The Zombie Conspiracy

I’m constantly preparing myself for the Zombies to attack. In the past I would keep a bag in my car that had extra clothes, a wooden stake, and an extra credit card in it in case of emergencies. Looking back, the credit card probably wouldn’t have come in handy if Zombies did actually ever attack.

There are different types of Zombies and it all depends on if you’re in the U.S. or not. If you’re in the U.S. the Zombies are going to be stupid and slow, mainly because the people who became these Zombies most likely had horrible health care and were too overweight to ever run at a decent speed in the first place. Another type would be the U.K. Zombies, and depending on where you’re at and if you find the situation comical, they tend to be more vicious and terrorizing. These zombies in the U.K. are pissed off, they’ve been stuck with the Queen of England prancing around like a circus side show and now they have to put up with the royal wedding. Who cares about the Price of England and this fore-head he’s married? If I had it my way, they would have both turned into zombies on their wedding day, but only her at first. I can imagine the Prince leaning in for the kiss; she lifts her veil and presto! ZOMBIE BRIDE! She takes a bite out of his throat and snaps the Priest in two. There’s no end to the madness after that. Once you get to the Queen, the rest of the world is screwed. Their wedding would have been front page news, everywhere you look the news is reminding every man, woman, and child that zombies can get married but gay people can’t legally get married.

Some people make fun, some point fingers, some are just plain rude, but you can’t listen to the names that people call you. Like, “hey you tard!” “Zombies don’t exist!” Who are these people, and where have they been for the last 80 years? Haven’t they heard of WWII or the Cold War? Crazy biological warfare has been invented, and if ants can become zombies it’s not a far cry to think that the government won’t come up with someway to make human zombies for mind control purposes. Once these Zombies are created, you have to protect yourself.

Step one would obviously be to panic. Yes, you need to panic immediately and get it out of your system. If zombies are attacking it will be on YouTube steaming within the first few attacks so you’ll probably be safe for a little while, then take your bedroom and closet doors off the hinges and break the wood up so that you may board up the windows. Water is absolutely the most important necessity you will need to survive. You have a shower or bath tub… fill every container up with water as soon as possible. About 30 gallons of water will fit under a queen size bed. Weapons! Get some! It doesn’t matter what kind, just get some wooden stakes or a gun but be sure to always have some kind of weapon that you won’t run out of. A gun runs out of bullets and then becomes useless; make sure you have some sort of machete or laser gun depending on how far in the future this is. If you’ve read this and the Zombies do attack, come back to my blog. In the beginning the internet will not be lost; I will give directions to my Zombie Fortress. Now let me explain this to you.

In a world full of Zombies, many people will try to go where they feel it is “safe,” to places that have not been contaminated. This is mistake number one, when you travel long distances you put yourself and others at risk. Think about it, there’s always that one dumbass that has got to be in charge, and there are always people on the way that will steal from you and put you in harms way so that they have the upper hand. This is exactly why I am going to have a sustainable home no more than 100 miles outside of Austin. This home will be made out of concrete and steel. It will run on solar energy and have a system where rain water will be collected from the roof into a system that stores and provides an irrigation system for the garden and chickens that will be located in the court yard of this facility. The facility will be monitored by cameras and will have mines set up out side of the complex to kill any roaming zombies and also trip wires that will set alarms off. This is a great idea founded in the movie 28 days later. The balconies of this building will have gun torrents, and the basement will have a safe room that has a small hole one can open to shoot through and also it will have medical aid, non perishable food and access to the water supply along with security camera access.  This would be the ideal spot if Zombies were to attack, at some point these mangy bodies will decay and the zombies will die within time, but until then one must fight them off.

Keep your eyes peeled for more zombie blogs, I could go on for days about this issue. Remember, remember, a real zombie attack is impending, it’s important to be prepared!

Random Shit

So the cleaning lady for the Super 8 I'm staying at obviously didn't notice the DO NOT DISTURB sign on my door. she knocked for a good 3 min. Housekeeping... over and over and over... "surely she'll notice the do not disturb sign" i thought. She opens the door and i'm laying in bed screaming at her! "Do not disturb you stupid bitch!" I think she owes me an apology. :) Never wake a gay man! LOL Oh i just ate two cookies right as I was headed out to the gym. ..

Have you ever thought that the world was actually full of robots? Did you think that you were the only real human and the rest of the world was “in on it?” If you’ve ever thought this same thought than you’re not alone. I’m also a real human and you should find me because all of these robots are really getting on my nerves. Sometimes I think that these robots get programmed every night, with information on how to ruin my life on a daily basis.

As a child I saw a movie where this boy’s parents killed their co-workers, ground their meat up into sausage and fed it to the boy as his dinner. Once the boy found this out he desperately tried to stop his parents but his father, Randy Quade, had become obsessed with human flesh and then decided to kill the boy. I lost a little respect for my dad after seeing that movie, mainly because he would make these hot dogs with German sausage that absolutely hated, and force me to finish my entire plate. I always thought it was human flesh and felt horrible after every meal containing sausage.

I’m part of the calculator generation, forced into a life of computers at a young age and video games. It’s hard trying to remember all these passwords, I could have it worse off though, I could be part of the manual labor and cigarettes’ generation. I played Sonic the Hedge Hog on my Sega video console as a child, let me just say, this was no good for me. My perception of reality was completely off track when I was younger and playing video games didn’t help matters. Every time I was in the back seat of our beat up station wagon, I imagined I was running at the same speed of the car I was traveling in, hopping off of things just like Sonic would do. I’d imagine sometimes that the car had left me behind and I’d have to “wind up,” imagining that I was tucked inside a small ball, spinning like a wind up toy car, then I would magically shoot off with the speed of like and catch up to the car.

I constantly forget things. I can’t hear and I buy in bulk. Sometimes I think I’m either a crack head or an old person. Same difference really. I've never really been a drug user. It's not for me, I've always been high on my own, I don't need drugs to make me more interesting. I'm an old soul, I'm still a gentelman on some occations and I always wish things were as simple as when we didn't have the internet. I also own multiple amounts of deodorant at any given time and enjoy movies with Racheal McAdams. That's why I'm old. Listerine also reminds me of old people.

The Clinic

   

The burning sensation showed no sign of slowing down as I sat parked in front of the RBJ Clinic. A Mexican Man in his early 40’s wearing a rustic blue collared shirt tried frantically to open the doors to the clinic where his STD’s would be treated. I remember the man’s chest hair was white and black, mainly white with the finesse of a mangled shaggy dog. His tan seemed fake from the bronzer in a bottle squeezed excessively onto his body and I chuckled as I noticed one button desperately trying to release itself from the pressure of his enormous belly that pushed against it. He eventually gave up, though it is important to get there early, he got back into his car to go back to sleep. I was almost certain he had an STD just by how nasty, and filthy he appeared.

