trip to Australia. I got me some thick-ass cotton
rugby shirts, you know, with the wide horizontal stripin',
and Thaddeus is even teasin' my short hair out so it's a
little tousled, like an Australian dude's. Got me a puka
shell necklace and some chunky-punk Blundstone
"Blunnie" boots, like all true Aussies wear. Hell, I ain't be
surprised if people pull up alongside me on the road and
ask for directions!
DRIVER: Say, mate, 's the Berra Borra petrol 'round this
way? We're just out from Adelaide on a driveabout!
ME: Heh! I'm from America!
DRIVER: [cracks a lager, hands it out the window]
Crikey! After you, mate!
The important thing to remember about Australia,
though, is that it is some tough-as-nails country. It's, like,
where all the nasty stuff from evolution went to go and
live in a trailer with a shotgun. They got ants that are
literally on fire, like a pilot light, all the time, and they got
a kind of shark that actually says runes when it jumps
out of the water. They got a type of bush there that will
rustle all night when you're sleeping near it and drive you
nuts. (You're not near it? It's silent. They've done tests.)
Oh, and did I mention the spider that can mimic the
tones of you keying your PIN number into a telephone
keypad? Okay, so I made that up, but in Australia, that
would be the LEAST treacherous animal.
One nice thing about Australia is all the solid music they
contributed to the scene in the '80s. (Before that, their
radio was mostly news about light aircraft failure.) You
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can joke me for playin' outside 'a my hip-hop comfort
zone, but Aussies claim much coin on Midnight Oil,
INXS, AC/DC, all that proper pop/rock stuff. They even
turned out Men at Work! You definitely know "I Come
From a Land Down Under" — they play that song at
inaugurations, when the bride walks down the aisle,
when they lower the casket, just any old chance they
get. It's a catchy tune, I can see why. Hope they didn't
waste too much money on some national anthem, all
locked up in the basement of some library somewhere.
Whoah, I just YouTubed the Australian national anthem!
No wonder they use Men at Work instead. Hello, winner
of the high school project. Your dad came, he's in the
car queue outside.
Damn. Maybe I can talk them into some new anthem
action. I see they were actually considerin' "Waltzing
Matilda" instead of this jerked-up Muzak thing. Jesus, if
a drinkin' song is your anthem then you're a Parrothead,
not a nation. I may bring a little lagerproof keyboard to
demo some ideas to them.
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TUESDAY, JULY 24, 2007
Australian Culture Lessons #1
Like I've said before, the main problem a person can
have (other than bone marrow disease) is thinking they
know it all. Sure, I've painted a pretty clear general
picture of Australia, what with my rugby shirts and
mentions of slightly unkempt, devilishly wavy hair; with
dudes always crackin' lagers the size of tennis ball
canisters; with girls who punch horses in the side of the
head when they don't behave. That's just the basics of
what Americans know about this great country, though,
so I hired on this Australian guy, Roger Barnaby, to
teach me the real nuances of the place. I want to enter
the country with grace and graciousness, all. That's the
only way a player should *ever* act as a guest.
Here's how my first call with Roger went:
--ROGER: [answers phone] Crikey, there's a big 'un!
ME: I...Hey man! This is Ray Smuckles! I emailed you?
From the thing?
ROGER: Roight, roight! RAH'-dja BAAH'-nuby hea'!
[Hard to represent his accent, and i won't keep doing it,
but it was cool.] Listen mate, I've got a pod 'a meal
wasps settin' up shop in me kitchen alcove, can I ring
you right back?
ME: It would be better if we just went on speakerphone.
That way I could see how a real Australian handles a
pod of meal wasps. Start the lesson early, you know!
ROGER: Bloody good idea. Awright, I'll set me handset
down, and you can listen while I work these bastards
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into a right paste. COME 'ERE, YOU LOT!
ME: Awesome. Just do what you gotta do. It's all gold to
me, man.
ROGER: [handset clanks on table] Aye, this main bloke
here's the size of a lager, he is. I've got me knife through
one 'a 'is wings, and he's mad as a cut snake, I tell you.
I'll be gone a minute, got to fetch me shotgun. You'll
keep an eye on 'im, will you?
ME: I'm on the phone, man.
ROGER: Right, right. You don't hear back from me in
five, call the Koolaburra Station antidote unit, will you?
ME: Definitely, man. I'm Googling it right now.
ROGER: [boots clomp off, huge buzzing sounds in the
room]
ME: [gets distracted, starts looking at a website about
women]
ROGER: [BLAM!]
ME: Oooh! Ooh! You get him? The big guy?
ROGER: Nahhh, I were just blowin' a wallaby off me
mailbox.
ME: You blew away a wallaby? They're hella cute, dude!
ROGER: Bastard were munchin' on me mail, he was.
ME: Well, I guess that's acceptable. He'd probably die
from magazine cologne samples anyway. So — what's
up with the wasps?
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ROGER: They're right cranky, now. But I've got old
Bonnie Busket full 'a rock salt and that'll be the end of it.
ME: You shoot them with salt?
ROGER: It's easier on the wallpaper. Me wife loves the
stuff, hates when she's got to paste a new patch up. I
can go two, three infestations and it's still fit for
Christmas.
ME: Dang. Alright, I'll wait while you take care of
business.
ROGER: Good on you, mate. [BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
BLAM! BLAM BLAM BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM! CRASH!
POOSH! BLAM! BZZZRRRR! SPLAT! SPLOT!
SPLOOT!
STOMP
STOMP
STOMP
STOMP
*STOOMP!*]
ME: Dang, dude! You get 'em all?
ROGER: Aw, blast it. I've put a hole in the damned
wedding photo.
ME: Just put new glass on the front of it and smooth the
paper out with your finger, man.
ROGER: Naw, it's worse than that. Her 'ole 'ead's
blowed off. Stands out like a shag on a rock.
ME: That's tough, man. I ain't even think Photoshop can
fix that one.
