Dream Fodder

2003-06-03T01:28:00.000-05:00

I think I'm ready to start blogging again.
Things are going well, but have to get into writing mode again.
Maybe the new house and wireless network will help. We'll see.

2003-01-02T21:30:00.000-06:00

11:57 12.31.2002
Almost time.

The last time I had someone special to kiss at midnight New Year's Eve was 1992. Ten years to the day. I don't count any drunken years in between, because although there may have been a few in there where I kissed someone at midnight, I hadn't been "dating" them per se.

11:58 12.31.2002
People are pairing off. It's not looking good for even a drunken rendevous random mug thing. Carly and Josh look to be jumping the gun a little. I guess they're just practicing for that perfect Midnight kiss.

11:59 12.31.2002
"Carly, you know anybody I can kiss?" I ask.
"Well, if you blow on Hazel's face, she'll go crazy." she replies.
Hmmm....

12:00 01.01.2003
Ahem, "Happy New Year, Hazel."
Go figure, she's right. Tongue and everything.

12:10 01.01.2003
Well. Now. If only that would work on girls too.

2002-11-29T17:05:00.000-06:00

What am I thankful for this year?

Why dreams of course!

My tryptophan-induced slumber was not interrupted last night. And what a wonderful thing too. I had probably the best dream a 32 year old guy could have. I have to rank this dream up there with some of the best things I've ever seen; like the sunset in Kona, the statues in the Louvre's sculpture garden through the closed (due to strike) glass doors. It was that good!

In my dream I'm test driving my new car. But not just any car mind you. I'm in ...

the Mach 5!

At first, I'm driving over the Great Salt Flats. I feel the acceleration as I hit the throttle. I hear the powerful growl of the engine (probably my snoring in reality). Getting pushed back into the red leather seat. What a rush. A great drive. Total control. No sense of losing traction or anything even though I'm going 588 mph (don't ask me where I got 588 mph, but it had jumped from 418 really fast... great writers). Amazing engineering, I think. I want this car!

Next, I'm cruising the PCH and then into town at 100+ mph. This thing handles like it's on rails. The cops don't pull me over because of a unique radar blocking option the car comes with. When I am shot with the radar gun, the car returns a signal of 65 mph. Cool, eh?

Why am I wearing this gay helmet though? Yeah, it was appropriate for the flats, but in town? Hey there's a radio buzzing inside it. It's my brother asking how I like the ride. Of course, he is Racer X.

I wake up in the middle of thinking of where I will find spare parts for the Mach 5. I will need a backup windshield (which we all know has the plans secretly etched in it) which will be hard to find. And I'm thinking I'll need some blade sharpening tools.

If only it were real.

And now I find that my dream has come true. In writing this today I found a link to some guys in L.A. that have actually built both Speed Racer's and Racer X's cars! All I need is about $75,000.

2002-11-29T16:51:00.000-06:00

I made it. I am now in the "over" portion of the contest by a day. Still no likey-person. Still no new bar. That's cool though.

2002-11-19T02:37:00.000-06:00

9 days to go.

Although I am not actively trying to win the over/under contest (if I were I'd be taking the over), it appears as though I may. As of now, I like... nobody. Bad thing is I haven't found a new bar yet either. To those playing at home, yes, that is a bad thing. I'm not going back to sitting on the floor of my closet in my underwear sucking cheap bourbon from a bottle; as frugal as that may sound! I'd rather pay 4 bucks for cheap bourbon whilest sitting comfortably on a barstool fully clothed. And I think the other patrons would appreciate the clothed part.

So if I were to like somebody, I'd like the following. In fact, I'll go out on a limb and say I would love these girls (if it weren't for the restraining order which would be in place the moment I seriously tried to approach any of them). So here it is, Paulie's top five dream girls.

Number 1: Sofia Vergara - Columbian model/actress, but she's got a ten year old kid and would he accept me or be suspicious of his mother's new love interest?

Number 2: Salma Hayek - Actress, but she's dating Ed Norton and he seems pretty cool and I couldn't do that to him.

Number 3: Shannon Elizabeth - Actress, but she is kinda young. May not be age appropriate.
Side note: I just noticed something similar about all three of these girls so far. They're all... Virgos. Wow! Just like me!

Number 4: Brooke Burke - Former hostess with the mostest of E!'s Wild On, but she could stand to lose about 170 pounds in the form of her husband.

Number 5: Lisa Guerrero - Sports Anchor for the Best Damn Sports Show Period on FoxSports, but she could actually be my cousin.

OK, I don't wanna point out the obvious here, but it sucks when even your dream girls aren't perfect! Hey, what am I saying? They're just about worthless. They'd be unattainable even if they were attainable. What the fuck!?! Am I just too grounded in reality (shut up)? Or am I just too picky?

And before you get on me for my list, it IS diverse, dammit! There's a Chilean, Columbian, Mexican, Eurasian, and a mut! See? I have diverse tastes, so that's not it either.

I just don't think there's anybody out there to like...

... let alone love...

Wow.

Bummer.

If only Ashleigh (say it with me "Ash-lehhhhh-ahhhh") would come back to Dallas where she belongs. Then again, I'd have to get over my aversion to French Canadians...

2002-11-11T22:25:00.000-06:00

It happened again. I can hardly believe it. You know, if this keeps up I'm likely to start not feeling so cool anymore. Thank God for the shoes. I'll always feel cool so long as I have my shoes.

She said she'd call. She seemed excited about eating. Who wouldn't? I mean, it's food! And good food too. She didn't call though. Still hasn't. I called her 3 times yesterday.

So I guess all that "playing" about being mean was not so much an act.

Well that just sounds pathetic, doesn't it? I swear though, the nicest girl I've been out with in the last year... the one who had it most together... who didn't diss me in front of my face... who even bought me dinner sometimes... was the one who had the least to gain from my affections (in my view). She was by far the prettiest; and not just in my opinion... she could have anybody in this city. She actually called me when she wanted to talk. I felt like I was with a movie star when we went out. We got all sorts of special treatment. I didn't have to go out of my way to be nice to her and she appreciated the little things more than anybody I've known. Sometimes we just hung out at her apartment and cooked for each other.

Now why did I stop calling her? Oh right! Too wild for me in the end, I thought. Judgemental me.

"Hey. Strippers are people too," my friend told me tonight.

There you have it.

So, he's put the over/under on me liking the next girl at 16 days. I dunno though. It might take me that long just to find a new bar that I like.

2002-10-05T12:48:00.000-05:00

New fad seen as older men find it "hip" to get lost at sea.

2002-09-24T01:57:00.000-05:00

You know. I got to thinking more about Saturday night and I might just have come off a little too... I dunno... intense.... no, more like insane with Shannon the Polack.

But there is a good reason for that. I think. Somewhere. Let's see, shall we?

Captain's Log: stardate Saturday 09.21.2002
0900: 3 hours of sleep. Not... enough. Must. Pee! --brrrrrrrrinnnng-- (ok, phones don't exactly "brrrrrrrrinnnnnnnng" anymore, but openyourmind E)
She has a knack for calling when I'm in the toilet. Why is that? I forgot that we're shopping for computers today. I forgot last night. Had I remembered I wouldn't have closed down the bar with Sherean. OK. I lie. I would have done that anyway. Now it's baseball cap and shorts and out the door to meet Amie (you would think that it would be spelled A-M-Y, until you met her then it all makes sense) for coffee and shopping.

1000: Amie went back to sleep and will be at the Starbucks in 5 minutes, right after she "brushes the hair, feeds the cats, and puts on the makeup." It's Starbucks.

1045: Amie walks in a way that is reminiscent of how her name is spelled. Tip toed because of the high heels, as if she may fall at any moment. Appearing just a little too careful. Elbows bent outward (as a counter-balance procedure I assume). She holds her coffee as if her fingernail pollish is still wet. She blows me a kiss from her perfectly glossed collagen enhanced lips as she sets her little purse down in one chair and her thong-strapped tight black stretchy pant wearing booty in the other. She's not a dancer, but she looks and moves like the stereotypical one.

I, meanwhile, continue to look like Lothar, slouched in the chair, head back, knuckles dragging the ground as the arms hang like two pythons, but not in a healthy dangerous muscular serpintine fire sort of way. More like the ones who recently died while trying to swallow ferral pigs alive and have been bloating in the sun for a couple of days. That sort of way. By pairing the two of us together this morning, God once again chose to show to His creation His infinite sense of humor. "Good morning, sunshine." As I wipe the eye boogers from the corners of my eyes. "Why are you drinking your hot coffee from a straw?" I innocently ask.

"I don't want to mess up my lips."

"Oh. Makes sense." As I glance around at the Saturday morning Starbucks crowd that consists of people who were out later than me last night, some pregnant chicks, healthy-looking sweaty people who only drink halfcaf/lowfat latte with sides of bottled water whose souless eyes gaze longingly if not without a little dispair at the scones laughing at them silently behind the glass counter, and dog people. You know the ones who look a lot like their pets at the other end of the leash. I should add that none of these other patrons have taken much care to their appearance. It's Starbucks. Lothar has, until this point, been able to blend in sort of. Until this point.

It starts with the animals first. General hyper-ness. Panting. Tugging at leashes. Then everything seems to stop. A short, yet unmistakable beat. As they glance at the balancing act as Lips moves towards and then sits at Lothar's table. For many, church service will be unnecessary tomorrow. Confirmation of the Supreme Being and all. Message received, zero distortion. For others, the epiphany will hit later.

1100-1230: Computer shopping. Amie is going back to school and needs a laptop. Here's the typical scene:
"Excuse me? Can you...? I was just needing...?" I say to one after another clerk as they wiz by me ignoring me.
Amie, walking up, turning around and going, "Ummmmmmmmm..."
And as if from out of nowhere... "How can I help you to-" says the pimple-faced dork whose eyes are suddenly drawn downward. Perhaps he wonders as I and most do why one of Amie's nipples seems to be protruding, as if trying to escape off the mountain below it? And yet, the other peak remains calm and undisturbed. Quiet almost. What can this mystery mean? "day?"
Me: "So how much RAM does this have? What type of video card? Hard disk?"
Pimples (to Amie... or rather Amie's left nipple. The only one really expecting an answer): "Uh, well. It's got a big screen. And a thingy that goes in there. And a plug."
Me: "Thanks man. I'll take it from here then."