I had previously gotten angry with an employee at the clinic on a Friday, three days earlier, because when I called at eight in the morning I got an answering machine that said the hours were from eight to five excluding lunch. I continued to get that message til about 8:15. People, there is a time to be persistent and in the event of an STD, a desire to kill the itch is the most important fixation of all. The people that work at these clinics should understand that their patients could be met with a life and death situation. The well-being of my penis was in danger and if there’s anything I will always protect, it’s my penis… and my balls, those are also pretty important. The point is that they should be on time, it’s just so irresponsible not to be. Anyways, I set my appoint that Friday and on Monday showed up early. It came as no surprise to me that the doors would be locked at eight when I got there for my appointment. About ten minutes later a woman in paper thin blue scrubs walked right through a door I hadn’t tried opening. I walked in and noticed two waiting rooms that mirrored each other. A Hispanic lady, most likely a receptionist was sitting in the Limbo of these two rooms stared at me with a wide grin. She motioned for me to come over, yelling “STD?” at me from across the room. “STD’s are on this side of the clinic, you can check in over here.” When I got to her sliding glass window I told her my name was Jordan and that only my really close friends call me STD. She was oblivious to my sarcasm and went into the details about where in the clinic I would travel to along with the map I would need to find my way.

Unlike Frodo from Lord of the rings, I had zero companions to help me on my quest to Mount RBJ CLINIC WAITING ROOM, or more widely known as “Candy Mountain.” After about ten minutes of searching, I started to imagine I was Gandalf, with a large staff and a light at the end of it, headed to my doom. I would fall miles and miles, past a place where fires burn, into nothingness and back again, landing in a cold dank spot called Clinic Waiting room. I sat there in silence, looking around I could see that this place wasn’t meant for me. There were about five or six others in the waiting room. Two sisters, shouting into one phone, at a man they were both upset with. Apparently he had befriended them both in bed and left them with a similar parting gift. They yelled white trash remarks into their pay as go flip phone, minute were running low. I noticed it was quite, I looked their way to see one of the girls texting extremely slow, trying to understand what words mean. There was a young Asian guy dressed in business clothes as if he was headed to an interview afterwards, a Hispanic couple seemed way to flirty to be in a STD clinic, the ugliest black man on earth with whom I’m sure STD’s originate, and a younger Hispanic kid with his mother and 2 little siblings. He must have been about seventeen, and anyone could tell he was completely embarrassed to be at an STD clinic with his mother. His little brother and sister played on the floor for a while than started screaming and fighting over a pamphlet informing youth about Chlamydia.

I was the only person aware or even disgusted about the STD porno the clinic had airing on the television above our heads. It was a complex story about 4 different people, all worried about getting STD’s, the problem was that the content was rated PG13 at best, there were some “R” rated love making sounds for sure. All of these people were smiling at the end of the video, three of the four ended up being fine. The fourth person, the only one who decided not to use a condom got a couple STD’s, got pregnant and ended up with AIDS by the end of the video… even she was smiling at the end. Because when does Chemo-Therapy not make somebody burst with joy?

An older white woman in her fifties with dirty blond hair called me in to get examined. She asked a lot of personal questions, to which I replied “gezz, what are you, my mother!” Immediately I knew I had fucked up. She had me strip down, completely naked, and inserted a long thin Q-Tip down the length of my penis. It stung and I could tell that this was the highlight of her job. I thought we were done after that, I was wrong. She had me bend over and then she stuck a finger up my butt. This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to sex with a woman, and I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t enjoy it at all! She gave me pills that made me nauseous and sent me on my way; I was going to be ok! I didn’t have anything that couldn’t be cured and the numb feeling from the Q-Tip was supposed to go away within a few days. As I limped up the Mountain, back into reality, I felt a since of control in my life again. I was worried that I may be just another gay guy with an STD, that thought has stuck with me ever since and I hope I never have to visit Mount STD Clinic ever again.

The Other Woman

Sometimes I think back to a four month period of my life and wonder how I made it through the difficult time with absolutely zero drug usage. If it wasn’t for broadcast television and the Chelsea Lately show/ HGTV, I never would have made it! It was a period between about October through January in 2009 to 2010. I remember it well. I was single, living with my best friend and saving up so that I could move away from the world’s most mind-numbing town, San Angelo, TX. Week after week I felt the void of nothingness, getting no where while experiencing the same drag show every weekend where the same fat ass guy in fish net stockings decided to make fun of people while his/her duck tapped penis would start to sweat the adhesive away. Many other people may have a different experience with this town, but that’s mine and I’m sticking to it.

            Late at night, bored and numb after watching 7 straight hours of HGTV, I decided I would check the mail. It was late and as I was walking up to the collection of mail boxes provided by my apartment complex I notice a black cat in the distance. Not an actual cat, but a man whose face first struck me as cat-like. He had the face of a panther, the bulge of a blue whale and personality of a kitten. We locked eyes for a moment as he purposely dropped the stack of mail fumbling in his arms. As I helped him pick up his mail we struck up a conversation. We started hanging out after that, in the beginning I’d get massively drunk and call him when I was horny. It was risky, feelings were involved, he was in the military, my favorite new show on ABC, The Witches of Eastwick, was about to be canceled and also because he was going through a divorce, after a couple months of sex I started to fall for him. It was exciting, sneaking around, I’d never done something like this and it provided that “Lifetime” thrill I had been missing in my life.

               His wife at the time was a ghetto black girl we’ll call Abortioniqua. Abortioniqua was in school for cosmetology and encouraged every stereotype a black woman has ever had. I imagined beautiful, powerful black women like Beyonce, Keri Hilson, Tyra Banks and Monique, ashamed of this woman. She had a job she worked at for 8 hrs a week, and left all of the bills up to “the husband” as she called him. She routinely called her husbands job and made up lies to try and get him fired. She called the police to get him arrested; she got in fights at clubs, and even as I’ve heard it, slept with one of his friends, a woman. Abortioniqua was what made the relationship Mark and I had, interesting, exciting, and tiresome. The constant sneaking around took a toll on me and after a while I demanded that the divorce be finalized. He started pushing divorce more with her, how she didn’t see this coming was beyond anyone at that point. He had been sleeping on the couch for the past six months and said about two words to her on any daily basis. She started checking his emails and following him. We used extra precaution, with him being military, the risks were even higher. He could’ve been kicked out of the military or even worse, being forced to stay married to her for much, much longer. Perhaps he wasn’t as cautious as usual or she just wasn’t as dumb as we thought, after all, we did all live in the same community. Did we really think that she would never notice his car parked over at my apartment everyday?

                 Mark stayed over one evening, which I enjoyed because this was rare considering the amount of discreetness we endured. We made out for 30 minutes then he left. I pranced around in my boxers afterwards, made myself a bowl of cereal and started to watch cartoons. Right as I start to take the first spoonful of delicious Special K, I heard a knock at the door, Mark must have forgotten something. I open the door, boxers on and cereal in hand to be met by a pointing finger and flying questions by Abortioniqua. “Are you Sam?!?” she shouted. My mind raced, “how much could she know?” I wondered. She shouted the entire time, wondering why he was always at my apartment, after a while I could tell she had no clue that I was Marks lover or that he was even gay for that matter. I started to return some the attitude; Mark had been right about her the whole time and any guilt I felt was long gone. The woman was a grade A bitch, with a black belt in psycho! I I was pokerfaced after about 10 seconds of arguing with a gorilla faced, ghetto girl from bad girls club. I closed the door with a “yes, uhhuhh, yep, oh yeah, sure, ughuhh, yeah I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” She replied by pounding on my door and demanding that I get my pussy ass out there and bring the “white bitch” with me. Little did she know that I was the “white bitch” and I certainly didn’t feel like getting jumped that early in the morning. I watched out of the window as another, much prettier black woman held her back from destructing my door any further.