ROGER: Eh, what can you do. Got time for a lager?
ME: Yeah, I picked up a couple before the call. [Cracks a
lager]
ROGER: [Sound of a lager cracking]
213
ME: So, how's the economy down there?
ROGER: Bloody good, mate. Exports steady as ever.
Life's beautiful.
ME: What's for dinner tonight?
ROGER: It's six in the bloody morning, I dunno. Steak,
likely. It's Friday here.
ME: Wow, it's only Tuesday here.
ROGER: Big planet, innit, mate.
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SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 02, 2007
On the plane to Australia!
I'm writin' this to you on the plane to Australia! We left
the gate at San Francisco around four hours ago, and
we're just about taxiin' for takeoff, so I am all kinds of
jazzed. I'm six gin and tonics deep, people! They say the
flight will be somethin' like three days, so I'm gettin' all
set up for a nice long nap, maybe a couple hangovers,
and possibly a birthday or a discreet fling. There's no
tellin' when you're flyin' to the land down under.
Wow, we're takin' off! That's gotta be a first for United.
Oops. Bad news. The plane got to the runway but the
pilots noticed they didn't have readings from their
"Hackmer-Preda valve monitors," so it's back to the
hangar. Gin and tonic, please!
Whoah, I just had a thought about Australians. Their
reputation is that in, like, the eighteenth century, England
sent all their "criminals" to live in Australia, and that's
who Australians are based on now. Crooks. That's a
rough one. I have a theory, though. You know how
Australians are all about a big fat-ass crazy time, always
havin' fun and crackin' twelve-inch lagers and just
shootin' a gun at a big dirt hill? England exported all of
its fun people! Stay with me, here.
That's right - the Church of England was hella powerful
at the time, and they wanted everyone to be quiet and sit
down and read that poem about roses. Future
Australians were havin' none of it! They were like,
"Awright, mate, if I 'ave to keep me arse planted through
one more go of that poem about the bleedin' red rose,
I'm gonna nick that copper's 'elmet and catch me the
next dinghy t' perdition. This England 'ere's a right dud
geezer."
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Just like that, just like the Pied Piper, Australians got
themselves taken outta' England and put where the sun
does shine — and you know what? Australians have
never produced a single poem. It's a point of national
pride. England's loss? You bet. English people are
sitting around eating cold trout dishes in a room where
every single surface has a different flower print on it, and
Australians are barbecuing whole lambs over the
fossilized bones of a fifteen hundred pound paleolithic
ant. The keg? An ice silo of lager. Back in the
motherland, England is runnin' outta poems, and their
pasty youth are dyin' of Jamie Oliver School Dinners
starvation. (That information was on TV.)
Alright, Australia, here I come. I'm divin' in. I'm stoked. I
got a book about drivin' with the steerin' wheel on the
wrong side, and a computer keyboard that has that
special key that prints out ", mate." When this 747 lands,
I'm gonna open my arms during the whole descent!
That's how much I'm already lovin' you, Australia. We
gonna cuddle-scrum 'til the night is cashed.
Uh oh...the hangar ain't got no replacement
Hackmer-Preda valve monitor cable. I may be writin' to
you from this plane for another twelve hours, they say!
That's...they gonna need to get more gin from SkyMeal
or whatever that white truck with the lift is.
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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 2007
What the hell, brochitches?
Dudes, my boy Roast Beef has got to get action-style on
a wedding plan, 'cause he stone cold blew this year's
weddin' season. I know it takes time to plan and all, but if
that cat had lucubrated (yeah, I'm still subscribin' to
Martin Song's Word-a-la-Daaay site) a little more they
could of at LEAST done some quick thing out on the
beach. Waves and sand ain't so dear as pews and a
band, my old man once said.
What else is new...I'm hella rockin' some tennis elbow
lately. I been workin' on it with Przepošc down at the
club. He thinks I been servin' way too hard, and variatin'
between too many serve techniques. He's sayin' all this
stuff about how my serve was never properly molded in
its early stages, and he may be right. I been servin' hard
and loose since the first few years of my game—I'm
talkin' kid ages—when I had my own ideas about how to
wallop a mofo. Toss, wait, hop, twist, and SLAM.
Or...toss, slam, wait, and jump. Sometimes: SLAM, wait,
think, and pivot. Ray Smuckles could bring the heat,
three times out of ten. And that's just enough to keep
you alive...until your body gives. It's a hard lesson, but it
can and will happen. Look at me. My wild technique
finally caught up with my elbow. With my damn arm.
Proof enough: don't wale unless you can assail. (Don't
use that line - I may need it for an album. I call ™ on that
shit.)
Other than that...gettin' damn good at cookin' eggs. I
kind of made it a priority this summer. On just a basic
day I'll get the griddle nice and warm and rock some
sunny-side up under a — get this — pan lid! You put like
a spoonful of water under the lid with some cookin' eggs
and voila, they steam so that the top cooks real nice as
well. People even been commenting. Hell of makes me
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happy. I ain't even know why.
Whoah, almost forgot Beef was comin' over to watch
some Sopranos with me. That is a stone chill we ain't get
to often enough now that he's tucked in with Molly. Got
to run - we havin' spaghetti and meatballs from
Spiedore's and I got a phone to find.
218
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2007
Finally Airborne!
Daaaamn, people! We actually airborne and on the way
to bad old Australia! United Airlines, I’m gonna write a
letter when I get back. This level of service is
high-steppin’, and I am hella plussed. I got two plus
signs for eyes. Here’s how the flight’s gone so far:
DAY ONE
Took off from San Francisco International Airport. At
altitude I started cruisin’ around the passenger area,
meetin’ people. Since it’s such a long flight, folks loosen
up, break out the guitars and straw-bottle chianti and
stuff. Turns out I’m sittin’ next to one of the main chicks
in Australia (a model? can’t tell), and also this top race
car driver they got named Angus Walliams. He’s totally
what you’d expect — little, wiry, way energetic, and full
of pranks. When I went to shake the dude’s hand he
spun around and mooned me so hard I almost passed
out from laughter! That thing was like less than a foot
from my face, and it had an intensity! I thought about
gettin’ another moon goin’ on right back at him, but then
I was like, better not have two moons dukin’ it out near
the hot chick. Basic manners, you know. I’m pourin’ one
out for Emily Post, here.