1230-1400: Lunch.
Me: "So Amie. What are you looking for in a man?"
Amie: "Oh, someone that'll tell me I'm beautiful 300 times a day. Who's good in bed. Who treats me nice." There are a few more traits, but I zone out a little. My food's here. The fan. The credit card sign on the door. That... that same nipple again. Amazing.
Me: "Would you prefer somebody who really loves you and maybe just said your were beautiful once or twice a day, or the guy who says it 300 times a day, but who doesn't love you."
Amie: "Welllll. I want both."
Me: "OK, but what if you can only have one or the other?" Lothar try to ask hypothetical question.
Amie: "Welll. I want both."
Me: "OK, so somebody like me, BUT who you're actually attracted to, right?"
Amie: Somewhere the high-pitched sound of a sports car races by. God is listening to this I think. "Sorta. I dunno. You're a little too serious for me."
Me: "You don't say? I've never heard that one before." Lothar confused. Eyebrows furrow.
Amie: "Yeah. You're just always serious with me."
Me: "Well, you do always come to me with boy problems and advice. I tend to take that kinda serious. Should I not? By the way, why does just one of your nipples gets erect and not the other?"
Amie: "Don't you mean 'get'? 'one of my nipples GET erect'?
Me: "No, 'one' 'gets'. 'of your nipples' is a preposition and the verb goes with the object. But that's not the point!" Lothar frustrated.
Amie: "I dunno then. Oh, and you're kinda moody too. Not like wild mood swings. But moody. Ya know?"
Me: "I don't follow." Lothar SMASH!

1430-2300
Amie's gone for the day. Ponder several things: seriousness, moods, prepositions, nipples. Lothar stink. Must shower.

2320
Shannon the Polack. I thought Shannon was an Irish name. Go figure.
Lothar not serious. Lothar not moody. Lothar wild and carefree and a little wooly maybe. Lothar sing show tunes. Make good impression.
"Bali Hi will find you..."

2002-09-23T23:57:00.000-05:00

Do you think this is bad?

I am a regular at the Elbow Room. All the bartenders know me. They know what types of drinks I like. There are also "regulars" there who know me too. I'm kinda like Norm. Well, maybe more like Cliffy. But I think I'm more like Sam.

That's not so bad really.

I particularly like one of the bartenders (no, not "hardware" Joe... I mean I like him, but I don't "like" like him). I "like" Sherean. She's nice. Well read. Exotic. Perty. I like talking to her. She makes me wanna drink more. Not in the same sense that an ex-girlfriend who breaks up with you makes you wanna drink more. It's more like, I wanna see you, but you always work at the bar and if I just show up and start talking to you without drinking you'll think I'm weirder than I really am (because I don't always mind coming off weird, but in more of a goofy way, notsomuch in a psycho-stalker way) so I'll just have another cry for help, thankyouveramuch. That sense.

That might be a little bad.

So last night I drive to the Elbow Room hoping to meet Sherean and another regular to watch dating shows and Cheaters (a Sunday ritual... hey, some people go to church...). She's not there and although I don't see her car outside (psycho stalker-ish) I realized that whoever is indeed working has just seen me drive by and now I HAVE to stop in. So I end up spending 4 1/2 hours with Rob-the-anti-bartender, because I don't want him thinking the only reason I drove by was to see Sherean.

I did get a free beer out of it. So that's not so bad. Or is it?

2002-09-04T21:43:00.000-05:00

A few things...
One - Images and comments are down as the hosting site went "pay" on me. Not that anybody comes here anymore.
"B" - Fun for the whole family (please make sure to read the 6 reviews).

On to brighter things...
How to celebrate the day before your birthday:
6 top shelf margaritas from Primos
Tamales
Flan
2 buttery nipple shots
10 "cries for help"*
*it took a few to perfect the recipe, but here it is:
Stoli orange
Stoli rasberry
Splash of sprite
Splash of grapefruit juice

How to celebrate the day of your birthday:
3 aspirin
half a tube of toothpaste (to cover puke breath)
Gatorade
Water
Moaning

2002-08-28T01:04:00.000-05:00

This tickled me.

2002-07-30T03:23:00.000-05:00

Letter to K.

K,

So I just walked you to your car about 2 hours ago. You seemed a little distracted. Well, I was sitting beside A when you called a little while ago. First of all, she was very discreet, but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. Although she didn't elaborate, I got the gist of your sadness. On my way home, I thought I'd write you this note, these words of encouragement. Please pardon my presumptuousness at assuming that you would want my intrusion.

I don't know the whole story. I haven't asked your friends. So I don't really know exactly what's up. I know only that there is some heartache involved. I know heartache. I know that you are sad too. I'm writing this because as funny as it may seem since I hardly really know you, I care that you are sad. Which may bring me to an actual point of this note. Who knows?

I guess the logical place to start is with why do I care? Good question. I'm glad you asked.

Well, because you are a rare and unique individual. Yeah, it's true. Believe me when I tell you, because I have been around awhile and continually seek out people who I consider "awake" and I think you are one of those rare few. I think we might have touched on this that one night we spent on your balcony. But it's true. Your perspective on life, how you live, how you treat your friends and the people you know is so rare that when I see it in you, it makes me happy.

You are a bright light to everyone you touch.

Many people won't recognize this. They are dead on the inside. It's sad, because they miss out. They are zombies, sleep-walking through life. They will never experience great love or great sadness, because they are too blinded by their own selfishness.

Which brings up another point we have touched briefly on... the dichotomous nature of love. It's like a paradox really. Love can be wonderful and dreadful at the same time. It allows us to feel euphoria and fulfillment and also leads us to feel pain in its absence. It leads us to do things against our own self-interest. Because that's what love is. I think that you are on a path to discover the true nature of love. And it's a wonderful scary thing.

And so it's not about how other people respond to your love that you give, but rather how you respond to love that is poured on you. Not everybody is ready for it. You continue to give it freely (because that's who you are). The more you give, the purer it gets. With time, it does come back. And in time, you recognize it and know how to respond in kind. Then the circle is complete (hey isn't that why wedding rings are round? I dunno. Somebody must've told me that once). So at that time, it's absolutely wonderful.

A lot of people will tell you that they understand how you feel. I won't assume to know, because well... I'm not you. Only you know what's inside. Only you know what exactly will heal you. (For me, it's ice cream and music... and oreos... and booze) With time, you must recognize that the way you live will heal you, provided you continue along your path. You can ask, "why, why, why?" all you like, but that's not really going to get you anywhere. As simple and silly as it may sound, you just need to be you.

I want to give you strength and encouragement, because I believe in you and because you have done the same for me. Just by being who you are.

You are a wonderful person who I am glad and fortunate to know. You can't hear this enough. Believe it though. You will discover the secret to life and be better off for it. In fact, I'd wager that you already know it.

So I didn't have much of a coherent point I guess. Sorry for that. It happens sometimes. If you've gotten to this point of this note and gone, "huh???... weirdo!" I'll understand. It was well-intentioned though. I really intended to make a point.

I guess the point is that I'm with you. I'm here for you, if you want or trust me. I don't assume to know any answers really, but I'm very empathetic. At the very least I will look very earnestly in your eyes, nod my head, and go, "I understand,"... even if I really don't.

So here are some things to ponder. They were written by someone much smarter than me (which is not saying a whole hell of a lot) who understood the "ways of the world." His name was C.S. Lewis and was one of the world's greatest Christian philosophers. These quotes are from a book he wrote after he lost his wife. He lost his faith in God for awhile because he didn't understand why this happened. And when he asked God why, he felt he got silence in response. He eventually learned that he was asking the wrong question. Here they are.

"Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable? Quite easily, I should think. All nonsense questions are unanswerable. How many hours are there in a mile? Is yellow square or round? ... Probably half the questions we ask --- half our great theological and metaphysical problems --- are like that.

"...And now that I come to think of it, there's no practical problem before me at all. I know the two great commandments, and I'd better get on with them."

So that's one. Here's the other.

"for this is one of the miracles of love: it gives to both, but perhaps especially to the woman --- a power of seeing through its own enchantment and yet not being disenchanted."

I don't exactly know what that means, but I think it says that women are better at giving love away, because despite the fact they get hurt, they understand the value of it and it doesn't lose its specialness (if that's even a word). It's always new and wonderful.

Anyway, like I said, I don't know when you'll actually read this, if ever. I hope it's at least thought-provoking.

I know you will be ok.

You are a fantastic person.

Please take care,

P

2002-06-26T23:28:00.000-05:00

Look over there. Yeah, on the left. I have a link for IT now. IT's taking shape. If you haven't read Los Domingos en Paraiso yet or in awhile, check in on the soap opera. You might find that you are in it. If you aren't yet, you might soon be a character. It's full of intrigue, sex (the heroine was naked for at least 3 episodes), humor, and just good ole fun.

Will Paolo avenge his brother's death at the hands of the Evil Mario, father of the possibly-just-as-evil son Marco???

Will Felix save the day???

Will El Pie (pronounced "Pyay") get a clue???

Will Cielo bite somebody???

What will Budro cook next???

The answers to all these questions await in upcoming episodes of Los Domingos en Paraiso, the internet's first Bloggernovela!

2002-06-24T20:55:00.000-05:00

It appears that Time Magazine has been reading my blog. Or maybe it's just ... coincidence?