               Mark called to apologize, I moved to another city and we continued our relationship, through the divorce and onward into our own problems. The moral of this story is to keep it simple people, don’t date married dudes. Married dudes!!! Stop sleeping around til after your divorce is FINAL!! Its not fair for anyone!

Telemarketers

Most people have worked at jobs that they can’t stand, hate or decide to kill themselves over. Most of the time it’s telemarketers, mainly because most of them are bat shit crazy. Alas, the point I’m trying to make is that, telemarketers probably deserve it. Who decides to become a telemarketer, that’s the dumbest job on the planet!

So I applied to work as a call service representative (telemarketer) in the summer after my first year at college. My brother Thomas already worked there, I was actually surprised he had a job, these people must hire anybody! He put in a good word for me and I got the job. It was undoubtedly the worst job I’ve ever had. I worked for a company that did trouble shooting for Boost Mobile, a pay as you go phone company. At the time, the best phone they had was the Razor by Motorola. The service for these phones sucked giant walrus balls and the cards you loaded money on for these phones were always crapped out. Now I understand why so many telemarketers kill themselves around Christmas time, its because that’s when cell phone sales are highest.

The only time a customer was ever happy was when they had just bought their phone and called in to activate it. All other phone conversations were a complete mess. To make matters worse, our call center number was almost the same as the number you call for phone sex with women named Candy and Dallas. Once, I picked up to answer a call and all I could hear were people having hardcore sex in the background. I proceeded to ask the guy if he needed help with anything. He continued to just breathe into the phone, after a minute or so I told him that things were getting creepy and I’d have to hang up. Honestly, it had resembled a few dates I’d been on before so I wasn’t so surprised by it. He asked me to do things with my butt that weren’t natural, I would have talked a lot longer with him but they record the phone conversations. Also, I needed another pay check to afford all the alcohol I’d be drinking the next few weeks. I asked the man if I could help him with anything again, to which he replied, “Yeah! you can help me jack off.” I replied, “Sir, I can hang up.” And I did.

Most of the people who buy pay as you go phones are too poor to afford regular cell phones, or they’re just pimps who need a second phone. I’ve had women ask me out on dates, homeless people ask for extra minutes or where I work so they can bum a cigarette, and a guy named Carl piss me off with every ounce of his energy. Carl was a white male in his early sixties who knew absolutely nothing about technology. He was frustrated with his life because his daughters no longer kept in touch with him and I imagine he shit himself on occasion, it’s the only explanation I can come up with to why he was such an asshole. 

As soon as he heard my voice on the phone he demanded to speak to a supervisor, when this happens we put them on hold for two minutes and wait for the person next to us to get off their call. The girl who sat next to me was a nineteen year old who’s soul purpose was to go to raves and meet black guys who spend all their money fixing up their car. When she described guys she was into, she didn’t describe their features, but instead the features of their car, “Oh, I really like this guy!” she would say. “He is really nice and his Pontiac has polished chrome rims, two dvd players and a bad ass sound system.” She would go on about other stuff, but I didn’t follow well because I didn’t know what torch or nausea or what V6 meant. Isn’t that a vegetable drink? I assume she was always on drugs because she would dance in her chair as if she was actually at a rave, twirling her arms in and out til I got dizzy or until she went to the bathroom to vomit.

My friend got on the phone with the man, she told him that she really appreciated him waiting and that I would be more than able to assist him. As she put me back on the phone, I could hear him screaming like a banshee, mid-air as she handed over the head set. He was upset about his phone not having any minutes left on it. I told the man that if you don’t use them within 90 days they expire. The man only had about 20 min left anyways. I offered to fix the problem and give him the 20 min back. That could have been the end. He cussed me out right and left. He called me a faggot, which I only allow in the heat of sexual passion, and usually only black guys. The conversation lasted another hour; we had a cuss word limit of three, which he passed within the first three seconds of the call. I could have hung up but I knew he’d just call back and get me again. I learned about his daughters and his dogs, he had diabetes and he didn’t like Blacks, Hispanics, Gays, short people, young people, and most of all his ex wife for giving him the phone to begin with. I decided that day that I would quit. The girl who sat next to me said we should get hammered drunk before work and take all of our calls anyways. She never showed up after that day, no one knows what ever happened to her. I called into work for the next two weeks, I eventually ran out of money after being gone for a while. I knew if I were to come back I would need a fantastic story. I told them that my mother had recently been diagnosed with cancer and that I was gone for two weeks with her because she had to have someone to drive her to the hospital. I worked half of that day then walked out. Telemarketing can suck my balls! I’d rather be homeless!

God, Ghost, & Aliens - Part Three: God

I realize that religion and spirituality and faith are a part of most people's lives, it's natural to want to believe in something. It makes things easy and at the end of the day a person can look back and say "I've got a pretty shitty life, but at least I've got Jesus!" Immediately after saying this the same person puts the knife down and decides that putting their head in the oven would have been a better choice... thank GOD for electric stoves! The point that I'm trying to make is that, just because I've had some pretty shitty experiences with churches and "religious people," it doesn't force me to say that "ALL" religious people are bad and hypocrites and gossiping idiots... it probably just means that most of them are.

I always had a curiosity with God growing up, it seemed as though every body's family went to church except mine. I was missing out on something! Many times my father would decide that the family needed God in our lives and that he was going to make this happen. One little bit of information you should know about my father is that immediately when he opens his mouth, shit comes out. Him saying he's found Jesus might as well have been him finding a million dollars, the next day all of his money would still be going to Mary Jane. Regardless, I'm sure he had to get everyone interested in Church for one of two reasons. One, it probably looked great when he was getting checked in by his parole officer and two, the church provided an entire afternoon once a week where he didn't have to handle screaming children.

Again, it was one of those periods of months where we were living in a shit-hole. This one was actually pretty embarrassing, even now I have the slightest urge not to open my "fat mouth" as my twin brother Josh would so nicely put it. The place was called Century Lodge and it was an efficiency apartment, back then it was OK to be struggling with living situations because Jewel was popularly cast on the radio and if she could live out of her car, we could live at Century Lodge. Given the extremely disgusting environment, Jewel's car would have actually been a step up. Our apartment complex was so bad that even the Church took pity on us "sinners." Every Sunday a very long red van pulled up right in front of our apartment, all of the kids in our part of hell got on the van to heaven, heaven being around people who at least pretended to care about us. The youth pastor at the local baptist church is the one who picked us up and he would do things like buying our lunch and talking to us about Jesus... blah blah blah. The fun stuff was when we went to the tent revivals, talk about a more fucked up situation than we were in. One would have never thought there were so many Homeless people in Abilene, TX. They were all there for the free food, but also to change something. I've been revived like 12 times, mainly because I didn't know what it was at the time.