After that they announced it was time for dinner, so all of
us up in first class scrambled back to our seats and hella
feasted on filets mignon and whole grilled pompano on
the bone. Definitely nice, and they were pourin’ the ’93
Pétrus, so we got much classed and ended up in a circle
on the floor singin’ a folk song. Somethin’ about a little
Koala who goes to the store but can’t produce the right
change and he gets booted. I think it’s one of their
traditionals, everyone seemed to know it but me.
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Fell asleep with my leg over the chick’s leg but we didn’t
talk much. When I woke up, it was...
DAY TWO
The captain said we were well over the Pacific by this
point, and that it was time for stereo music. (“Ladies and
Gentlemen in our first class accommodations, it is time
for Stereo Music.”) For about an hour and a half the first
class cabin was filled with really nice stereo music while
we brunched on prawn cocktail, omelettes, waffles and
champagne. There was also this rad side dish of
potatoes.
Later in the day a couple of the guys and I started talkin’
about US/Australia business relations, and we came up
with some bomb trade ideas. For example, Americans
love the phrase “shrimp on the barbie,” but no one’s ever
capitalized on it in the US, especially where specialty
grilling utensils are concerned. We blueprinted some
proprietary shrimp grilling skewer/baskets, and I got to
tell you, these are gonna put MAXIMUM flavor on the
shrimp. After we got the sketches done and discussed
the legal angles for a while, I ended up just hangin’ with
this one guy Corwin and shootin’ the breeze about golf.
Turns out he’s in real estate and wants to open the
world’s longest golf course! Australia’s definitely the
place. Texas people think they like big, but imagine
havin’ an empty United States to yourself...Corwin’s got
plans for a par-9 hole! Almost half a mile of fairway
woods. I ask you, why can’t golf have longer holes? To
hear him tell it, there’s no reason aside from limited
imagination.
Fell asleep before the chick got back to her seat. She
was on the phone a lot, but I’m hopin’ she saw me
conductin’ business and was swayed by my manly
authority. Am I buzzed? Should I say that?
220
DAY THREE
Pilot says we’re within sixteen hours of landin’.
Seriously, I’m startin’ to get cabin fever up here. We
havin’ fun, but how many times can you say the same
thing to the same guy who’s goin’ to the same bathroom
for the thirty-eighth time? It’s like we basically know each
other at this point, and it’s kind of awkward.
I guess I’ll start gatherin’ up all my laundry, Flash
memory sticks, and earbuds. Time to start gettin’ serious
about Australia. The printers onboard just started
shootin’ out the cover stories from the Daily Telegraph,
so I'm gonna get current on shark attacks and
parliament and stuff.
221
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17, 2007
On the Ground in Ozzieland!
I’m on the ground in Australia, and I’m totally outta my
mind! Everything is mad different here, and I think I’m
gonna rent out my place back in the States asap so I can
go local indefinitely!
First of all, the airline chick who greeted me as I came
up the gangway was HELL of tight, and I almost went
down on one knee when she clasped her hands and
gave me that “G’day! Weyww-k’m tew ausstray-weeyah!”
line. She was hella gorgeous, doggs! All blonde hair
pulled back real simple into a hot bun, all tanned face,
and you could TOTALLY tell what her dad looked like!
That’s a neat thing about Australian chicks, although it
can be weird at first.
Anyhow, I’m plopped down in the airport computer area
now, lookin’ around for limos and hotels and stuff. I didn’t
want to plan any of this, in case somethin’ came up, you
know. For example, I was gonna give it all up to the
airport greeter chick just now, but she went on some
kind of break and I got to tell you, when I saw her
lame-ass black nurse shoes and uneven-opacity black
hose, I actually fell out of love a little bit. I know she just
wears ‘em for her function, but damn, if you’re gonna be
fine, get a different job. Those shoes hell of put me in a
bad Minnesota bedroom, like with a humidifier and a fifty
year-old career waitress named Bladge.
BALONEY! I am NOT losin’ interest in Australia already!
That was a bogus blip. Looks like I’m bookin’ a room in
the Harold Holt Surf-Inn and Lodge...says it’s right on the
beach, they got a “highly suggested” toast breakfast ‘til
noon each day...alright, not too swank, but it’s on some
prime water, and I got much designs on breakin’ out the
board. Plus, I figure if I get up late enough, I can skip the
222
toast breakfast and sneak past the little guy in the office.
I’ll be spendin’ at least forty five minutes gettin’ my hair
all tousled in the local manner, especially the first
day...that can definitely buy me a ticket past noon. At
that point, it’s just a nice leisurely lunch of steaks and
crispy cold ones at a local café, and then I’m off to the
surf! I am hell of stoked about sittin’ in the sand, crackin’
lagers with some of the local blokes, and pissin’ in areas
which are behind large storm wreckage (but still pretty
close to the main beach).
Alright, my guy Mr. Hoshi from Hoshi’s Bonzer Limo just
texted that he’s outside with the livery vehicle. Just got to
make a few stops to pick up a board, some Sex Wax,
and some steaks for the hotel room, and he’ll drop me at
the Inn. I’m tellin’ you, the air here alone has just got me
all kinds of jammed. It is SO not America. I feel like
anything can happen! In America, things usually can’t
happen, but down here, I get a way different vibe. Maybe
it’s because the police cars look like something your
cheap uncle would rent in Hawaii.
Seriously, Australia, get decent police cars and a
national anthem that didn’t come programmed as the
demo on the keyboard. I can help with this. I am at the
Harold Holt Surf-Inn and Lodge for the next month, paid
in advance.