They naturally make reference to the Left Behind series of books, which I think are rather child-like in their storytelling. I personally don't think God will show His hand, so to speak. If you're interested, I recommend the Christ Clone Trilogy by James BeauSeigneur. He seems to have a better imagination and better scientific research into things like cloning, and especially asteroids. Very clever description of how "Wormwood" gets its name, in fact. They are at least thought-provoking.

2002-06-21T03:04:00.000-05:00

There is a potential deadly locust plague in China.

Hong Kong holds the threat of becoming the epicenter of the next deadly flu pandemic.

Wildfires rage across the west.

War continues to wage in the Middle East.

We still don't know what's going on with India and Pakistan.

Rumors of more (terrorist) war here in our homeland.

Earthquakes have rocked parts of the country.

Our planet narrowly dodges an asteroid yet again.

2 women have hit on the Big Love 2 nights in a row.

1 other woman promised to call.

and yet another actually did call.

I hope nobody is reading too much into this.

2002-06-12T18:46:00.000-05:00

In an unprecedented move in the advertising universe, Nike announced the other day an exclusive endorsement deal signed by none other the God. Reported to be the second largest deal of its kind after the signing of Tiger Woods, the Creator of the universe agreed to stamp the Nike Swoosh symbol on His creation. Although details of the contract were not released, it is reported that Nike will give large sums of cash to various churches around the world, with the exception of the Mormons who are seeking a seperate deal with deities in parallel universes to promote their own branded footwear and athletic bra products.

Nike hopes that by adding His Almighty to its cache of celebrity endorsements, lagging worldwide sales will get a boost. They also hope to have a first mover advantage through the ability to market their products to sentient beings across the known universe.

God was not immediately available for comment, although several religious leaders around the world have raised concern over the increased marketing presence in world religions after the renaming of several earthly religious shrines (see related stories on the Nextel Dome of the Rock, Mrs. Paul's St. Peter's Cathedral, and the State Farm Good Neighbor Wailing Wall).

2002-05-23T15:18:00.000-05:00

Jill is the new owner of Hans' BierHaus in Houston, Texas. Hans' was a great find. Near the Rice Village, it offers a fair selection of beers, the obligitory Golden Tee machine, and most importantly, Bocce Ball courts. Two of them in fact.

A quick side note on Golden Tee Golf. This video game is quickly becoming standard equipment at bars across the country. People who don't even play real golf quickly become addicted to the video version (there should probably be a commentary on the laziness of Americans regarding this phenomenon). If you haven't seen the game, the main controller is a track ball (which I assume is from left-over Centipede machines which were gutted in the video game route of '87). You use the trackball to control the backswing and then stroke the virtual golf club. You can thus easily spot a Golden Tee fanatic by the bruised and often swollen wrist and palm. This is incidently why I stray from the game because of the obvious implications playing it would have on my love life.

There are no such side effects that I am aware of from playing Bocce Ball. Plus it's more of a social game. And, in the case of Hans', allows for the opportunity to meet girls as they must cross your court in order to go inside for more beer. I haven't ruled yet on the appropriateness of using the actual hard plastic bocce balls as a means of securing a date for the evening though. But I haven't ruled it out yet either.

And that's where Jill comes in. The new proprietor of the BierHaus flittered through our court on her way to get beer. On her way back, we had no choice but to stop her and bend her sweet ear. She did, after all, disrupt our game in the middle of me asserting my alpha-dogness (chicks dig bocce champs). After considering it for a moment, I dropped the bocce ball that was in my hand and joined the conversation.

Jill: So you like this place?
Us (Jeff and I speak as one... we later consider if technology will some day create the uber-Peff Samer, an irresistible force to women... but that was after a few more beers, martinis, margaritas, and a delicious concoction in the form of a frozen screwdriver): Uh, yeah. It's got beer and Bocce... and evidently cute chicks.
Jill: Is there anything you would change?
Us: Yeah, free beer.
Us: Fewer guys.
Us: More cute chicks.
Us: Why do you ask?
Jill: Well I just bought this place.
Us: So you're Hans now? Is that kinda like the Dread Pirate Roberts (chicks just love Princess Bride references)?
Jill: Huh? [awkward pause] No, I'm still Jill, but I just bought this place and need to know if I should change anything to make it a more successful venture. And you guys looked like pros.
Us: Well, we're actually amateur Bocce players.
Jill: I meant bar-goers.
Us: Oh. Thanks. So why the limp, Jill?
Jill: You noticed [how perceptive... I just love perceptive men... I don't sleep with enough perceptive men]? Sears was delivering a desk to my house and instead delivered it right onto my ankle.
Us: Ouch. So now you own this bar. It all makes perfect sense!
Jill: No, I see my lawyers (note the plural) on Tuesday...
Us: Because we drink litigiously and...
Jill: No, no I bought the bar with my own money.
Us: Mommy!
Us: That was our outside voice, dude.
Us: Whoops.
Us: So we're getting free beer then right?
Jill's bad-timing-friend: There you are Jill! I thought you were lost!
Jill: No, I've been right here with these 2 guys. So nice meeting you guys. Bye.
Us: So we're getting fre.... doh!
Us: She dug us though.
Us: True.

2002-05-22T22:24:00.000-05:00

Virgil Brigman back on the line...

Remember me?

No time but the present to start blogging again is what I say. So here it goes.

Larry Miller is an actor. You've seen him. He is also quite the writer with a clever wit. He occasionally writes for the Weekly Standard. Anyway, here's a quote regarding John Walker of American-Taliban fame which I really liked.

"Okay, everyone, from the top again, with feeling: The Taliban was a death cult, a collection of devils who skinned their own alive to maintain fear, who blasphemed every time they used the word "God," whose least horrible accomplishment was the vicious way they treated their women. They were a bloodlust burrito wrapped in heat and hate, so joining them wasn't a wacky alternative to interning for Amnesty International; it was evil."

I really liked the bloodlust burrito part.

2002-03-03T13:16:00.000-06:00

It

has begun. It is alive, so to speak. It will grow, evolve, and take on a personality of its own. It will also end one day. But what is It, you ask?

It is the first bloggernovela. It will contain many elements from television's telenovelas, but formatted for blogs. I plan to update It every Sunday. Today is the first post. Watch it, if you like. You might very well become a character. A hero even. Or perhaps, a villain.

2002-02-08T21:56:00.000-06:00

Mardi-f'in-Gras,baby!

The flight leaves tomorrow at 12:30. The drinking starts tonight at 11:30 at the Elbow Room. I will be there for Lundi Gras as well, which is Fat Monday. I don't know about Fois Gras which is fatty goose liver. Then again Toro Gras would be fat fatty tuna (for you sushi fans).

This is where I will be most often. Look for me. I might be here too.

Look for me on "Cops" or any of those reality-based tV shows. I'll be the really drunk guy with the nice rack! Please leave your phone numbers in the comments section should I have the need to make "one" phone call while in the Crescent City.

Laissez le bon Toro rular, mon cheri!

2002-02-04T03:05:00.000-06:00

"it" has been delayed due to the fact that i am now the proud owner of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the complete first season DVD set. I also need to write about the greatest thing that happened to cheese sandwiches since they threw meat under them and called them hamburgers. That will come soon enough.

And then "it"....... will be upon us all. hahahahahahahahahahaha (evil laugh).

2002-01-30T12:43:00.000-06:00

hay viene.

soon, my friends. "it" will all start soon (and i'm not talking about the reign of terror dsaint is planning when he becomes a supervillain). What "it" is will remain a secret for now, but my guess is that by Sunday evening "it" will have begun. What "it" is not, is not so much a secret anymore.

I will leave with this much. Unlike other "it"'s, this "it" comes from my imagination.

Ciao.

2002-01-22T21:58:00.000-06:00

the Orginal Neil Diamond Homepage claims it has been "Serving the Neil Diamond community since 1995." Impressive.

NEIL!

I say, it's your thang, do whatcha wanna do. And Neil subscribes to the same philosophy. Evidently, early in his career he had Englebert Humperdink's (aka Jerry Dorsy) advisors suggest he get a catchy stage name. Something other than Neil Diamond. I doubt we would ever have been blessed with songs that have so engrained themselves in our culture as Sweet Caroline, Song Sung Blue, or Crunchy Granola Suite had he listened. Their suggestions: Eice Cherry and Noah Kaminsky. Can you imagine the Tonight Show or Ed Sullivan introducing the world to the crooner "who makes the girls scream, that heart throb, the man with the golden voice singing Hello Again.... Noah Kaminsky!"? Just wouldn't work I'm tellin' ya.

2002-01-19T03:02:00.000-06:00

whatever happened to "champion of the world"?

we used to play for that all the time growing up. such high stakes, really. if you stopped to think about it, it meant that whenever you lost you were loser of the world. i always used to think of it that way. homerun derby meant everything with the stakes that high. i think that all competition today should be for just as high stakes... if not higher. sometimes we even went to champion of the universe.

i don't think that level of competition exists in today's careful society of inclusiveness. we wouldn't dare risk letting our children risk being "losers of the universe". and i think that is exactly what's wrong with western society today. as a result of not willing to risk it all, we have championed mediocrity. that's why so many kids play soccer these days. when i was growing up, it was little league. you had to use eye/hand coordination and there were always winners AND losers. with soccer, you got a lot of kids running around getting tired so they are not a burden on their suburbanite moms at dinnertime and will go to bed tired. and the games can end in a tie. bullshit i say. we should always strive to be champions of the universe.

tonight, i played jeff in shuffleboard at the Elbow Room. we didn't play for champion of the world, but maybe we should have. i won 2 out of 3 matches and should really be crowned champion of the world. in fact, i'm gonna stake the claim right now so that anyone who has the guts can challenge me and they too might be worthy of champion of the universe!

2002-01-18T04:15:00.000-06:00

must ... sleep... now

2002-01-17T05:05:00.000-06:00

Me: I'll take a carton of Marlboro Lights, please.
Funny, why am I buying smokes? And why am I in Mexico? And why does everybody here speak perfect English?