There was a guy on a small stage in this tan circus tent asking if people wanted to come up and be saved and every time I went to these revivals I hoped to be one of them. I've always liked the spotlight and even for a few minutes all the homeless people would be so proud that I put aside all my problems and decided to accept the lord, granted, I hadn't been addicted to meth like so many of the homeless in Abilene, TX. Because of this, I was already half way there to accepting God. The church was really just trying to help so many of these people get off drugs and to give them something to believe in, because believing in themselves wasn't the best idea at the time. Second Grade was a positive experience when it comes to Jesus, but like Fernand, Count of Montage once said "it's too bad it can't always be like this Edmond." One Saturday night when we were getting our clothes ready for church the next day, my father walks into the dinning/bedroom and tells us that he doesn't trust the Minister and thinks he's full of shit. We never went back.

Most of my experiences with God can be explained mostly by an astute state of boredom. Growing up in a town with less than 1,600 people provided little opportunity to do anything else but go to church. Baird, TX has five churches. I have been to four of them. The Baptist Church, The Church of God, The Church of Christ, The Methodist Church, and one that I haven't attended, The Presbyterian Church located right next to the court house downtown. I still think that's so the Christians can prepare for future protests against gay marriage. It's all they have left now that prohibition is over and blacks and women can vote. The Church of Christ always seemed a little scary because many of the hard-ass teachers at my school went to that church, also I didn't have a great record after getting caught adding graffiti to many of the inside covers to bibles and hymnal books there. At three years old I had already been banned. Also apparently there was a Catholic Church around somewhere but must have been on the down low for I never once heard of it's location.

When I was thirteen I had my first actual awful first experience with another young teenage boy from a neighboring town. Afterward I felt like I had made a horrible decision and the local Methodist church seemed like my chance for giving away my gay virginity so soon. So after a few years of careful consideration, I opened the doors and walked right in. The fact that I didn't immediately burst into flames put me at ease, also no lightning or walls fell on me, my head didn't spin around and Jesus didn't appear to the many church-goers chanting "FAKE! FAKE! FAKE!" I peered into many of the small rooms where the youth educational services were offered for church members. It seemed like a classroom aside from all the pictures of a bloody man sacrificed on 8 1/2" X 11" Manila construction paper, to be honest I'd never seen so much red, though I've heard it's very similar in the Bronx. The entire facility was covered in red carpet, WHY? Was this to suggest that Jesus had bled all over the carpet and that once a week on a Sunday morning, we the church-people, got to parade around in it? These people needed a design intervention! Despite the alarming need for Martha Stuart, I ultimately decided let this go, obviously if the people didn't scare the gay out of me, the carpet would. After all, this was the point that I was trying to discover, I'd been tired of feeling guilty, most teenagers just want to fit in and I was no different.

A friend of mine, Kaitlyn, convinced me to join a youth meeting at the church. If there were any two major rivals in Baird, TX it was the Baptist Church vs. the Methodist church. The Methodist's seemed a little more understanding, if they found out I was gay than maybe they'd only push me off a cliff or poison me. The Baptist's seem like the punishment might actually resemble something I'd read in the bible, you know, the really look book with all those great stories. You've heard of the prodigal son right? Well in a past life I was the gay son no one ever talked about. When I came back they hid the livestock, threw stones, and drowned me in a lake, but not before I screwed Alexander the Great. Next I was born again as a Hispanic lady, and now I'm me... gay again.

I've always rooted for the underdog, growing up I'd eat vanilla before I'd eat chocolate, I'd want to go to burger king instead of McDonald's, and eventually I chose the Methodist church over the Baptist. The year I attended the Methodist church was the same year the church decided to put on the biggest reenactment of Jesus' birth ever shown. For Baird, TX that means an estimated nine actors would be playing various roles. Instead of tan burlap sacks stack up to make walls, wood paneling was actually used. My friend played Mother Mary in the scene and it was all too much. After seeing what Mother Mary was like during labor I immediately decided to switch to the Baptist church, if that much baby coming out of a virgin seems pretty unrealistic. The baptists had to of had a better grasp on what was pragmatic.

I was late my first Sunday morning so I entered through the back door where common room was. The church had a rather large youth group and many ask for forgiveness for all the partying they had done the night before. I later came to realize that it was a sort of routine for most who attended the church. If the baptist church stood apart in any aspect it would be in the arts. More over, the art of gossip. Sure, I'd talked behind a friend's back before but I'd always felt bad about it. Now I could feel free to gossip and after all the shit-talking was over all I had to do was pray for that person. I'd never vented so well in my life, and all the guilt was added up and Jesus did the subtracting. I'm not an accountant but I think I only owe 23 dollars to the IRS for profits made from gossiping in the year of 2005. One thing I did notice about this church was that the carpet was completely red. Did some atheist come through town and think it was funny to put red carpet in all the churches? Eventually I had to leave the church because of all the "you're gay and going to hell" stuff. Whatever, my "lifestyle choice" is to never walk into a building with red carpet again. Church people are morbid.

Before I left the church, however, I did accompany the entire youth group to a church camp. I was excited to go, this would be my last chance before I went off to college to pure my spirit of the deadly gayness, or so I thought. My friend Lance, who is also gay, and I were bunk mates during the trip. Looking back now, I find humor in the fact that fashion made its way into Jesus' chambers. It gives me hope if I ever make it up to heaven. My days consisted of group discussion and bible study in the morning, followed by Acting Class for Jesus in the Afternoons, Lunch, than a swim. After swimming we'd get together for another bible study and then off to the concert part of the evening, or worship part. This consisted of plays and scripture and then a band. Afterward the group would get together and once again, have discussion. It was taxing and Louisiana is hot and humid, maybe I wasn't too use to the environment or maybe somebody was spiking my slushy with something toxic but somehow on the last day I broke down. Earlier in the day a couple of the guys in the youth group made a remark about how I was obviously not a virgin because of some girl I must of had sex with. Let me just say that I am not some piece of meat, I'd never sleep with a woman because she has a crush on me, or any other reason for that matter.

After too many slushies I started to cry uncontrollably, the kind of crying when snot pours out of yours nose. Something had come over me and I couldn't keep my secret any longer. Right then and there I confessed my secret. With every youth member around in a circle I confessed that I wasn't a virgin and that it had been troubling me for some time. Everyone seemed real awkward about the information, and I could tell people were fighting back images of me naked. What I neglected to say was that I had sex with a male and that I was gay. People, this was Jesus central and I would have been crucified, I know, because all the youth groups talked about the whole weekend was Jesus' Crucifixion. Today I feel better being who I am rather than trying to keep a lie from all of the religious people who completely turned their backs to me. It is worse to live a life of lies than to continue a journey with an unwanted truth. BAM! Suck on that!
　

Why Silence Is Golden

Anyone who has had the pleasure of spending a night drinking with me has also shared the displeasure of hearing me sing. I love to sing. I sing in the car, in the shower, in bars, and even in the rain on occasion. My mother would tell you I came out of the womb singing, only to remark later that the doctor then desperately tried to shove me back in.

I noticed early on that singing would be a life long passion for myself, I didn't realize however that it would be so painful for those around me. For years, around the ages of 11 to 15 I sang proud as if I was Christina Agulera herself. In fact, I received Christina's first CD shortly after it came out for Christmas one year while I was in fifth or sixth grade. I loved that CD and wore it out, I cleaned it constantly and put it on every night as I was going to bed, the dilemma consisted of the fact that I shared a bedroom with two of my brothers. My twin brother Josh and my step brother Jason. I would like to officially apologize now for all of the awful noises coming from my bunk. Also that same apology is meant for my first roommate in college for a separate reason not related to singing.