223
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2007
At the Hotel in Sydney!
Alright mates, I'm all checked in to the Harold Holt
Surf-Inn and Lodge, and I got to tell you, the clerk
bugged me from the second I walked into the place. He's
this real scrawny guy in actual prescription aviators, and
he had his nose buried in this little novelty-size Bible
when I pulled on up to the counter.
RAY: Whoah, dude! Tiny Bible you got there!
CLERK: Excuse me? I think it's a perfectly fine size for a
Bible.
RAY: Oh, sorry. I thought you were gonna come back at
me with somethin' like, "It ain't the size of the Bible, it's
the way you apply its lessons." I mean, I put that one on
a tee for you, dude.
CLERK: [reluctantly sets down Bible] Are you checking
in, then?
RAY: Hey, your name tag says Harold! You the guy this
place is named after?
HAROLD: It's a coincidence.
RAY: Must bug you, all these folks comin' in askin' if
you're Harold Holt, huh?
HAROLD: No one in Australia would ever think that I am
Harold Holt. They chalk it up to coincidence and then
typically get on with checking in.
RAY: I get you, I get you. [Unsuccessfully fishes around
for ID and credit cards.] Huh, can't find anything. I called
from the airport?
224
HAROLD: ID and credit card, please.
RAY: Yeah, uh, I can't find that stuff. [Offers handshake]
Gentleman's bond?
HAROLD: It is not my job to tell you this, but those things
appear to be tucked beneath the arm of your glasses.
RAY: [feels] Oh! Dang. I must have done that. Here you
go.
HAROLD: [picks up the cards resentfully, using just the
tips of two fingers] You'll be staying for our toast
breakfast, I take it? It's highly suggested.
RAY: Yeah, uh, about that. No.
HAROLD: Toast breakfast is served from seven AM until
noon. Please bring your identification.
RAY: You know, you're the first guy I've met in Australia
who never says "mate." Even Hoshi was sayin' mate,
and the dude's from Honshu.
HAROLD: Here is your room key. You're in 29b, up the
stairs, overlooking the beach, as you requested.
RAY: Okay, then! [Pause] I'll just carry these bags
myself?
HAROLD: Unless you'd like to revisit the lobby every
time you need a clean shirt or socks, that is probably the
wisest course of action.
Clearly I didn't like the guy too much, and I was pretty
sure he didn't like me, so why was he tryin' to keep me
around for toast breakfast so bad? Anyhow, I set up my
room the way I like it, with all the clothes put in the
225
drawers, the toiletries fanned out all nice on the
bathroom counter, and the pen layin' crosswise on the
writin' pad on the desk. Classes up a hotel room to act
like a traveler of yore, you dig?
Next thing I knew I woke up on the floor and it was
sixteen hours later — nine in the damn morning! Man, jet
lag hit me like a beast! I felt great, havin' slept so hard,
and realized that I did NOT want to sit in the hotel room
until noon just to avoid the toast breakfast. "To hell with
it," I thought to myself, "I'll just say no thanks. People do
that all the time." I spruced up for a walk around town,
dabbed some Obsession on my wrists, and headed
through the lobby. Harold leaned out of a doorway and
waved me over.
HAROLD: You're just in time for our toast breakfast.
Come, come.
RAY: Oh, man. Dang. Forgot my identification, dude.
Tomorrow, for sure.
HAROLD: It's alright, I remember you. Come, come.
RAY: Oh, jeez. Uh, okay. Cut me off if I start in with the
sea shanties, will you?
I went into the little dining-type room and sat down.
There wasn't any food out, and there was just one big
grumpy-lookin' guy hunched over with his back to me (I
don't know how I could tell his mood, but it seemed
obvious). I could hear him crunching away, so I sat and
waited. Harold came in pretty quick with a big plate of
dry toast, maybe sixteen pieces, and set it down in front
of me.
RAY: Wow, that's a lot of toast. I usually just have two
pieces. You got any main dishes?
226
HAROLD: We sell a very special product for your toast
here. Have you looked over by the fireplace?
RAY: [Looks] Huh! A little pyramid of three small jars that
ain't got no labels! If I'd known THAT was gonna be
there, I'd have looked sooner!
HAROLD: It is a sustainable, single-origin, organic,
artisan, Marmite-type product. I collect and package it
myself.
RAY: Marmite-type product?
HAROLD: Sixteen dollars eighty. You'll be amazed. It's a
revolution that's going to set the toast world on its ear.
My particular product's name is Marmold. As in, Harold's
Marmite-type Product.
RAY: [thinks to self] Well, I'm gonna be here for a week,
I basically have to buy this idiot's stuff. [Aloud] Okay, put
a few of 'em on my tab.
HAROLD: You won't be disappointed. [Unscrews one for
me] Just spread this on your toast, and ring the bell
when you're out of either. [Leaves.]
RAY: [Sniffs contents of jar] Whoah, who peeled out on
a bottle of soy sauce!
GRUMPY MAN: This stuff is bleedin' ambrosia. Don't
knock it or I'll tin your cock, I will.
Okay, so now I got three jars of Marmold sittin' in my
room. Maybe after my walk around town I'll see if I can
chuck 'em as far as the ocean. I'm headin' out now for
some steaks and Fosters and probably gonna set up
shop on the beach after I make some friends.
227
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31, 2007
Beef's Bachelor Party - HARD PLANS.
I wrote much plans for Roast Beef's bachelor party in
this cool retro-lookin' leather bound notebook I picked up
at Restoration Hardware today. I even wrote 'em all out
with a fountain pen, usin' my best scrawl, in case it might
be a thing I can present to him like on their fiftieth
wedding anniversary. Here are some of the party ideas I
scritted down:
THE DUDE FLUSHES THE TOILET
This is kind of advanced, and it ain't for the Emily Post
crowd.