It's a dream; roll with it.
OK

The girl behind the counter hands me a carton of some cheap Mexican cigarettes. "Uh, those aren't Marlboro's," I say.

"Oh, right sir," she responds and pulls out a zip-locked pack of long-leaf chewing tobacco. Why is it that we are speaking the same exact language, yet have such a huge communication problem? Hey, she's kinda cute though. "I'll find them, sir. One moment." And she scurries off behind the counter.

Interesting store though. Kinda like a K-mart/Fiesta/flea mar... who the fuck are these 2 guys? "Hello," the one in front says. Again with the perfect English. Is it me who's speaking the foreign language here? "Pardon us." I politely step aside for them to approach the counter. I'll just go look at those watches over there at the other end. Besides I really have to fart. Oops. Damn, I'll just move away faster... NO! Dude! Watch out! Don't come this way... too late. "Awe man! Let's get outta here!" They too scurry off. Now that's a little embarassing. Oh well. Hey, she's back.

"Where'd those two go?"

"I dunno," I reply. "I guess they didn't see what they wanted."

"Well, here are the Marlboro's."

"Thanks. Hey, you want to come shopping with me and maybe dinner later? My family and this big group are going to this luau/buffet thingy tonight; and well, you're really pretty."

Luau/buffet thingy??? Man, I love these writers sometimes! But the fam too??? And what's with the "you're really pretty" business?

"Sure. Let's go."

"Hey great. It's just that easy is it?"

"Yes," she says. Wow, those are nice brown eyes. She's really lovely. The K-mart girl. Go figure.

So we shop. There's lots of palm trees and old buildings with arches. And it's dusty, which makes for a nice sunset. And then we're at the feast. Everyone's there. Mom, Dad, Pete and Bitsa with the Quads and Tori, Nena, Uncle Joe, some random "extra" girl and her ancient mother, me, my date, and ... Jeff. Makes sense.

"Dad, don't pay for everybody. It's $27 a piece. Let me help. There's like 20 people here."

"Well, you just pay for yours then," and he starts taking out travelers checks to pay the lady who sits on a stool at a card table which has a cash register on top of it. She looks familiar. I think they cast the checkout lady from Luby's from when I was growing up.

"OK, but take $27 off that total." I tell him and leave with my plate and my date and join everybody else who's already there.

"What's up? Why isn't anybody eating?"

"It's not ready yet. All they've put out is dessert," Mom tells me.

"Bonus! Looks like the kids have already found that." So I leave the table to eat my cake and ice cream first. Weird looking stuff though. It's all funky colors: teil, fuscia, mauve, lime, pastel-pink, yellow, blue. And it's all some sort of frozen tapioca. I'm not a big fan of the stuff, but hey they're still cooking the main course. It tastes cold, icy-crunchy, and milky. Not too bad. I take a couple of plates (not bowls...hmmm) back to the table to find my seat and...

"Jeff, you DICK!" I'm gone for like 2 minutes and Jeff has moved in on the K-mart girl. How could he? She's not even his type. Figures. I'm so pissed at him, but hey I'm not writing this dream so I take myself down to the empty chair at the other end of the table across from my mom who is engaged in a lively conversation with that old lady. Hmmmm. I'm still disappointed, but take my seat. Who's sitting next to me? Let's find out. I turn expecting to find, well I don't know who, but it's not them. It's.... the Extra. And she's beautiful and happy and smiling and saved this seat for me. How pleasant. Well done, dream-writers. Well done indeed.

That doesn't excuse Jeff though, that bastard.

So when we're standing there at Sipango and he asks me to picture the 2 of us in the shoes of those rich guys with my "wife" acting all flirty; before I answer, I have to tell him how pissed I am at him for moving in on my K-mart girl. Thankfully the Extra was there or he'd be in the shithouse for sure.

He knows enough to apologize.

2002-01-15T21:52:00.000-06:00

Games to play in the basement VIP room of Sipango (we came up with three):

How to Spot a High-priced Hooker

Who's the Richest Guy In the Bar

Which Drink Is Sipango Most Proud Of

How to Spot a High-priced Hooker

Important note here. My assessment isn't for ALL women. Remember, I love women. All of them. The more the better. It's because of the chi-chi's, I think. The above only applies to the world of Sipango.

Who's the Richest Guy in the Bar

that

obviously

Which Drink Is Sipango Most Proud Of

So that was our adventure at Sipango. It was educational to say the least. Will I go again? Probably not. Don't get me wrong. Although I don't like the pretentiousness of the Sipango crowd and the fakeness of the golddiggers, I do, in fact, like rich people. I hope to be one someday. I know money doesn't buy happiness, but it does buy Porsche's, and HDTV's, and Vespas, and bad-ass computers, and nice watches, and an awesome wardrobe, etc. You get the point. It's not the money.... it's the stuuuuuuuuufffff.

2002-01-14T19:45:00.000-06:00

The Aquarium

Jeff: It's like an aquarium in here, dude. Lots of different fish to look at.
Me: Yeah, stay away from those pretty ones though. They're poisonous. There's danger in this aquarium.

The band is on a break when we first enter the club. They are playing a mix of 80's and present dance music. Yaz and new Madonna. The bar area is what I would call medium-crowded. I thought I should buy a round for the girls since they were the reason for us being here for free, but Jeff made yet another lucid point. He said, "They won't pay for anything anyway. We may as well let the establishment buy our drinks too." As always, Jeff's airtight logic appealed to my senses so I told the girls what I was drinking.

Which was, of course, Vanilla and Coke. A truly dichotomous drink. It represents the true nature of women. It's beautiful and sweet on the tongue. You can't even taste the danger that lurks beneath the surface. Then, much later (depending on your tolerance) it sneaks up on you and bites you in the ass.

I had been standing in this little nook next to our table, not far from the bar, when the band came back on stage. They began playing the same old music that all North Texas cover bands play (I think ChimChim needs to comment more on his cultural convergence theory). It's sickening really. I used to like that music. All that old 70's funk. "She's a Bad Mamma Jamma" was a fun song. "Brick House" was also good too, that is the first 10,000 times I heard it. None of these bands show any orginality. They all have the same set list. They don't stray from it. Ever! How 'bout some Cameo every once in awhile? Broaden your horizons, guys. Pull out some "Boogie Fever" by the Silvers. You never hear the Silvers anymore and they totally funked out all the time. Sure you hear the Gap Band, but you never get any Daz Band. I'm telling you, these people don't like change and wouldn't know good music if it were taped to an ice pick and slammed in their ears.

Whew, sorry about that, but music happens to be a pretty important part of my life. I take it seriously and expect at the very least, that music "professionals" do too. There are devils put aside for Sipango's house band.

About 2 songs into the set, I realize that my glass has this big hole in the top of it and since the girls have gone off panning or wildcatting or whatever it is they do, I decided to buy Jeff and me a round. I walk all of 3 feet to the bar, order my drinks, and return. I come back to find that not only have the girls come back, the bar area has gotten packed. This is when I realize the genius behind the owners choice of house bands. They actually drive people to drink. Go figure.

So, this couple has invaded my nook, which doesn't really bother me. Hey, it's a bar. It gets crowded. I have no exclusive claim on the nook. So I just stand at the front of the table. Bonus. This allows all the people walking behind me to rub up against me. I tell Jeff that somebody has just rubbed my butt and I like it and don't tell me who it was in case I am disappointed. Upon hearing this, the chick of the couple who took my nook says, "Well I can see it's important to you so you can have this place back!" She sounded like one of those snotty girls from a John Hughes movie. What was funny was that I had not even tried to reclaim my spot and I really did like her touching my butt. Oh well, I guess she had to save face for her boyfriend.

Jeff: People are funny in the Aquarium aren't they.
Me: Indeed (sticking my tongue out at the girl behind her back).

2002-01-14T01:28:00.000-06:00

Jeff: This is like the Champs crowd.
Me: This crowd could buy the Champs crowd.

Nestled in the liver of Dallas' ultra rich neighborhood of Highland Park, Sipango opens its doors each night to the select rich and beautiful of Dallas. Somehow, Saturday night there had been a cosmic slip up of a grand scale that allowed two non-select and non-rich to gain access to the inner sanctum of Dallas' snobbery. Jeff and I were drawn, no indeed sucked into that realm much like those happless adventurers in Land of the Lost. Our goal: to infiltrate, study, and return unharmed to the land of REALITY. This is the story of our Journey and it is completely true.

Me: I feel like they're watching me, dude.
Jeff: How do you mean.
Me: I think they're having trouble associating me with the collective. I think they'll realize at any moment that I'm not one of them.
Jeff: And what makes you think that?
Me: Well, apart from my cool new leather jacket and awesomely styled shoes, everything, and I mean everything that I'm wearing from this sweater to my underwear and socks is from Target.

We knew we didn't belong. We had gotten in because we knew somebody who knew Ron, the owner. More importantly, we knew this girl, who just happens to fit the profile of what rich Dallas men must be looking for, who knew Ron, the owner. We went in seperate cars and had our first experience with living in Reality. As we drove up to the valet in Jeff's 2-year old, nicely cleaned, and smelling like new Isuzu Trooper, he informed us that, although it was early, only 10:30, the valet parking lot was full and we would have to go elsewhere. We laughed, but complied and drove across the street to the valet for the Samba Room. We laughed, because we knew the truth that would be confirmed not 3 minutes later.

Although it was the same parking company, the valet at the Samba Room parked our SUV and we strutted (as you must in this part of town) back across the street to wait for the girls. They arrived shortly in 2 more cars. Our "ticket" into the joint came in a newish silver BMW. Wouldn't you know it, but they didn't even hesitate to hop in and park her car! As her friend drove up behind and was starting to be turned away, Ticket explained that she was with the group and the guy literally ran across the street to stop her before she drove away and parked her car too.