Late at night I would sing low to myself so that my brother's wouldn't complain. After a while they would steal my only blanket and force me to be cold, I guess they thought if they would have to suffer than so should I. My brother Josh convinced me to record myself and I've never been able to sing with the same confidence that I once had. On almost every occasion I get paranoid like there is a recording device in the room and worry that it will be on you-tube the next day. My singing is about as bad as Lindsey Lohan's addiction to methamphetamine. It's lethal, people wonder why I can't just stop and I am completely addicted and ignorant to the consequences.

My friend Tara and I would sing after late nights of drinking and fought over the microphone on almost every instance. Any particular Disney song or the entire soundtrack to a Taylor Swift album. I'm not particularly violent, but take away my microphone and you'll see the Hulk come out. It was my twenty first birthday, perhaps its the Irish in me that makes me a violent singer, anyways I was singing "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey. I was midway through the song when any ugly bitch with wide hips, flat chest, perky noise, and a dark hair cut pushed behind both ears at shoulder length came up to me and pleaded for me to stop singing. Her scrunched up forehead and serious feeble lips suggested an intense attitude, she had been drinking and hadn't been laid in a while, it's even possible that she was under the hypnosis of her period. Regardless, it was my birthday and the bitch was in my air space. There we were, standing on what resembled a much smaller version of the American Idol semi-finalist stage in a tug-of-war over the large mic. My twin brother had to pull me off and ever since I've been reluctant to sing on stage in public. Afterward the young lady sang an intense version of "Should've Said No" by Taylor Swift. Apparently she had been in a fight with her boyfriend and had broken it off with hurt feelings, discovering this fact led to bits of empathy for the woman and then I eventually let the scuffle go because after drinking I tend to get more horny than I do violent. Which I deduce is from my Italian side of the family.

I must now take the chance to apologize for any future situation where another human being or even pet dog or cat must hear my huffing off-key tone def rendition of "A Whole New World" from Disney's "Aladdin." I sincerely understand now why so many believe silence is golden.

God, Ghosts, & Aliens : Part Two

                                        ALIENS                

                I’ll admit I can be a little bat-shit crazy at times, but I’ve never been that guy on the street corner that  people look at and say, “didn’t that sign say the end of the world would be in the year 2000, now it’s 2012… whatever. Well give his crazy-ass some Arby’s and three dollars.” If the world does end with in my lifetime, I just hope it’s not by Aliens. I’m not ready for Aliens. I have enough to worry about as it is and Aliens would only complicate things even more than they already are. I would find myself complaining to someone two years after the Aliens show up and all I would hear is, “it could be worse, you could be on that ship with those Aliens!”

                My view about Aliens is a little indecisive. It’s like asking me to pick between Rachael McAdams or Natalie Portman as best actress ever, I could never decide. Ok, I believe there is life out there somewhere and maybe even alternate Universes if particles could actually change their charges. The fact is that, even if Aliens found a way to travel at the speed of light… they’d have to live like 4 lives to get here from the nearest star. So basically if they want to live long enough to get back from where ever the hell they’re coming from, they would have to warp through space, which I believe is only possible in Star Wars. CRAP! I think I just lost half of my readers somewhere, sorry… I promise there won’t be much thinking in any of my other blogs.

                There probably is life on another planet even in our solar system, maybe microbes or something. I just don’t necessarily believe that Aliens have come to earth and abducted people. My boyfriend Mike feels the complete opposite. At night we have to leave the door closed, not because of robbers breaking into the house or even because of the weird noise the toilet makes in the bathroom, it’s because he thinks aliens will walk through the door and take him while he is sleeping. If they ever do, I’d never know about it… I sleep like a rock. It didn’t use to be like this, when we first started seeing each other he would be able to sleep in my apartment without my door closed, locked, and dresser blocking any intruders. That soon changed after he watched the Fourth Kind. Thanks to Universal Pictures there is now some related reason I’m not allowed to have the ceiling fan on when I sleep because he wants to be able to hear the ship coming!

                It’s the film industries fault for so many people have such paranoia! The root of our problems is Stephen Spielberg; the man is connected to the government in some way and gets inside info on Alien things. I have to be honest; I’m not a fan of Spielberg. His movies are always EXTREMELY predictable and the aliens often look like a triceratops mixed with E.T. Why does he even show the Aliens in his movies, they end up looking ridiculous and all the credibility is lost in the end? I find myself saying, “People are running from those things? I’d be laughing in their faces… after all, they die with oxygen or water or something else extremely simple!” Don’t get me started on Transformers; at least this Director gives me awesome explosions! If anything Alien related in cinema or television has been a hit with me, it would be the X-Files. I love the X-Files. Molder was SOO hot; there is something about a guy whose sister got abducted by aliens than spends the rest of his life trying to prove they are real. Molder makes me all giddy, about as much as cute def guys.

                I was on a trip to see Avenged Sevenfold (heavy metal band) in Albuquerque, New Mexico so my friends and I stopped at Roswell on the way. After listening to me sing for about three hours, they were ready to sprint out of the car and get abducted to anywhere that glass-breaking screeching didn’t exist. We stopped by the alright museum the enormously small town had and experienced nothing. There wasn’t anything to see and I was not made a believer, if anything this town only validated my belief that Aliens do not exist. We did, however, go to this dinner shaped like a space ship and the burgers were out of this world.

                I wish I could tell of some person I know who has been abducted or even an event where I was like, “whoa, that was like a space rainbow” but I only know of earth rainbows. My grandfather is practically from another world, he is the only person I know that avidly protests any belief in the holocaust. He believes that we never got to the moon, that it was all filmed in a warehouse. He also believes that Aliens created the earth. I lived with my grandfather for quite a time in High School and he never liked how often I went to church events. Looking back, I do wish I would have actually wasted my time on something a little more productive than the local Baptist church. My grandfather’s idea is that Aliens created the Universe and everything in it, especially the Earth and also believed they helped the Egyptians build the pyramids. If you ask me, he watched a little too much of the History Channel. If it is all a government conspiracy and there really are aliens out there than I’ll totally jump on board, as long as all my rights to complain aren’t at stake. For now though, Aliens are much like the idea of God to me, I’ll believe it when I see some concrete evidence, like some video footage of Jesus turning one piece of bread into like 9 loaves, with no help from Mel Gibson!

God, Ghosts, & Aliens : Part One

GHOSTS

                It’s hard enough for me to understand how hair grows on the rough parts of my big toes, that being said I’m even much less inclined to explain God, Aliens, Ghosts, or even the ridiculously low prices at IKEA.

                If my blog ever gets read, even by 100 people, than the town of Baird, TX will have gotten more recognition than ever previously expected. This town is so small and conservative that only recently the prohibition acts were lifted from county law. Baird, TX, however, hasn’t always been so unadventurous. The town had a train station in the early 1900’s that made it a popular hub for people migrating west and landing in Texas. One of the stops in these olden times may have well been my Grandfathers old house. Back then it was small and hadn’t yet been added on to, but it did have extra rooms for out of town guests to stay in and many people had been rumored to have died there. That being said, it’s the oldest house still standing in Baird and the second oldest is right across the street. The house is right next to downtown, a street as long as a foot ball field with nothing but a few antique stores, a bank and the dentist.