The idea is this: when a toilet gets filled to a certain
point, it will automatically "flush" itself, because of the
water levels and the siphon at the base and stuff — you
ain't need to pull the handle. Ergo, if a dude voids
enough liquid into the toilet to make it flush itself, he will
cause his friends great glee. This being the case, if we
can fill Beef up with so much beer that he can "flush the
toilet" without touching the handle, everyone will feel
great glee and carry him around the house on their
shoulders. (Incidentally, I learned this trick at junior
college one night.)
THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK
This one is best done to metal, like Hell Bent For
Leather, or the hip hop single Fuck Tha Police.
This one's kind of rough on the gums. You take Fritos —
those rectangle corn chips half the size of a stick of gum
— and tuck them vertically inside his lips, in front of his
teeth, so that he gets a toasty yellow grill like a boxer's
mouth guard. Then, one by one, each friend at the party
tucks five bucks into the guy's shirt pocket, steps back,
and takes a hard open-handed slap at the dude's mouth.
It's a good way to raise money for the honeymoon, and
the PERFECT thing to do to this music. Replace chips
228
as they break.
COOKING LESSONS WITH NICK LEFABRE
At the Community Center.
Nick LeFabre has carved out a profitable local business
by teaching dudes how to cook food that wives like to
eat. In this class Nick says that wives like to watch fat
and calories while still feeling special, and shows some
signature dishes: cranberry preserve on lemon-rubbed
toast; summer pea spoonfuls with thrice-blanched black
pepper. (This would be more like one that me and the
guys wouldn't go to, kind of a morning thing for Beef
only.)
Daaamn. Lookin' over this thing, seems all we need is a
pony, a shotgun, and a place to hide the body. Bachelor
party, we COMIN' FOR YA!
229
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 08, 2007
Problem at the Hotel.
Man, you ain't gonna believe this. Remember those jars
of Marmold, the artisan Marmite I got talked into buying
last time? Well, after I bought 'em and put 'em in my
room, I strutted around in town for a while, but it was
kind of quiet, so I went back to the hotel to chill with a
gimlet and gaze over the beach until everyone got off
work.
Like I said, I had made a contest with myself to see if I
could chuck the jars all the way to the water, which is
about thirty yards from my balcony. I set my gimlet on
the railing, wound up, and let the first one fly.
Pretty close -- it hit the sand about five yards shy of the
foam line and sent up a nice little plume of fine-grained
sand. It was kind of beautiful, in a way -- like the sort of
thing a National Geographic photographer would shoot
with an ultra-fast exposure: a corona of sand rising up in
an amazing pattern as the shiny brown jar, in perfect
focus, touches down.
The second jar landed about the same distance, so I did
a couple push-ups (bad idea - hella tomato sauce burnin'
in the throat) before goin' for the third and final throw.
For some reason, I really wanted this one to hit the water
-- I guess it was my own small way of conquerin'
Australia. I leaned hard into the third pitch, visualized it
landin' in the surf, and let 'er rip.
I guess there was a little ledge in the sand that I couldn't
see, because as soon as I let go, the grumpy guy from
the toast room stood up from nowhere, shirtless, and
yawned. My screamin' jar of Marmold smacked right into
the side of his body, between the love handle and the
armpit, and I could hear the slap all the way from the
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balcony. Damn did it look like it stung. Before I could
figure out what was happening, he turned, fixed his eyes
on me, sneered, and started to walk real slow and angry
back toward the hotel. I had to think quick.
I ran into town and ducked into a bar, where I ordered a
beer real quick and sat in a bathroom stall with my feet
on the seat. Unbelievably, the toast dude stormed in and
started knockin' open the door to each can. I was
trapped.
When he kicked my door and it didn't open he yelled,
"CORR! MUST BE BROKEN!" and continued on down
the line, kicking the rest of the doors. I nipped on my
beer for a while (in my hurry, I had ordered Export Gold,
which is horrible) and then eventually poured it directly
into the loo, savin' my body the trouble.
It's totally bad that I already have an enemy in Australia,
but it's a big place. Maybe tomorrow I'll rent a Caddie
and go to Queensland -- since it's their northeast, it's
probably more sophisticated, like our New England and
Boston and all that. The dude I hit with the jar probably
wouldn't go to a place like that.
231
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 2007
Queensland On My Mind
Alright, so as soon as I could make out that the grumpy
guy who I hit with the Marmold bottle had taken off, I
skedaddled from Sydney. Locked my hotel door, avoided
Harold, and rented an Enzo to scoot me on up to
Queensland. Bought some Dinkie Dots and Gatorade at
a “petrol,” set my sights on Cunnamulla, and let ‘er rip.
Once I passed the border into Queensland I felt like
stoppin’ for some proper steak and potatoes, but there
wasn’t a lot goin’ on. I pulled into a pretty rural petrol
station (the Enzo eats gas like you wouldn’t believe) and
started at the pump. This younger dude in overalls and
no shirt sat on the porch dippin’ what looked like a
chicken thigh bone into a baggie that had somethin’ like
soft aspic in it (aspic is that sort of clear chicken Jell-O
that happens around a roast chicken carcass if you put it
on a plate in the fridge overnight). He’d suck the aspic
off the bone and dip it again, starin’ at me the whole
time. Hell of uncomfortable, and I could swear I heard a
didgeridoo playin’ “Dueling Banjos.” I pumped exactly
twenty bucks, tucked that much cash into the handle,
and zoomed off.
The next problem came when I got to Bodge Cranny
Township, a little one-dog map dot maybe an hour
outside ‘a Charleville. The guys runnin’ the outdated
pump were gassed to the nines, sittin’ around in lawn
chairs on the asphalt, and just givin’ me decades of
sass. One guy even said it was likely that I was an idiot,
based on my shoes and head, but on reflection he was
definitely in his cups and meant nothing by it.