Ticket: There are 4 of us tonight, Rick (or Ted, or Bill, or Matt, or whatever monosyllabic-name the door-guy was).
Door-guy: 4?
Ticket: Yes, 4.
D-G: Who? Are they here too?
Ticket: Yes. Me, my girlfriend, and those 2 guys.
D-G: Who? Those 2?
Ticket: Yes, those 2 guys standing right behind us.
D-G: (suspicious look)

...to be continued

2002-01-13T14:59:00.000-06:00

I walked into Grandma's room one morning. She wasn't completely dressed. Arrrrrrgh, Grandma's chi-chi's! I was five; they were about 70. I didn't mean to see them. It wasn't my fault or anything. Just an accident. "They're just chi-chi's," Pani said. "Everybody's got them. Mani, your mama, and yes, even you have them. They're nothing to be ashamed of."

"OK, Pani." And now, nearly 26 years later, Felipe's advice remains close to my heart. I am still not ashamed of chi-chi's and will continue to not look away no matter how scary they might be to other people.

2002-01-12T02:13:00.000-06:00

The comments, they work
I figured it out myself
I feel so proud, yeah!

2002-01-11T03:40:00.000-06:00

ok, so that was sublime, now for the ridiculous.

my roommate tells me to watch Conan so as to see Jennifer Connelly and how really beautiful she has become. I've always liked her as an actress mind you, not it that weird stalking sort of way, but she's pleasant to gaze upon and chooses interesting roles which I think compliment her true personality... possibly... i hope; and maybe, just maybe she would be the type that would get me and I mean get me in a way that not many people can get me which is more so than the way my friends get me, and don't get me wrong here, my friends tend to get me pretty well and all, but there's no way i'm gonna show them that side which would be reserved for someone as insightful and yes, girlie, as Jennifer Connelly; although a few have had that opportunity at a time when I was willing to share this, they always come up to a point and back off which by saying this, could make me out as a conceited "guy", but i'm really not since i realize that i'm not perfect and far from it, but i have so much to offer as an incredible jumping off point of any relationship that it really boggles the mind that not one of them has said, "You know, I realize he's not perfect, in fact far from it, but when you get to the core, the inner paulie, he's really a wonderful spirit and would so compliment me and together we would rule the universe, well at least our little universe with a two-car garage and 2.5 kids, a dog (not an evil dog), and a mortgage, but then since I'm Jennifer Connelly there's no need for a mortgage, because I could just pay cash."

But that's not what troubled me about the program. What stood out... what really just made me go, "Gugh" (and I know I'm being a big "guy" here) was first the ad for the new 1-day Monostat yeast infection combatant "system". I realize it's an important problem, and yes I remember the ads for Blue Star Ointment, but geeze, really! Blue Star never went beyond mentioning jock itch. That way you knew to associate on your own Blue Star Ointment with relief from stubborn, burning, itchiness caused by recurring jock itch. They didn't have to go into detail on how it worked or even, heaven-forbid how easy it was to apply to affected regions with diagrams, charts, and recreated scenes. They assumed, and I think rightly so, that once you bought the stuff, you'd read the instructions which were probably pretty straightforward with all the usual warnings about not eating it no matter how good it might smell, etc.

Now the people at Monostat feel that it's not good enough to say, "this is our product and it works really fast to heal yeast infections." They have to remind everybody of how terribly irritating the yeast infection is and also exactly what they plan to do about it, and what you should do with it once you buy the product. As if this weren't enough, they tell you EXACTLY what the competition's product does and how it works and where it's applied in all the technicolor gory detail. Don't get me wrong. I'm sure someone could write a wonderful history about the advancements in fighting yeast infections. There's grandma sitting around the fire with her granddaughters saying, "Whew! Thank God we have Monostat 1 today. I remember back in "W" "W" 2 men refused to even admit that it existed. Why the first Monostat product in 1965 took 14 months to work." And now there's the miracle breakthrough Monostat 1 "System" which includes the patented "ovule".

Once again, it's not enough to give the breakthrough a clever associative name and mention the "ovule" over and over again in the ad, but do you have to show it being squeezed between 2 fingers? Come on now! Really??!!! Is that necessary? My goodness, it looks like a white superball that we used to get out of those machines at the grocery store, or maybe a paint pellet that those militia-type paint ball fanatics shoot at each other in the woods. And the ad does more than just imply where you stick the paint ball.

You can get on with the rest of your busy day and not feel the urge to scratch because the paint ball is there working it's yeast-fighting magic. They didn't actually mention what happens to the ovule after it is inserted. I only imagine that it melts, or fizzes, or otherwise oozes its way into the infected regions and does its work. I mean what if it didn't do that and it just remained there intact? And what if during this one day program that at the most unlikely moment it popped out? That might be worse than the actual infection. But maybe not? What would the ad be like then?

I can picture it now. The old, normally crabby and suspicious male boss is walking up to congratulate Susan who he was first suspicious of yet hired because of those goddamn quotas and now has won her way to the top of the firm through her hard work and perserverance.... the scene opens.... "Congratulations Susan on that fine presentation. You really nailed it. I think those Japanese clients were really wowed. There was a moment, though, when I thought they weren't gonna go for it, but then, as if by devine intervention, your ovule popped out and rolled across the conference table. All I can say is... they LOVED it. We've got the account thanks to your yeast infection!"

"And thanks to Monostat 1's patented 1-day system with the Ovule!"... as the ball rolls to a stop in front of the package.

So that was one thing that bothered me about the show. The other one will keep me up nights I'm sure though. And that was another ad which strangely followed the Monostat Ovule one which was selling blues albums. I guess those 2 could go together. But really now... who are anson funderburgh and the rockets?

2002-01-10T22:15:00.000-06:00

XX
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oir la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

--Pablo Neruda

2002-01-09T22:56:00.000-06:00

Nobody acutally knew how old Felipe was when he died. My grandfather was old though. We suspect he was born sometime in the 1890's. I was about 10 when he died. I knew he'd been sick and I was mad that no one would ever let me see him in the hospital. They had silly rules that kids weren't allowed to see dying people I guess. Well he showed them.

Felipe was determined not to die in a hospital bed in Houston. He wanted to be home in Harlingen. He wanted to be aware of everything. He wanted his family around. So first he told the doctors to stop giving him pain medication. Then, somehow he convinced them to let him go home. My mom, her sister, and her brother then loaded Felipe in my Uncle Albert's (Papa's) van and drove the 6 hours to Harlingen. The trip almost killed him and they had to stop often to fix Felipe's iv. They made it though and delivered Pani to his home in his own bed and set up the death watch.

I wonder what Felipe thought about on that drive. I like to think he remembered his childhood playing with his brother. I wonder what they were thinking when they decided to run away from home and an evil stepmother. Or how he joined the American Army to fight his own people who were raiding across the border. Maybe he thought about having to bury his twin brother and hoped or probably figured it wouldn't be long until he'd see him again. Or how he worked on the railroads from South Texas all the way to New Orleans. What adventures did you have Felipe?

I bet he thought about the first time he saw Cenovia, my grandmother. Was it as romantic as we were later told? I bet it was. He had been moved to song and stole her heart with the words he wrote and sung. I've heard my aunt play that song on the acordion once (Flaco's got nothin' on Felipe!). I wonder what it was like for him to hear her tell him later, when they were a young married couple what she had to do to protect herself one time when he was out on the farm. She had leveled a shotgun at a Texas Ranger who wanted to have his way with her while Felipe was out working. He never came around again. I'm sure Felipe knew he had picked a winner long before that incident.

I wonder if long-forgotten faces of people who he had touched came to mind. The people who worked for him. The salesmen he'd bought tractors from. The boys who'd courted his daughters. The friends he'd enjoyed company with. How many faces came to visit? I bet he remembered his pets too. He had a way with animals that was legendary. He could whisper to horses and ride them the first time he put a saddle on them. Penny was his favorite dog I think. She was a wild boxer. Her owners had had enough of her breaking through screen doors and windows to attack mailmen that they were ready to put her down. Felipe wouldn't have it and took her.

They had a love/hate relationship at first. That was a stubborn bitch, to say the least. So he left her tied up outside and told her when she was ready, she could be part of the family. She finally broke down and agreed to her new master's demands that she be a loving and loyal dog. After that, they were inseperable. Felipe would tell that dog, "See these kids? These are my grandchildren. Protect them and love them." And she would do it without question. She never really got over the feeling of hating mailmen though, which tells me that they are probably not trustworthy after all. I think in the end, Penny missed Felipe as much, if not more, than any other member of the family.

Miraculous things began to happen in the days before my grandfather's death. Felipe had smoked all his life, but it wasn't lung cancer that got him. It was his prostate. He had lost a lot of weight in the last few months. He was already mostly deaf and stopped wearing his hearing aids. His snow white hair had receded back across his head a la Jean Luc Piccard. This was the body that was left after about 90 years. This is the body that the family stood watch over. And waited while he tossed and turned and fought whatever it was he was fighting in the end. I remember hearing Mom describe some of the changes that happened. For example, his hearing came back. He had caught Mom and Nena whispering about him and reprimanded them for it. Also, his hair started to grow back and came in brown. I've actually seen a lock of this hair that my aunt took. And just as his body seemed to fight its way back to youth and life, Felipe died.

The funeral was huge. Everybody seemed to know who Felipe Guerrero was. There were more cars than I could count in the line. Pete, Dad, and me were near the back as I recall, but even as we passed, cars on the other side of the road were pulled over and the men were out standing with their hats in hands. They knew who we were taking to rest. We drove the procession down Rangerville road to the plot where his brother was buried. A place just on this side of the Rio Grande. Papa, Joe, and Felipe Jr fashioned a pine box for him. Just like he had done for his own brother so many years ago. They placed him next to his brother and facing Mexico. I wonder what he was thinking when he asked that he be placed like that?

2002-01-04T03:42:00.000-06:00

So I'm gonna post this now while I'm thinking about it.