                Once, past my bed-time when I was about eight years old I strolled down the large hallway to find some car keys. I had the great idea that I would take my Uncle’s keys to his van and try to run away to anywhere that pecan tree’s didn’t exist. The house was massive, especially for an eight year old boy. I was tucked in by my Uncle this night which especially made me feel bad for wanting to run away. Usually my uncle didn’t tuck us in and he always seemed to be a bit of a hard ass. He had bought me this huge stuffed raccoon that I named Racky. He was my size and I slept with him every night. My brother Josh was also in the same room so I had to be quiet enough as to not wake him. After I said my goodbyes to Racky, I proceeded to leave the room and step into the kitchen. As I was walking out it occurred to me that I wouldn’t have any food to eat when I left, and I certainly didn’t have any concept as to the worth of money. I ate some cookies and grabbed whatever would fit in a plastic grocery bag. As I stepped into the great room that consisted of the dinning/living room, I had this deep and profound feeling of loss for my twin brother. If anything would happen to him, it would be my fault for leaving. I don’t know why, I just kept going. At this point I wanted to see how far I could get; maybe I’d only make it to Clyde, the next town, or maybe Canada.

                The hallways always had a creepy feel to them because they were only lit by dim night lights. These hallways could test even the least frightful person. As I turned around the corner to walk through the hallway I saw a man clear as day in front of me. He only stared. It was like he knew who I was and didn’t like that I was running away. He was average in height for a man and had a semi tethered suit on with a bowler hat that was flat on the top. His face was serious and I wanted to cry or hide or call for help, but I was frozen. As I would move, so would he and it really started to creep me out. After we both stood there for a couple minutes I got more and more brave. Three minutes gave me the courage to try and sneak past him. If I could get to the front door than I believed he couldn’t get me, he was a ghost… so it’s not like he could leave the house, right? As I reached the middle ground of the hallway I suddenly noticed the Ghost had disappeared, or so I thought. I looked behind myself and there he was, standing and staring, seriously about to grab me. I took one step back and as I did he rushed over my body like he had run right through me. I screamed like a girl scout falling into a well. I didn’t think to look back and ran straight to my room and woke my brother up immediately. I only tried to run away once after this incident, also not a good ending. For about a year afterwards and almost every time I spent the night in my Grandfather’s house I would either experience something creepy or dream of my brother Josh dying in a tragic car accident and I’d wake up sobbing.  I don’t know why, I can’t explain it… it’s just what I experienced and every time I try to rationalize it I can only think about how real it felt and how vivid the memory is even after all these years.

Lesbian Step-Mom #3

Late one June night a Lesbian couple cast behind a veil of secrecy, decided to no longer hide their love from the rest of the world. These two champions, hard fisted… fanny-pack in hand would no longer allow themselves to keep extremely large collections of plastic trolls, faux-skin blankets with lions and machetes locked away in the bowels behind their vaginas. This night, a night with flannel shirts tied around their waists signaled freedom, it was a night my father would know true lesbian justice; a night my father or even I for that matter would never forget.

                My father and I haven’t always had the best relationship, and to be honest, it’s his fault. Regardless of our differences, my empathy goes out to any man who is dealt the harsh blow of a lesbian or gay lover who has lied to their straight counterpart. That being said, who doesn’t see this coming? Was my father blind or just lying to himself for their entire relationship? Woman or not, if you’re wearing flannel and listening to Michael Bolton, you’re gay. One might even wear a tie-died shirt underneath the flannel, just to show their rebellion against men. I’m not saying all lesbians are like this, just most I’ve seen. Lorene was perhaps the most stereotypical lesbian. She rarely used deodorant, wore tie-die and flannel together. Only wore jeans or cargo-shorts, always had a black or neon yellow fanny pack on, loved trips to home depot, and listened to power ballads. People, I don’t have to make this stuff up, god gave me enough material for many, many blogs. Lesbians are cool, despite all of the draw-backs; they are more widely accepted then gay men. Gay men get every card except the “make-out in public” card. This has been reserved for lesbians; every other gay-card goes to gay men: The power to raise property value, fashion sense, diplomacy, art work, teaching, and especially the military. Lesbians also share all of these traits, but it’s the gay men who always get credit. Hey, I’m not the one who makes the rules, I’m just pointing out the obvious. So be nicer to the over-weight soft-ball players with spiky hair and cut off jogging shorts standing next to you in line for that Angelina Jolie movie – they don’t get enough credit!

                It was unknown to me that Sherry had been standing outside our single-wide cram-packed trailer, listening to my parents fighting and my begging for them to stay together. Lorene showed up one night, under the influence of snorting extreme toxins (the vag). For those who aren’t aware, The Vag is extremely dangerous and explosive, use with caution, actually don’t use at all for it is very flammable from what I’ve heard, and by “heard” I obviously mean “Imagined.” My father and Lorene were fighting about everything he knew the whole time and how unfair it was for her to leave him alone with us. I remember begging them to stay together, why couldn’t sherry stay with us and sleep on the couch? I tried to mediate, desperately hoping they would stay together. To this they both laughed and it seemed it was the only thing they both could immediately agree against. I still don’t see the problem with it; it works for Mormons all the time.

                My younger brother Brandon was Lorene’s biological son, when he would visit Lorene we asked to go see her as well. After a while it seemed as though we had three families. Our immediate family consisted of my dad with his side and support, my mother and her side, and Lorene and Sherry. Lorene and Sherry didn’t really have a supportive family. Sherry’s children were about as stable as the attack on Hiroshima after dropping the Atomic bomb. I had seen Sherry before, the night Lorene was leaving with her things but never officially had the displeasure of shaking her hand. Her son was about 13 when I was 9. His name was Michael and apparently had a bit of a problem with his mother. One afternoon he locked himself in his room in their town-home. Sherry, determined to get into the room, grabbed a latter and proceeded to climb up to his two story window. Bad move. Michael immediately started throwing bricks at her, which, now that I’m a bit older I wonder why bricks would be in his room in the first place. It seems that it took a lot more than that to keep sherry from climbing up that window. Inside his room was a table top burner with a full pot of boiling water in it. Again, sherry was in a bad spot. Michael Myers then put on his scary mask and dumped the pot of boiling water on top of his mother’s head, scalding her and putting her in intensive care for a week. Now, one has to ask themselves how true could this story actually be, after all… it was my five year old brother cluing me in on everything. Regardless, with this information in hand, I was prepared to see a woman resembling Freddy Krueger when the encounter would actually take place.

                Sherry worked at an Arby’s on 1^st street directly across from the new K-Mart. Lorene took us there for lunch one afternoon so we could meet her. She was a thin, wide white woman, Irish looking, with an Arby’s cap on. She was polite and even gave us free Arby’s melts. Who says Lesbians aren’t nice? I don’t! One problem, I couldn’t touch her and after noticing the puss draining from the side of her head, an Arby’s melt didn’t seem too appetizing. Apparently some form of violence happened between her and another person. She had tons of make-up on, wrong shade, to cover up her burn marks that seemed to be only accented by the make-up. This was my perception growing up of un-educated people who decided to have children. Then and there I knew college was my only route, I could never end up like my father or Lorene, and especially not Sherry. I lost contact with Lorene over the years, even Brandon rarely sees his mother. She lives off of the government now; never actually working a day in her life now receives disability. The last time I saw her she was staying at a Ramada Inn, as I walked in I saw four empty pill bottles in a fanny-pack, an angel appeared to Loren and told her I was welcome to come in. Afterwards we shared a meaningful conversation about how she was being interviewed for the position of the chief of police for the Abilene police department.  