I finally topped off the Enzo, but I was outta cash, so I
had to mix with them to pay. The main attendant, this
dude with a sleeveless Chevron oxford under his
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overalls, spat and waved me into the office. To be cool, I
bought a pack of smokes and a sixer of somethin’ called
“XXXX.” I guess it’s dumb that they have beer with more
X’s than Japanese porn, but maybe that makes them
think that they’re having an incredible amount of fun. The
dude let me off after just a couple more insults and I
screeched away. I saw some of the smoke from my tires
go into the nose of their dog, so I hope the dog got sick
from that.
From here I’m headed to Barcaldine, which is a place on
the map. I’ll check in with you soon, if I can. Things feel
weird up here.
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TUESDAY, DECEMBER 04, 2007
crazy bad news. can't even capitalize
Doggs,
Man. This was a gravestone of a day. A tombstone. I
walked down the sidewalk of life, and a tombstone
popped up outta the ground in front of me. Like the
numbers in one of those old-timey cash registers. I got
an ice cream, but I couldn't like it. I got a pistachio
macaroon, but it was pretty dried out. I wanted to want
spaghetti bolognese, but I knew that wouldn't help me. I
had to deal.
Here's the story. I was in Thaddeus's chair. My guy. My
hairstylist extraordinaire. So we start the 'do, and he's
kind of stiff the whole time, kind of distant, and when he
spins me around with the mirror so I can approve the
back of my new haircut, I see it plain as day. I got a
damn bald spot the size of a damn dime. I'm straight-up
monk dimin'.
Maybe you didn't hear me. I'm monk dimin'.
My thoughts are crazy.
I'm like, "This ain't nothin'. I can comb it here and there,
the spot's small, I can cover it no problem." But that's
denial.
Then I'm like, "I'll shave my whole head. That's the
obvious thing." But that's over-reaction.
After that comes the appeal to science. "I'll get some 'a
that Rogaine," you think. But you read the warnings on
the side of the box and you quickly learn that it has hella
dubious side effects:
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1. You won't remember math (not a deal breaker)
2. You can no longer smell artichokes (I love artichokes)
3. Nine out of ten men experienced aggressive hair loss
after using this product, including on people they were
merely shaking hands with
Also, I can't imagine hair pluggin', doggs. I mean, if you
pluggin', you always chasin' the border from the inside
out, you know. Plus, I've seen lots of pluggin' photos on
the internet, and the hair plugs are spaced so far apart
they look like buck teeth...they look like buck hair. So
obvious.
I'm sorry, this was way too personal. I got to regroup.
Some of the guys at the club are monk dimin' or worse,
so I'll work it in at some 19th hole and see what the done
thing is.
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WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 16, 2008
The deal with my hair.
Like I was sayin' last time, it's been rough. I been monk
dimin' for over a month now, and my mind has been all
over the place. I even uninstalled the 3-way mirror in the
bathroom so I wouldn't be tempted to stare at the bald
spot and obsess or fret over it. I can't remember the last
time I did home improvement — look what I'm driven to.
Western medicine is pretty much useless when it comes
to hair-regrowth technology, so I decided to go lookin'
east. Just 'cause it's a little weird and different don't
mean they ain't figured a few things out over there in
China, you know. I cold turkeyed it, just walkin' into the
first place I saw in Chinatown that seemed to have
anything to do with hair — in fact, this particular place
showed a three-panel set of drawings where the top of a
guy's head goes from totally empty of hair to completely
covered again. On the classic old-school frosted glass
door panel, underneath the Asian writing, little letters
said Silas Dong, Hair and Skin. I was sold.
I was a little nervous goin' in, since I ain't know the first
thing about this kind of medicine, but right away the
place had a real calm vibe. Feng-schway? That what
they call it? Anyhow, this place had it in spades. Silas
was sittin' in the corner of the small front room, at his
desk, just Chinesin' around, you know, lookin' at Internet
and stuff. He didn't greet me right away, but when he
did, I could tell he greeted me at the perfect time to
make me feel at home. A second sooner would have
seemed anxious, a second later would have seemed
rude. He played the hello to a T. Very few men can really
say hello, if you think about it.
I didn't even say my name or anything, he just welcomed
me into this real comfy chair, kind of like a recliner with
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the top half of the back missing, and started examining
and massaging my scalp. It was nice — he wasn't into
all kinds of insurance papers and stuff, all like havin' me
with a clipboard for half an hour checkin' "no" in every
single disease column (except glasses). We got down to
tacks immediately, just two men with no nonsense
between them. He made some thoughtful noises while
he was examinin' my dime, and pretty soon he seemed
to have satisfied himself.
"Three hundred dolla," he said in a professional, calm
way. I could tell by his confidence, and the careful way
he had examined my head, that three hundred dollars
was EXACTLY what he knew to charge for my precise
condition. It was really relieving, because if he could set
a price to it so clearly, then he must have had a solution
in mind.
I nodded, and he had me take my shirt off and go into a
back room where I got on my tummy on a regular sort of
doctor's examination table. He also had me take my
shoes off.
I sat in there for a few minutes and relaxed. He must
have been consulting charts or something, because right
before I went in he asked me my birthday. When he did
come in, he had all these lit candles on a cafeteria tray,
and a little jar of needles. He'd heat a needle up, stick it
real delicately into a part of my foot or back, and get on
to the next needle. He said the different candles burned
at different temperatures, and that the particular heat of
the needles was important to where he stuck them.
Sounded good to me, and it didn't actually hurt like you'd
think it would. Each needle brought almost a welcome
release from wherever he stuck it.
After about fifteen or so pricks I started to feel—I don't
know how to say it—like my juices were alive. Like my
body had gotten an important phone call it had forgotten
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to expect? I don't want to sound like a crazy man but I
even feel like my dime tingled a little bit.
Dong wouldn't let me pay him after the first visit — I
always like that. It's one of those business features you
ain't see too much any more: trust. Faith. Respect. We'll
see what happens. I'm pretty blissed on the dude and
his services so far, so I'm sure I'll have some updates
soon. God, what if seein' Dong solves my problem?
What if I don't have to monk dime?