My grandma's birthday is January 6th. Cenovia would have been 98 if she were still alive today, but has been in heaven for about 6 years. She went on her own terms (kinda like the way she lived), telling her daughter, "Ya know, I've lived a long life. I've been very proud of my sons and daughters and how they all turned out. I've lived through one of them dying too. But I think I'm done here. I miss your father and I want to go see him (Grandpa died back in '81). In fact, he's already come for me."

"Mama," Helen said. "You do what's right. If you mean to go, then go. We will miss you, because we love you, but we will let you go."

A few days later, February 14th as a matter of fact, Felipe came and he and Grandma took off.

The greatest advice I ever had came from Grandma. Now you have to understand that she was raised and lived all her life on farms... very conservative. So, to hear this advice from a 90-year-old farm girl is quite amazing to me, but here is what she said:

"Paul, do you have a girlfriend?"
"Not at the moment, Grandma."
"Good!" she exclaimed. "You don't need one. It's a big world. Go out and see it and be with as many different girls as you can and never be in a rush to settle down."
I looked over to my mom, her mouth agape.... "Hah!" I said.

2002-01-04T03:17:00.000-06:00

Is it too late for Happy New Year???

I don't think so and here's why:

there are no y2ko2 bugs that I know of

it's Jan. 4th and I have yet to break my New Year's resolution

i know those bastards at 24hr Fitness will pay for their empty promisses 2 years ago

as the years pass, the movie When Harry Met Sally starts to make more sense

thank God for flautists (and flautas for that matter), but everyone should know a flautist in their lifetime

4 days into the year and still Evil Partner dream free!

2001-12-21T22:58:00.000-06:00

Radiohead for the holidays.
to the tune of Idioteque by Radiohead. Parody in process by Paulie

Who’s in chimney, who’s in chimney
Cookies and milk first
Eat the cookies first
Eat the cookies
I’ll drink until the eggnog’s gone
I swallow till I burst
Until I burst
Until I…

Losing reindeer, losing reindeer
I’ve flown too much
I haven’t seen Rudolph
You haven’t seen Rudolph
I’ll eat until my head comes off
Cookies and milk first
And the cookies first
And cookies

Makin’ a list, checkin’ it all of the time
Makin’ a list, checkin’ it all of the time

Ice age coming, ice age coming
Santa Claus is comin
Santa Claus is comin
Santa Claus is…

Ice age coming, ice age coming
Chestnuts in the fire
Throw them in the fire
Throw the chestnuts…

We’re not carollin’ this time
This is really fattening, fattening
We’re not carollin’ this time
This is really fattening, fattening

Carolers chirping
Carolers chirping
Take the pudding and run
Take the pudding and run
Take the pudding…

Makin’ a list, checkin’ it all of the time
Background:
The last of the cookies

2001-12-17T18:58:00.000-06:00

My dad sent me this in email last night. He has strong feelings about the current state of the recording industry. Although his tastes in music can't be easily categorized (he likes everything from pre-Motown R&B, to Zeplin, to Depeche Mode, to Selena), his thoughts around the topic are the most lucid I've read. I hope you enjoy these pearls... - P

RE: Column of Monday, December 17, 2001 over CD Copy Protection (WSJ):

Your column struck a chord (to coin a phrase). I have been following this controversy over the last several months with increasing concern (not to say outrage). Here are some thoughts:

First of all managing a music collection music has been one of my principal leisure activities over more than 40 years. It was a truly heavenly event when the means to compile collections of individual tracks became accessible. Currently, about 50% of my time spent on my home computer is devoted to this activity.

I have never downloaded or shared music. All of my compilations are from my own CDs. However, just this week one of my sons who does use this kind of service shared a disk he had made for himself. On this was a track by a singer (Alison Krauss) I had never heard before (and it is highly unlikely that I would ever have heard of her on my own). Her performance on just one song was so impressive that I went yesterday to purchase six of her albums. The music business (one of the most disreputable in all industry) is truly shooting itself in the foot (or perhaps in other more painful areas) with it’s attitude to punish everyone for the misdeeds of a few. I guarantee that this will not work but unfortunatley we will all suffer while the “suits” learn their lesson.

This is really nothing new. The last time that the music industry was dominated by short sighted oligarchs was during the 1940s. It is interesting and edifying to see what happened between about 1948 and 1955 when the back of this cartel was broken – record sales went from about 50 million per year to almost 400 million. This was my coming of age period and I remember the cold-war-like tactics that were used by the industry (in vain, I am proud to say) to suppress the new music.

After enjoying decades of musical progress where indies (like small business everywhere) generated all growth, we are now entering another musical dark ages governed by a cartel.

Make no mistake about it, the businessmen in music are without remorse. At one time Dick Clark had to set up a charitable foundation to care for impoverished musicians from my era whose plight was caused, at least in part, by the unconscionable treatment they received at the hands of these types. And now, like unethical lawyers (I am being redundant here), they turn their attention to a new class of victims -- their customers.

Although I have a five figure home stereo system, I find that I hardly ever use it to listen to music. Instead about 50% of my music listening is in the car, with the rest split between my computer and background at work. When I purchased a new car, the fact that it came with an in-dash CD changer was central to my decision to buy that particular model. By the way, I have decided to hold onto this car longer than I normally would because the make I own and other similar vehicles no longer offer in dash changers (instead, they typically feature a setup where you can load only six CDs at one time).

The problem is, out of the more than 800 or so CDs I own, only about five are what I call perfect or near-perfect. By perfect, I mean that not one track on the CD is bad – all are listenable or better (one example of this is Selena’s Last Concert CD). Most of my CDs have only one or two tracks that I want to listen to. Plus, some like Everything Counts are only CD singles. The result is I have five magazines and a lot of pushing on the “Next Track” button.

You can imagine my joy when I was able to make up compilations where a single disk can contain up to 17 tracks – all good or better -- and can make each CD a particular kind of music or mix it all up if I prefer. And then along came Rio Volt which allows me to put up to 85 tracks recorded the very highest quality to make my office the coolest in our building!

But now they tell me that the industry fascists are going to take it all away?! It makes me content, like the roman galley slave who welcomes death as a release from his daily suffering, that I am not any younger.

I, for one, will not play in this league – and no one else will either. At the individual level, all entertainment is discretionary but it is decidedly not so for the economy as a whole -- witness the impact that the downturn in airlines, resorts, and hotels is having on us all right now. When we go back to 1948 rules, remember the economy will also go back to that era but we have too many mouths to feed on 1948s GDP.

This could kill the music industry and may be a nail in the coffin for high tech. For who needs machinery with no content? It will also be a severe blow to the performers and we all will lose then.

One of the most tangible benefits from the breakup of Ma Bell, was to stop the clock on renting telephones which some folk had paid for 90 times during their lives. And keep in mind the slow penetration of internet use in Europe burdened by a “taxi meter” system of payment.

Along with Microsoft’s idea to rent software, renting music is yet another sign of the decline in our standard of living intimately connected to the erosion of our freedoms.

2001-12-13T03:07:00.000-06:00

But seriously (and I promise this is only a diversion)...

There's an ad about drugs on tv right now with a lot of kids slamming their parents for... well, for being parents. At the end they say, "Thanks."

Parents know that their kids will "hate" them for imposing rules on them. Rules like the ones in the ad stem from, at the very least, societal (if not, dare I say, universal) truths about what's harmful to developing minds. They are meant to protect kids from (without mincing words) misery and death.

If you know the response to your loving concern will be hate, but you do these things despite that, because they're the right thing to do (note: not what you believe is the right thing, but what IS and ARE the right things to do)... that's courage. That is one of the infinite reasons why they say it's tough to be a parent.

Granted this argument falls on its face if you don't accept that there are indeed right and wrong, and all behavior is instead dictated and judged by cultural relativism. But even if you believe there are just a very few things (like murder or chicken-fried SPAM) that are indeed wrong for everybody, this argument holds water.

Newsflash: Playing with terrorists is wrong. Bad. Bad Evil Partner.

Which, if you're still reading, brings me to a quote from columnist Jonah Goldberg:

"Someone threw John Walker a copy of The Autobiography of Malcolm X and said, 'Knock yourself out, kid.' From there, left to his own devices, he slid down a long slope to the Taliban - because nobody had the moral courage or maturity to put him on the right path. He could just as easily have become another Columbine spree-killer, or a drug addict - or, perhaps, a fireman. But any of these, it seems, would be a surprise to his father."

Of course, sometimes good parents just have rotten kids.

My comments button really doesn't work. I'm not just sitting here going, "La la la la... I can't hear you." If you really feel strongly about the stuff above, buy me some
beer!

2001-11-27T21:26:00.000-06:00

So I haven't posted in awhile. I think I'll add a recipe list for a good telenovela ("good" being a relative term).

These are the things all novelas need:

Catchy/meaningful names whenever possible. In English, they would be names like Paul, Sofia, Mark, Josh, Elizabeth, English, Stephie.... no wait. That doesn't work. How 'bout Sunny, Rainy, Sky, Dakota, Mississippi, Delta, J.R, Paul, and Sofia. Those are better.

Forbidden love/forbidden dance.... forbidden love with a dancer. Hmmmmmm.

A talking animal, or an animal whose thoughts the audience can hear (preferably not an animal that spouts death threats... bad Evil Partner). Any other mystical character such as a ghost or someone who comes in dreams can substitute.

A priest. I don't think a minister, reverend, vicar, or parson would do. Or a rabbi for that matter. Sorry. Novelas are confined to Roman Catholic universes.

An orphan or two.

A crazy person.

Someone who is unknowingly terminally ill.

Disputed property or a hidden fortune.

A jump in time where the kids grow up to beautiful young late 20's hotties while the other actors either don't show any signs of aging or age so gracefully as to become potential love interest/rivals of the 20 year olds.

5 locations: the office, the kitchen, the living room, the "love nest", the hospital.

A catchy theme song that captures all the ingredients.

Murder, lust, envy are pretty much a given with this recipe and are not so much ingredients as they are natural results of combining the above under pressure.