Intimate Relations with Ketchup

I’m not a full blown celebrity like Tori Spelling, but I imagine that if I were, many people from all around the world would have one question for me. It’s the same question I hear from the guy packing up my meat at the grocery store, my mother, or even my catholic priest when I was applying for that internship. When was it that you knew you were gay and do you ever think you could just try to like women? Immediately I’m inclined to find the nearest easy button and push it as if it were the buzzer to that taboo game.  It would sound loud enough that people would fall to the ground, dazed and confused. Once they awoke to me drawing on their forehead with a sharpie they would see the world in a new light and decide to live their life without asking another stupid question for as long as they live. At this moment an easy button is at least 10 years away with this world’s limited technology, so for now I’ll just have to hope that a massive need to read my blog gets around to at least people in a 100 mile radius of Austin and anyone who decides to telephone me. 

                If you read that last paragraph then you’ll know I’m about to try to explain my first sexual encounter. Problem, I’m not sure what age I was in that tent with, we’ll call him “Ketchup;” which is very close to the time an encounter I had with a boy named Michael in first grade, either of these could have been my first encounter. The first skin to skin contact I ever experienced was with another male, sorry Mom. Ketchup was a thin Mexican boy about two years older than I am. I’m not sure, but I think we could have been related by marriage at some point, perhaps a distant cousin or something. My mother never actually married his Uncle, but if I ever refer to my hill-billy years, it would ultimately consist of ages six to eight or nine.

After my mother divorced my father she found an almost equally counter-productive man to drop trough with. He was a Hispanic man blessed with an abundance of children, a good majority of which he would question any validity of matching DNA. I believe Ketchup was either a previous step son or real son somewhere down the line. Regardless Ketchup was always around. We played a lot together when I would leave for the weekends to visit my mother. When I arrived I would run to the back of the trailer and climb an insanely tall club house built around an old telephone poll in the middle of the barren waste land they called a back yard. This is where Ketchup would always be waiting and we would kiss for what seemed like the whole weekend. Yes, there were risks involved but we were in love and so excited that we eventually decided to adopt imaginary children in the shape of hard molded plastic. Eventually the weekend would come to a close and I’d have to explain to my children that I’d be leaving on a very important business trip and wouldn’t be back for a while; Barbie always took this the hardest. We lost contact for a while and the last time I saw her she was living out of her red corvette and had cut all her hair off. I feel partly responsible for her death, a truly violent end with a pitt bull landed her in a hole she’d been digging herself into for quite some time. My only regret is that I couldn’t get her to see she was only reliving my past mistakes. Ketchup and I vowed to do better, and this time we’d try our best with our own “real” children.

                     My mom called my twin and I about a week after my ninth birthday to finally wish us a happy birthday and make it up to us by going camping. I was thrilled to spend time with my mother. She had cool things at her house like cereal out of a box and duck tales. At home we bought off brand cereal in bags and my dad never subscribed to the specific Disney channel you needed to get all the shows that would prepare you for Grey’s Anatomy. Josh wasn’t too excited because we would be sharing the weekend with all the other Hispanic kids. I figure he was jealous that these new kids where getting more attention from my mother than we were getting. I, on the other hand, was blinded with lust and imagined the weekend with Ketchup, my intentions patently for us to see each other naked.

We arrived late to the largest man-made mud pit in the in United States, more formally known as Clyde Lake. Ketchup was nowhere to be found so I immediately forgot about him and tried to learn how to swim. After a near death experience subsequent to losing my life jacket I was rushed to a land of warmth and smoores. Late that night all the Mexicans showed up, my mother’s fiancé apparently didn’t want to force his children into a life of swimming and crime. Ketchup appeared from the dark abis, it was the perfect end to the day, as that “I’ve got friends in low places” song came on the portable radio. We sneaked off to the tent by ourselves and I told Ketchup what had happened to me. He was passionate, like I had just returned from battle or if I had just saved his favorite teddy from the jaws of “Damnit,” his puppy. We flung our clothes off in a hurry then slowly decided what to do with our bodies. We both had no clue what women and men did together naked and an even vaguer idea as to what two men could do together sexually. We decided that he would lay directly on top of me, time past as if we were in an awkward time caspsle as we just lay there, not talking for what seemed like an hour but in actual time was only about 5 minutes. We put our clothes back on and went outside to play, I didn’t see much of Ketchup after that. Our parents broke up and he started to gain a lot of weight. Later in High School I found out that he had stolen a number of merchandise from homes and stores. He was sent to Juvenile detention and even now extreme boredom couldn’t bring me to wonder what has happened to him since.

Never Let Me Go

This was my attempt to write a song and I thought I would share it on here on my blog. Mainly because, now looking back at it, it makes me laugh. I wrote it about a year ago.

White flowers push the sole of my feet
Walking in it's you i've come to meet.
Every step, faster than the next
Can't pin-point why, but you've got me hex'd

Heart pounds as my steps start to stride
Gettin ready for an amazing ride.
You don't need to whisper what i want to hear.
Catch me in your arms, nothin left to fear.

(Chorus)
Cause i can feel everything that you wanna to say
You'd tell me that your crazy, need me everyday.
See the love that's in my eyes and all the things i know
Hold on to me tight and never let me go. oh oh, never let me go.

I push, you pull back. Make me wanna stay.
Warm like a light that won't fade away.
Cant help but keep thinkin to myself
Anything from Heaven is what i've felt.

Well you wrote me on your calendar you've thrown away
Ink ran out, and knew 2080 wasn't made.
Then when 2 a.m. comes around, we'll still be up
I'll be lookin at what we have and know i'm loved.

Oh but i can see that you know and understand me
Couldn't live if, you knew I wasn't happy.
You're everything i need, everything i need.

Cause i can feel everything that you wanna to say
You'd tell me that your crazy, need me everyday.
See the love that's in my eyes and all the things i know
Hold on to me tight and never let me go. oh oh, never let me go

And when i'm 99 i'll know you'll still care
You'll wanna tell me you're glad you're still there.
See the love that's in my eyes and all the things i know
Hold on to me tight and never let me go, never let me go.