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SUNDAY, APRIL 27, 2008
The Story of My Hair.
Man, what a log ride it's been with this bald spot of mine.
Last time I wrote I had just started with Silas Dong, that
random hair and skin doctor I found in Chinatown, and I
was all jazzed about his acupuncture-type therapy and
immense personal calmness. Remember that sign I told
you about in his window, the one with the three pictures
of the top of a dude's head, goin' from totally empty of
hair to totally covered again? I read it wrong.
See, I figured that Chinese stuff got read right-to-left, you
know, the opposite from our way. Turns out I basically
read the sign backwards, because it was written
left-to-right, with the full-head-of-hair guy gradually
gettin' balder in each panel. Silas Dong was a hair loss
specialist, alright. A SPECIALIST IN MAKING YOU
LOSE YOUR HAIR.
I almost had a heart attack when I went in for my second
session and he proudly showed me a clear template with
rings on it. On a small center ring was the date of my
first visit, and he beamed when he showed me I had
"grown" two full rings since then. He got really confused
when I started yellin', "No, I...naw, man! What did you
DO?! What have I DONE?!" I even knelt on the floor for
a second, covering my dime with my hands and
wonderin' if I was gonna cry.
He sized up the situation pretty quick. In about six
seconds he had handed me his sister's card, Phyllis
Dong. (I guess a lot of honkeys mess up when choosin'
Chinese therapies, so they have these things at the
ready.) Phyllis is a hair re-GROWTH specialist (I even
wrote down the word re-GROWTH? on a note pad and
underlined it and she smiled and nodded). Phew, man. I
tried to hand Silas the three hundred I owed him, but he
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was all wise and smilin' about it, pushin' my hand back,
so when he turned around to get me a copy of his card
"in case I should ever reconsider," I slipped the cash
under a legal pad on his desk. I know he knew I did that,
so I just shook his hand and headed a few doors down
to his sister's office.
Her technique is basically the same, and I've already
grown back the two rings I lost. Re-growing the stuff that
went before Silas is takin' more time, but I'm confident
somethin' will come of it. I figure, I'll be happy if my dime
gets small enough so that Thaddeus can style it like a
super-intense cowlick. I seen some large cowlicks in my
time, and I never think the dude is baldin' or dodgin'. I
wonder if Clooney has a cowlick in the back...time to get
on Google Images.
See you later, Chochachos, and thanks for all the letters
of support in my dark time.
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SUNDAY, MAY 11, 2008
I'm Sorry.
I'm sorry, but I just been havin' the greatest time lately. I
been goin' to what they call Super School, you heard of
it? It's like a school, you know, like we all had to go to,
but it's for adults. Instead of teachers sayin' what's
important, you decide what you want to study, and the
teacher has to make it fun. The teacher also has to be
flexible, though, 'cause you're essentially a customer.
(Yeah, it costs some pretty serious scratch, and
materials can be expensive, but keep reading.)
I was like, "I know basically nothin' about France, except
that Napoleon got shot at Waterloo (not true), and then
things started to go downhill for him, since in those days
doctors were like, 'Bullets? What are those? Is that kind
of a new thing?'" That made me decide to learn French
history, but regular school never floated my boat too
hard, so I remembered that some of the guys at the club
do Super School once in a while, like to learn machine
gun theory or how planes work and stuff. I made some
calls and pretty soon I was enrolled.
French history really ain't nothin' to get too worked up
about. Basically they're like everybody else, but their
homeless people wear fingerless gloves. Anyhow. After
a few lessons the teacher, Mr. Fluét, was like,
MR FLUÉT: Ray, I can tell that you are not really into
this.
ME: What?
MR FLUÉT: Can you turn down your iPod for a minute?
ME: Oh! Uh...Louie the Sun King. Lewey?
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MR FLUÉT: TURN DOWN YOUR IPOD
ME: [turns down iPod] Sorry, 'teach. 'Sup?
We decided that my class in French history should turn
into one of those classes where you train your nose and
palate to identify the tastes in wine, and it got much
more interesting after that. He tried to break out that
chart of the different wine-producin' areas of France
(Champagne, Bordeaux, etc) but pretty soon it was clear
that I wanted to focus on the flavor "profiles," and not a
bunch of map stuff that I'd forget or consider boring.
He FedEx'd us up a Nez du Vin kit, that thing with all the
different major aromas in little bottles, and we picked up
a few cases of primo vino down at Cask'n'Bladder (that's
what I call Provini's, the high-end liquor store over by the
meat place, south of the stadium). Here are my notes
from our first tasting:
Pomerol - kinda black and raw, wine + cherries, invisible
splash of pepper (v. faint)
Vouvray - dry/wet, sweet, "outdoor" wine
Amarone - wow. totally good
'81 Chateau Mouton Rothschild - DAAMN this wine did
a handstand in my mouth (mouth went up + down 3X
while open)
Gewurtztraminer - crisp apples with deprecated
rapeseed
Ketel One (my idea)
Gulden Draak - belgian beer hella flavorful all 10.5%'n it
Woodbridge Sauvignon Blanc - how did this get in
here was what the hell leave it for the janitor's wedding
or some shit
Pinot Noir - where'd fluééééét go that lightweight
Viognier - oh he was at his car getting batteries (?)
Lambrusco - fluét he threw a battery at me but we were
hlla. laughin all silly
Nachos alla Meeting - nachos that cn. be prepared
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quietly during a meeting usin MRE technology
Damn. I don't even remember leavin' school for home
that night...musta' walked, 'cause I had to go back and
pick up the Escalade the next afternoon. Ain't heard from
Mr. Fluét, I think he got kind of a head on from the Ketel.
I'll call him in a week after I decide what I want to learn
next.
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WEDNESDAY, JULY 30, 2008
The Beef is back in town!
Man, it was good to see Beef and Molly kickin' around
the pool again today after that long-ass honeymoon.