2001-11-13T21:26:00.000-06:00

As it turns out, goulash is good for dreams. Especially when it's prepared by a real Hungarian who happens to be a smidgen over five feet tall and curvy in all the right places. Mmmmmm Sofia... I mean... goulash.

Why do we derive so much pleasure from food? Or why most people? I'm sure there are people out there who get nothing from eating just as there are probably people who get nothing from sex. I wonder if they tend to be the same people?

I once told my mom that I was going to be a priest. Her reply: "Well, you've got the celibacy part down."
Thanks, Mom.

But I'm probably as much Lutheran as I am Catholic, ergo I spent Sunday with Sofia (yeah, I don't really see the link there either). We watched a couple of movies. One being Every Time We Say Goodbye with Tom Hanks.

Side comment: At one point Tom Hank's character has trouble relating to a Sephardic Jewish family the fact that he is the "son" of a "priest". His father in the story is a Protestant minister. "Priests in America can have children?" If that were only so... I'd probably still be celibate... but still not by choice or lack of trying.

Anyway, this movie follows Tom's problems with falling in love with this girl who belongs to the Sephardic Jewish family during WW2. And I realized why the movie appealed to me. It was a sad epiphany to say the least, but as it turns out, the movie is just like the Telenovelas my folks watch. Right down to the pretty Spanish actress!

I didn't know I was a fan of the telenovela until recently, after visiting my parents in Houston. They watch them all. In fact, my dad owns 5 VCR's just in case there are ever 5 telenovelas that overlap and they can record all of them for later viewing (I think one VCR is actually a backup connected to a UPS in case the power goes out; they will never be want for novelas). So, I get into town around 8:00 on Friday which is when my parents catch up on the week's worth of telenovelas. There's really nothing else to do but sit with them... and... start.... watching. It's not so much entertainment as it is televised-heroine.

What's Marco up to? Brisa, don't listen to him. He's lying! Can't you tell? Cielo, that's really Marco's daughter (this particular one had characters with hippie names like Brisa, Cielo, Lluvia, Luna, Sol, etc.).

Really, the acting is wonderful. And the stories riviting. This stuff really happens. If you pause long enough, you will see bits of your own life reflected in telenovelas. Well, my life at least. Without all the beautiful Spanish chicks though. Although Sofia could pass for one. Maybe that's why they are so appealing. Maybe that's why she's so appealing.

I've got it! I'll write a telenovela. How hard can it be? All the characters are in place. It'll write itself. I can even include the part of a priest who is more than what he appears to be when it's discovered that the local "orphan" that everyone loves is really his daughter. I like it!

2001-11-09T21:10:00.000-06:00

Maybe I'm just waiting for some young aspiring psychiatrist to read these and go, "I have found my thesis!"

2001-11-06T22:42:00.000-06:00

Evil dream trifecta. This just in from 2 nights ago.

Sofia.

Mmmmmmm.

Not evil.

Good.

Very good, Sofia.

Sofia and I are in college. I didn't even know Sofia in college. She was 11 when I was in college. But this is the Now Sofia. That's cool. Now Sofia wants me. Even better!

Now Sofia is waiting for me in my dorm room. Swonderful.

I go to a neighboring building... because there's a ghost child there?!?

Why?

Ghost child and I are playing with a red playground ball. I throw it. Ghost child retrieves it. I throw it down the stairs. Ghost child bouces it back up to me.

Why am I playing with Ghost child when Now Sofia is waiting for me... nekkid in my dorm room? Especially when I paid $8 to get a good parking spot. Hey, since when do I have to pay to park at my dorm?

See ya Ghost child. Please don't be mad at me and haunt me while I'm gettin it on with Now Sofia.

Waking...

Damn the Ghost child.

I should also note that I have seen the term, "Son of the Morning Star" twice in the last 2 days now. I have not seen Sofia since last week. Hmmmmmm.

2001-11-06T22:30:00.000-06:00

More devil dreams! What is it with these guys???

Partner is chasing me. No... Partner and I are playing. I love Partner. He's big, hairy, loveable. He's an Akita. Loyal dog. Good dog. Not... EVIL dog?!?

Evil Partner is now chasing me. Snapping at my heals. Evil Partner speaks. Good Partner never learned that trick. But then again, Evil Partner is telling me he's going to KILL ME! Not a trick that would impress friends and neighbors.

Running....

Waking.... On my side... clock

3:20 a.m.

I'm going to KILL YOU!

Wait a minute! I'm awake!

Bad Dog! Bad Evil Partner! You get a non-speaking role in the next dream!

2001-11-06T22:06:00.000-06:00

So I'm killing vampires... well sorta. I was being chased by 3 vampires who were obviously hungry for my big love blood. I had lured them out of my van (I don't know where I acquired the Mystery Machine) at dusk. It had the desired effect on 1 of them, reducing it to a pile of ash and a small plastic disk which I naturally concluded was the source of vampiric power. Unfortunately, the sun went down before neutralizing the other two, but taking them out of commission long enough for me to escape down to the beach. Crowds were gathered watching the surf... that's good... safety of the herd. But who am I but the star in my own slasher dream so I go away from the jetty where safety lies in order to destroy, or at least, lose the vampire disk, which the remaining 2 vampires will hunt me down for in order to rejuvenate them back to full power. Not to mention that they are kinda pissed at me for vaporizing their girlfriend and will likely hunt me down for revenge anyway.

So what is everyone looking at? It's dark now. Gotta get rid of this thing. Bury it in the sand? No, too easy to find. Besides I think the other 2 are somehow psychically honed in on it so they'd find it right away and I'm done for. I think they're coming soon. The water. Throw it in the ocean. That's it... wait, it could just wash right back up to the beach. Gugh. What's that in the water? Night... time for sharks to feed. That's what people are looking at. Must be. Bummer. I have to wade out far enough to chunk the vampire disk so not to be killed by she-devil's friends, but at the same time risk being big fish food. A quandary for sure. There it is again in the water. It's not a shark though... it's... seals? Interesting. Playful. Amusing to watch. That's what they're all looking at. Wait a minute! Seals are shark bait. Great. Well the vampires are coming so here goes nuthin.

Wading.

Falling off the shelf. OK, I can swim. Try not to look like a seal. But I'm fat. And I'm not moving near fast enough. Why am I doing the back float? What's that heading toward me?

Paddle... paddle... paddle... useless. Naturally.

It's huge! It's... it's a great big... bull sea lion! Dude, I'm not moving in on your females. I'm just trying to throw away this vampire disk. He's picking up speed (these things really are graceful in the water). This is gonna hurt. And then it happens...

Ouch! He rams me right in the hip and launches me up back up on the beach. Thanks, I guess, but... dammit! The disk! So I just bury it in the sand and head off. Kind of a waste of all that effort if you ask me. I gotta talk to those writers about my dreams lately.

2001-10-15T23:04:00.000-05:00

I realize it's been awhile since I related the whole Berny Kopel dream and I did indeed promise a description of my Gwen Stefani dream, so here it is. Oh, also, I had another dream quite recently in fact that is worthy of mention here.

But now for Gwen...

Before I relate this story, I need to give a little true-life background. It was about 3 years ago. I was a spry 28 and at home in Houston visiting family and friends. Friday night and I was going to meet the Vickersus' at Chuy's for happy hour and then on to the Cheesecake Factory for din-din. Since I didn't have a car (with me), I asked my parents if they would be so kind as to drop me off at Chuy's and I would get John to bring me back home after dinner (a la pre-car highschool days). They said, "Sure," and "Hey Cheesecake Factory sounds like a great idea. But we'll go ahead of you and be done before you get there so as not to cramp your style." And even though I am totally secure in the thought that I actually might be caught by someone I know dining at the same establishment with my parents and it posed no threat to my ego or sense of individuality, maturity, or independence (granted, I had just bummed a ride from them... and they had given me $20 for dinner (like that would actually put a huge dent in my bar tab, let alone dinner)), I appreciated the thought nonetheless. I am also confident they would deny knowing me should we happen to run into people who might know us. That being said, the rents dropped me at Chuy's.

Now you must understand 2 things at this point. 1. that the dream description is not as long nor as amusing as the setup; and 2. that there are 2 Chuy's in Houston, described by my friend as "the good Chuy's" and "the not-so-good Chuy's." Because we all know that Tex-Mex is just like sex... even when it's bad... hey, it's still gonna give you heart burn. Knowing these 2 tidbits should give comfort to the fact that you are nearly half-way through reading this blogepic.

So John says, "Meet us at the 'good' Chuy's." And I naturally assume... no... more than assume... I am CONFIDENT that he means the one on Westheimer. I am secure in this knowledge. Comfortable even. To the point that I don't even question the fact. I would sooner question my parents' love for me than the fact the the Chuy's on Westheimer was indeed the "good Chuy's!" Now I know what you're thinking right now. You're thinking, they were at the other Chuy's. He's just setting us up. Toying with us. Playing with our minds and emotions, but we're too smart for him. It's too obvious. He got the wrong Chuy's. In fact, they may not be at Chuy's at all. They might even be at Papasitos which is far and away better Tex-Mex.

Nay, I was beginning to think and... yes doubt too that this Chuy's was not the "good Chuy's." As I wandered out to the patio (which my cousin had just built for the restaurant), I could not find them. I went back inside. To the dining room. To the OTHER dining room. Nowhere. Could I have beat them? No, that's not it. I'm never punctual and hell is still burning so I couldn't have been early. I made the rounds again. But no Vickersus'. So I took the opportunity to flirt with the cute hostesses. Both of them. I said, "Hey, I'm Paul." Nothing... no recognition... no tinge of excitement. "Anyway, I'm looking for my friends. Can you page them for me on your handy dandy p.a. system? John... John Vickers (in case there's more than one John here)." Moments pass. Nobody comes forward. Not even another John (not that I'm hooking).