Lesbian Step-Mom #2

It’s all still a little hazy when it comes to my Dad and Lorene finally breaking it off. At night when my parents thought I was sleeping, I would press my ear against the paper-thin faux-wood paneling forcing myself to hear the bits and pieces of arguments and accusations that were coming from my Dad and Lorene’s bedroom. My Dad worked as a pizza delivery driver and once at work had discovered from a co-worker that Lorene had been seen at the only gay bar in town on a few occasions. If you’ve ever been to Abilene, TX you’ll know that there is a church on practically every corner. The air is thick with self-righteousness and constant hypocrisy. It’s a mystery how this bar ever survived in a town like Abilene, especially considering the fact that with a church on every corner, it didn’t take too long for gossip to spread around. To add to the confusion, it seemed as though this was a time in history when apparently anything was possible, Bill Clinton had just lied on oath about having sex with his intern. My dad didn’t have to convince himself that the sky was falling, he could feel it. On most occasions when they fought all I could remember is the day they got married. Lorene was certifiably insane at best, but she was basically a second mother to me and I couldn’t imagine a life without her. For as long as I can remember my dad would compare Lorene to my real mother. After a while I learned to make my own assumptions about people and diagnosed my father as “full of it”, I began to see the world for what it really was even at my young age. For the most part, however, Lorene was all I had really ever known. I rarely got to see my real mother because of the hostile relationship my father had with her.

 Lorene and my father married each other at the Church of Christ in the small town we periodically grew up in. It was a small wedding and I was only almost four years old so I barely remember anything but bits and pieces. However, two things stick out fairly well. First is the church. Walking in you saw the normal two isles of pews stained a heavy cherry wood color. These pews always had little pencils in the bible holders that I would use to graffiti the inside covers of hymnal books with unicorns and my own made-up super heroes.  Peering over the pews I could see a man marrying Lorene and my father, they each had their own rings and their own vows. My grandfather was also there, mostly because he had in all likely-hood, paid for the wedding and everything else involved. I could tell he was angry about something during the ceremony but never found out for sure what it was. The second thing I remember is their honey-moon. It was a ride home in a 1987 station wagon. All the excitement for getting married had worn off by then and the two were already picking at each other over a secret Lorene had to confess to my dad, one she had probably already confessed to my grandfather. I remember it was about another girl, a friend they both knew. I was young and later looked back on the situation when I played dolls with the girl next door to our yellow H.U.D. house. This was my idea of marriage; I had known that they were together as boyfriend and girlfriend at first and that now after getting married they had to stay together no matter what happened. Marriage was a car ride to church happy and a car ride home upset. We went back to my grandfather’s house afterwards; my dad took off his shoes and started watching the news. Years later I played with my friend’s Ken dolls next door and suddenly had a vague idea that Lorene was a lot like me.

Lesbian Step-Mom

     Lorene came to our family when I was only about 4 years old. She was our baby sitter at first and was an expert in the fine art of neglect. She gave my twin brother and I about as much attention as a person gives a traveling salesman or one of those people in the middle of the mall who sales sunglasses and fake jewelry. Lorene was about ten dyears younger than my father, she didn’t have a license, she hadn’t graduated high school and the closest thing to a job she ever had was selling ice cream from a shop for two weeks once. So needless to say, she was more than qualified to be our babysitter. Also I’m sure Mrs. Doubtfire was taken, so Lorene was possibly the only candidate left, qualified to be alone with two four year olds for 10 hours out of the day. It wasn’t all bad. In the beginning we had nap time almost any time she was annoyed or her daytime soap operas were on. She made us Roman Noodles and Mac & Cheese, and after a while she even stopped burning everything. Her work load, or should I say “my” work load, became more strenuous as my dad and her started getting more serious as a couple. At five years old we were vacuuming, doing dishes, folding clothes, and babysitting ourselves, I’m still hoping to get compensated for raising such a good twin brother, I think he turned out pretty well considering I started raising him when I was only 5 years old.

               Air Supply, Chicago, Kansas, White Snake, Queen, and many more power ballads were in the cards for 7 more years to come. One fun fact that should be known is that Michael Bolton started out doing power ballads. Thanks for that Lorene. Anyways, to say the least, this step mom was a little eccentric. For my father she was fun and exciting, youthful. My older brother Nicholas was born as my dad had just graduated from High School. He had to find a job soon to support his family and missed out on many of the things he thought he could have experienced. Lorene was his connection to this excitement he thought he had rightfully deserved. It was the early nineties by then and it seemed as if the drug-craze was just turned cool again after Reagan tried to stomp it out. The minute the government tries to outlaw something, there’s my dear old dad to say, “hey, fuck you man! I’ll do whatever the fuck I want! It’s the first amendment!” Power ballads and hard drugs, what a mix.

                    We moved out of my Grandfather’s house because my dad had found a job doing something counter-productive. It paid part of the bills, and I think my grandfather was just glad to have his house back. We moved to Clyde, Texas into a H.U.D. house. It was nice and we stayed there for about a year. I actually have some good memories and some not so good ones as well. The manual labor started and so did the soap operas. We had this couch from the 70’s I think, or it was so worn out it looked like it was from the 70’s. Joshua, my twin brother, and I would be forced to take naps, each of us on either side of this couch and at least pretend to be sleeping. With the T.V. right in front of us we caught on to a world of lies and pregnant women who’s baby’s daddy was a mystery for a whole season. People in the same dim lit rooms gave off lines that were systematic and predictable, and still, futile to resist. Lorene always liked me more than my brother Josh, and she absolutely despised my brother, Thomas. My Dad stopped by one morning for his lunch break and had with him three large, empty, refrigerator boxes. Nick, the oldest of all of us was making a house or news station or something else requiring skill and knowledge. Tom was also trying to do the same, but found his wasn’t as masterful as Nick’s was. Josh and I were younger and I’m sure he was playing with a lady bug. I however was rolling around in my box, just as a person would be on the inside of a tire or tin trash can as someone pushes them down a hill. I was dropped on my head a lot as a child. Nick and Tom got into an argument and began scuffling over an aluminum carpet rod… Nick had already become a master carpenter. The end result was Josh’s sliced eyeball and a horrified family. After a couple weeks maybe a month or so we move back into my grandfather house where my Uncle took care of us. My dad and Lorene were getting their shit together, or so it seemed.

                  Exhausted, as if we had just come out of Auschwitz, we were shipped back over to my Father and Lorene. Tom however was still living with my mother, when he was Six years old he had an argument with Loren and decided it was best if they broke up.  I was in the third grade the next year, this apparently was the year, that “I’m all out of love, I’m so lost without you” song made a come-back. We lived in a run-down trailer park, in a run-down trailer, next to run-down neighbors. I remember a woman who lived next door to us. I believe her name was Patty and she appeared to be a big carpet-muncher. I apologize if that isn’t the correct terminology, for I have not a clue what is in-between a woman’s legs and have no desire to ever learn, for all I know… it could be carpet. Patty was bragging because she had mastered the art of sucking out the entire inside of a dill pickle. I watched as she would bite off the tip of the pickle; wrap her tongue around the outside seed section and inside dill wall to make room for suction. She placed the pickle half-way down her throat and started to inhale, then presto, out came a white rabbit… or wait! No, it was a pickle with all the insides majically whist away, why couldn't I just have a normal childhood? Sometimes I would imagine children in other neighborhoods, where the houses had foundations and manicured lawns. Our front yard had only a very sturdy gate, useful against robbery and powerless against mice. These children in the burbs would get to see magicians and white rabbits. I, however, was stuck with Patty the pickle sucker. Patty at the time, was living with her soon to be husband, they had to wait to get married because thieir baby wasn’t born yet. A year later Lorene confessed to having intimate relations with her to my father… but who could blame Lorene, the lady could suck out the entire inside of a dill pickle