Looks like they got a thirst on for piña coladas! They are
out sittin' in my trick teak chaise lounges, still in relax
mode and gettin' some rays. Maybe I'll whip up a little
crostini platter lunch for all of us...I been watchin' this
bald guy Mark Bittman on TV, he flies to Spain and eats
really small pieces of food, and it looks damn good. I'ma
do a...I'ma do...garlic shrimp on toasted rounds with
olive purée and feta. They say no cheese with seafood,
but they do a lotta talkin', so it's bust-out time. I will also
do a thing with some three-ballin' white anchovies,
hearts of romaine, and GROSS caesar dressing. "Gross"
means the illest new form of kindness, all.
[an hour passes]
Damn, I just got back from havin' crostinis with the new
couple, and Beef is hella in place! Witness:
-+RAY: Check out these GROSS crostini I whipped up for
us! Even did some little prosciutto roses, can you dig it?
MOLLY: Wow! Thanks, Ray! This is totally nice! I love
the little cocktail swords!
BEEF: [has Yankees baseball cap and sunglasses on,
plus no shirt] Man that is a fine plate. You are a good
dogg, Mr. Smuckles.
RAY: [notices that Beef is in a calm, confident place] Eat
up, didgeridoo! Nice hat, by the way.
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BEEF: I been wearin' hats. It suits a man.
MOLLY: I couldn't believe it. We pulled the RV into this
big mall and he went right into this "Lids" baseball hat
store and bought a Yankees cap.
BEEF: The Yankees got much money, all.
RAY: Valued at $1.2 billion, dogg!
BEEF: Yep. This an anchovy?
RAY: White anchovy. Not the nasty stuff. Mild as hell.
Delicate. You got to try it.
BEEF: [bites, chews] Damn now that is a mild anchovy.
That is fine, I can see what the fuss is about with these
creatures. I bite into a regular anchovy, all oily and
rancid, I go into a state. Not this time.
MOLLY: Oh, these are wonderful. And what's on those
little watermelon cubes? Is that...tomato pulp?
-+See? See? The dude is changed up a bit. His talk came
from a place of calmness. It's like he found this one disc
he can stand on in the universe, a place where he has
some balance. Good for him. It's gonna be fun talkin'
with the new Beef.
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FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 2008
Thanksgiving 2008. Sorry if this goes on.
Man, I had it large on Thanksgiving. The actual deal
itself was small, just me and T and Beef and Molly and
Lyle and lil' old Philippe. Connie was off with his dang
old new somethin', and when I saw Pat and Rod at
Andronico's and invited them, Pat turned to me and
started explainin' their own plans while behind him Rod
pretended to hang himself with a baguette. He didn't
need to use the baguette, because usually the hand
motion of hangin' one's self is enough. It seemed pretty
amateur for a dude who is pretty much an actor.
Anyhow, this is what I am thankful for this year:
1. My own awareness that most taco places ain't
"green," and use tons of styrofoam, plastic cups, foil, and
plastic bags for every takeout order. It helps me not go
to taco places, which in turn keeps me from rockin' a
sick bubble-chub at the waistline.
2. I am thankful that I have an appreciation of good,
simmered-up black-eyed peas with nothing more than
salt and butter.
3. I am thankful that my mom ain't been callin' too much
lately. I love the old gal, but try havin' somethin' new to
say every day when the only thing you been doin' is
chuckin' empties into the pool and hittin' golf balls into a
lawn shed ("Raymond! Do not DO that!").
4. I am thankful that stereos have gotten smaller. Mine
hasn't, but I know this helps a lot of people in
apartments.
5. I am thankful that I seem to care about Prime Time
again. For a while I was just lost in the woods, signing
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some pretty lame acts, doubting my taste. I'm glad to
say that this morning at 9am I called VeePee An' Tha
Psickeninn' Psocciety and told them that their contract
had expired due to inactivity. The call actually went
pretty well, and I'm going to play tennis with their graphic
designer next week.
6. I am thankful that there have been no news stories
about kittens bein' harmed lately. I ain't so into kids, but
when you think about it, the most they should get is
yelled at — NEVER harmed.
7. Lastly, I am thankful that my boy Beef is comin' over
for some stick in about...oh, there's the knock on the
sliding glass door. Dude needs to feel comfortable just
comin' in. Jesus, Beef.
I am thankful that you read this! And this.
-=Ray=-
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FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12, 2008
I hella like this basic Italian dude.
There's a new basic Italian dude in town! I hella love the
guy. His name's Vito, he runs this kitchen at this place
Tre Otto, and he rocks some nacky gold nugs -- maybe
three chains and a piece on each pinkie. Hilarious, but
way committed to quality. He does me up some real
light-quality lasagna at lunch, you know, not that white
sauce freezer crap that gets broiled under a jet engine in
the servin' dish, but some real family tomato -- the sauce
almost so light you want to put it in a champagne glass
with some voddy D and a horseradish kiss and a
staff-o-celery. You know what I mean. Dude has a touch.
Dude has gentle fingers, if I can say that about a man.
I ain't know the guy too close yet, but I bet I get in on
tight with him. I ain't like me nothin' more than an Italian
who knows you're in for the game. That's when you
really eat right, when they invite you back into the
kitchen, when they always doin' this and that and gettin'
you a Negroni and the chef fries you up some calamari
and it ain't on your tab. Next thing you know you're
chillin' while they close, havin' a cig in the back door and
helpin' them lose some wine that's gonna go bad before
they open again.
You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna go there for
dinner tonight, even though I been there the last four
days in a row. There's a point where you're a groupie,
but there's also a point where you're a made regular,
and I got to bring hard game so I don't just come off like
some half-cocked hokey American suck-up who watches
too much Godfather and thinks goombahs are the best.
It'll be recon: I got to pay attention tonight and figure out
Italian man-huggin' behavior. That shit is probably more
complicated than Japanese bowin'. I really don't want to
screw it up. That's like what Larry David would do, and
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that dude gives me a damn ulcer.