"Ya know," I chuckle, "this is gonna sound kinda funny, but I thought THIS was the good Chuy's." Nothing. Boy this is a rough room. "No, really. My friends said to meet them at the 'Good Chuy's' so here I am and apparently... they have no taste." It's that ship channel thing contaminating the ground water. I know it. Give me a break gals. I'm damn charming! "So, they must be at the other one. On Richmond. No, the Chuy's. Not Papasitos. Can you call over there and ask for John? ... No just any John. I'm Paul. He's John. We're not the Pope."... whatever.

So this goes on for about 20 minutes and I think I'm starting to wear them down as I lay seige on their amours. Alas I give in and tell them to call me a cab ("for Paul") and that I'm leaving them in search of my friends at the other Chuy's.

When I get there. There are no cute hostesses to flirt with, nor are my friends present. I'm close to the Vickersus' place so I figure, I must have missed them. I'll just take a cab to their neighborhood and catch a movie across the street from their apartment. By the time the movie lets out, they'll be home and I'll go over and hang out. The evening won't be a complete waste.

I should probably leave a message on the OFF... way OFF chance that they happen to run into my parents... chuckle... at the Cheesecake Factory. It'll never happen.

Time passes. I leave the message and go to the movie.
Oh, sorry you weren't half-way done back there. Yeah, I lied. But I didn't know I was going to be lying when I wrote it. I don't post every day though, so now's a good time to take a break and come back tomorrow... or whenever.

Meanwhile... back in the world which revolves around Paul...

The Vickersus' were indeed at the "Good Chuy's" and the "Good Chuy's" was (and still is) indeed the Chuy's on Westheimer. What happened? I don't friggin' know. But whilest I tried in vain to win the afffections of the cute hostesses and find them at the same time, we somehow missed each other. They never saw me or heard my pages. They figured I must have gone on ahead to the Cheesecake Factory. So they went.

And that's just about when all hell broke loose. As I figure it. At least that's what I pieced together after the movie when I went to the Vickersus' and Jennifer told me, "Call your mother. You are in BIG trouble."

... And it came to pass that John and Jennifer were to bump into the Romer's at the Cheesecake Factory. "Where's Paul???" Jennifer exclaimed. It was not so much a question as it was an observation (a rift opens in the continuim of hell itself... birds whisk into the sky... clouds rush over). I still don't know why Jennifer was so alarmed, or rather failed to mask her alarm, but then she really didn't know that my creative and imaginative streak is actually somewhat genetic. Needless to say she now knows.

"He's not with you?" ask my Mom. "We left him at Chuy's to meet you."

"Well we never saw him," Jennifer returns.

"Oh my goodness! He's there alone! We have to go get him." Now the thought of me alone at a restaurant/bar should not alarm... well it should alarm certain parents of cute hostesses... but shouldn't alarm anyone... ANYONE who actually knows me, let alone those who actually gave birth to me and raised me. That's just plain silly.

But this is what actually went through my parents' minds... both of them... at the same time... the exact same thoughts. "We dropped Paul off at Chuy's. He went inside. We know this much. Once he got inside... and we admit this is conjecture since we didn't actually witness it... but it must be true... he sat his innocent self down at the bar to wait for the Vickersus'. A girl. A beautiful yet dangerous girl started talking to him. Offered to buy him a drink. Slipped him a mickey while he was distracted (by her beauty I'm assuming). And has since carried him (yeah... right) to her car. Murdered (yes murdered) him. Taken his body down to the beach. Chopped it up into little pieces. And fed... our baby... to the fish."

I'm 28 years old.
I'm more at home in a bar than at church.
Devil women just happen to like hanging out at Chuy's preying on guys like me.
And there are many more obvious holes to this line of thinking which John begins to explain to my parents, but then decides it's probably just better to rush back to Chuy's before my parents get there and warn me of the trouble I'm in. For what, I don't know. But I'm in trouble nonetheless at this point.

John and Jennifer get back to Chuy's and begin to question the hostesses. He describes me. He relates that I had been there not too long ago and that I was looking for the two of them. Nothing. His name is Paul. I'm John.

Nothing. No hint of recognition. I had been talking to them for 20 minutes!

DAMN that Houston Ship Channel and it's water-polluting traffic!

About the time John and Jennifer are walking back out the door they hear over the p.a. system, "Is there a Paul... Paul Romer in the house? Your mother is on the phone and needs to talk to you."

Complete and utter silence for what I imagine is a good two beats.

Laughter. Laughter like Chuy's has ever or since experienced. I'm so glad John was there to hear it and later relate the story to me. I'm so glad that I was fat, dumb and happy sitting in a movie oblivious to all this.

My parents were still up at midnight when John finally dropped me off. He had gotten my message when they went home and called my folks to let them know the devil-woman had not gotten me. It did not assuage my Dad's anger though at upsetting my Mom such. I think I would have been grounded had it not been for the fact that I had to return to Dallas on Sunday and go back to work and my own apartment. In lieu of being grounded I was made to promise never to be anywhere other than where I was supposed to be and NEVER to accept free drinks from girls at Chuy's no matter how pretty they might be. I'm currently working on the assumption that they meant only at the "Good Chuy's."

Although no pretty woman, devil or not, has bought me a drink at any Chuy's.

I am especially fond of mango margaritas.

So what does this have to do with Gwen Stefani?

Not much other than it was either that night or not more than a few nights after this event that I had the dream about Gwen.

In the dream, I had met Gwen at some restaurant and we hit it off. Like really hit it off. She told me she was on an autograph-signing tour of the city and would I come with her in her touring rig to visit various record shops in the area.

Sounds great, but I need to tell my parents where I'm going so they won't be worried (a-hah... good move, Paul). So I tell my folks that Gwen Stefani... of No Doubt invited me to go sign records with her. Is it ok if I go with her? She's famous and I'll be back early, I think.

So with my parents' blessings I go out to Gwen's rig. And it's a rig. As in rig of an 18-wheeler. Except there's nothing attatched to the back. There's a door though. A screen door. And we go inside to this little shag-carpeted living room. Decked out pretty much like you'd expect Gwen's place to be. Mind you, I'm not even a big No Doubt fan at this point. I liked Spiderweb as much as the next guy, and Don't Speak was pretty good I guess; but not a real big fan. But Gwen is apparently a big fan of the Big Love and she just jumps me. Really. She starts kissing me and untucking my shirt and her shirt, and it's kinda fun. I have to admit. But then she stops. "I gotta tell the driver that we're ready to go." And she climbs up into the cab.

She just disappears when the screen door opens and in waltzes Dan of all people! "Dan!?! What are you... get outta here! Can't you see??? Me... Gwen... Gettin' it on! You're spoiling it! Get out before we start..." And we started moving. I didn't know where Dan had come from, but now we were moving and he couldn't leave as much as I wanted to push him from the rig. Gwen returns.

"Oh (disappointed). Who are you?"
"It's my 'friend' Dan. He was just leaving."
"Well, would you like a drink?"

I would like 2 things at this point. 1. for Dan to be tumbling along the highway behind our rig and 2. for Gwen to get back to what she was doing earlier. Neither of which happen before we end up at the Sound Exchange. The place where the next signing is. As we walk in the store from the back entrance and make our way down the aisles of records, a stoner kid who's waiting gives me a knowing thumbs up, "Dude, Gwen Stefani."

I know, dude. If only Dan hadn't fucked everything up.

I was mad at Dan for a couple of weeks after that. And I guess there's part of me that will never forgive what he did to me in that dream.

And so, that's it for now. Dream #3 will come at you soon. I just had it the other night. But I'll give you time to mull this blog over for awhile. Just remind me to tell you about the one with the Vampires and the Sea Lions.

2001-08-06T23:54:00.000-05:00

OK, I guess I should start here. My hope is that at least this place will serve to record and preserve forever my dreams. I tend to have some really funky ones. Just ask my friends and they'll tell you... to run whenever I start a conversation off with, "Man, I had the weirdest dream last night..."

I also hope that the blogs will help hone my writing skills to the point where I become the bestselling author I have always dreamed of becoming. I long to use literary cliches. For example, I will one day have my very own protagonist getting out of the bath, standing naked in front of a steam-coated mirror, wiping it to reveal... eh, not bad... the tummy is flat, the breasts are perky, the skin, not so wrinkly. This confirmation that our hero has what it takes to narrowly avoid peril and hook up and get... it... ON!... this is what I want to do!

But until then, until I find myself rushing through an airport and going, "Hey, that's me on that dust jacket!" you will have to endure my random thoughts, crazy dreams, and poor spelling (I can't afford a proofreader yet). Or not, I guess. You could just click on by.

I have a short attention span as you will learn while journeying through my brain; but I do eventually arrive at the point of which I originally intended. I get easily distr... god, that girl at the bar tonight with the Shazam t-shirt was hot!

Speaking of... this dream. It was about 3 or 4 years ago and it started the whole thing off. The infamous "Bernie Kopel Dream." You know Bernie Kopel of Love Boat fame, right? Well he starred in my dream. In it, he was hosting an infomercial for a matchmaking service for "Single Again" adults. I remember it vividly as many of my friends now do. There he was in all his "Doc" glory, wearing a blue hibiscus-covered tropical shirt, espousing the benefits of this service. The scene fades into a lonely beach at sunset, with a rather attractive 40-ish woman walking on it. Blonde. Very becoming white one-piece bathing suit complete with complimenting sarong. All while we hear Bernie's voice saying, "...and I never thought I'd find Love again after the loss of my first wife... until..." Bernie Kopel! Blue hibiscus shirt! Glasses and all! Infomercial love for sale! Is that weird or what?

I wrote it all out once in haiku on a table at a local watering hole. I don't think people got it. Anyway, it's not nearly as weird as the dream I had later. Probably the second most disturbing dream of my "adult" life. In this one, my best friend comes between me and Gwen Stefani of the band No Doubt. I wasn't even a big No Doubt fan at the time. But more on that later.