To My Visitors

I've noticed a good deal of my random visitors (around 50%) come after finding me via Google searches. I apologize because I've mislead you all.

Here are some popular searches:

By far the largest contingent of visitors would be those looking for Alana de la Garza, the actress who plays the ADA on Law and Order. I don't know why they're directed to my site, but I presume it's because I've linked to her picture here. To you, because you probably aren't aware, here is a Google Image Search and the Wiki page of my future girlfriend.

The next largest faction consists of--and this is especially popular in Europe--consists of people doing searches on champagne enemas, or champagne piss enema orgies, or champagne enema ass piss. I can tell they're especially desperate because my blog is around the 30th or 40th listed (why? Here). Champagne enema visitors, I won't link you to another site, but I'll say that the first handful of hits are usually your best bet for champagne enema ass piss orgy videos.

The next largest contingent consists of people searching for dialogues. Dialogues about the weather. I'm not sure why, but "dialogue about weather" seems to be a popular search among South American countries. ¿Que onda, Peru? ¿Por que? Not sure what you're looking for, but here, you'll remain unsatisfied.

To the other 50% of my visitors, those who've been tricked by Yelp or other blogs into coming: suckers.

The Story of My Father - The Boxer

This is part one of the story of my father as best as I can piece together from the little tidbits he’s shared over the years.

My father was born on a ranch far from the city, deep in the dirty hills of Mexico where the ground cracked, the sun charred and the water froze. He was the youngest and toughest of seventeen, worked harder than a mule, and learned to herd sheep and stave off wolves by eight. By ten he was herding sheep on week-long journeys where he lived off cacti and the occasional mutton.

At thirteen he developed a penchant for boxing. Few knew his boxing prowess as few were familiar with how a life of farming, herding, and poverty primed a fighter with toughness. He once told me that he was play-fighting with his siblings and he fell and hurt himself. There was blood and crying when my grandfather tended to him. “Your grandfather,” he said, “uprooted a 150 foot redwood and broke it in two over my head. ‘That’s what you get for hurting yourself!’ he scolded.” My parents would do this to me all the time, so I have no trouble believing the story.

My father trained furiously. Every chance he had, he would punch a boulder into dust. This was rare, as rocks were scarce in those days due to a boxing fad, but he found a good many and put them to good use. He progressed quickly, disintegrating boulders with fewer and fewer punches. It didn’t take long before the compressed air at his knuckles from his swing pulverized granite. “There were countless untapped veins of boulders in the caves atop mountains. Other fighters never dared venture that high. Far too many orangutans, they’d say. What fools. Little did they know they were my finest sparring partners.” He said it was the exercise, the early rising, and the boulder punching that made him such a great fighter, but I think it was all the orangutan meat he consumed.

The first swing of his first match ended his career as the punch exploded his opponent’s head. It was a sad day for my father, not so much because he couldn’t pursue his passion, but because he’d exploded someone’s head. The judge ruled that he take care of his victim’s family in accordance with the laws of Mexico at the time. “I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “I’d never cared for a family of rhinoceroses before.” A daunting task indeed, especially for a dismayed thirteen year old.

And so ended that chapter of my father’s life.

Rude People

So I’m standing outside of the Roost having a smoke with a lady friend when we’re approached by a stick of a woman wearing a dull coat as thick as her English accent. She smiles and bends slightly at the waist as if talking to a child and asks my friend, “are you a hooker?” This, of course, leaves us speechless. The foreigner continues, “do you like being called a mooshpin?”

“I’m sorry?” I asked but she didn’t look at me, she kept her beady eyes locked on my friend as if trying to melt her with her sight.

“In England the . . . ,” she continued, sounding as though she was speaking with a sack of marbles lodged in her mouth and with censure in her tone. I blew smoke into her face before pushing my friend back into the bar.

We went out half an hour later for another smoke and the crazy bitch was standing on the corner near the bar. She kept her eyes on my friend.

“Is there a problem,” I asked her.

“No, no problem.”

“Are you sure?” I asked again, drunk with liquor and vengeance. I pulled my friend behind me with my arm around her waist and stared into the rude bitch’s empty, beady eyes, blowing smoke in her direction.

“No, there’s no problem,” she said before walking across the street. I ran across behind her and demanded an apology. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” I said. She began walking away and I noticed she turned around and glanced at my friend. The gall. She turned her head quickly and I ran up to her and greeted the small of her back with a movie-style jump kick that sent her a few feet forward. I karate chopped her shoulder, she collapsed and I spit on the ground beside her and put out my cigarette in her hair.

Doesn’t she realize it’s rude to stare? And almost just as rude to call someone a hooker?

The next story takes place on the freeway. My friend and I were on the 110, driving north on the right most lane that merges with an on ramp. A red pickup pulls up behind us, then to our right to try and pass us. Rude. My friend speeds up and doesn’t allow the pickup to pull ahead. He reaches 120 and the red pickup disappears behind us. Two minutes later, the pickup attempts the same stunt but is again foiled. Rude! The third time it happens, I think the jerk wants to have some fun—a few races a few laughs—so I turn my head to smile and notice the two barrels of a shotgun being cocked and pointed at my face. Rude!

It’s the rudest thing that’s ever happened to me.

I lower the window, reach for the pickup’s tire and pull it off sending it into a hellish fishtail across all four lanes. I lob the tire behind us into the pickup’s cab where it detonates, creating a mushroom cloud dwarfing the buildings downtown. Rude.

This all really happened (even the shotgun) except for the wanton and needless violence.

Billiards Part 2

Back in Cypress for 9-ball two weeks ago and it’s like this:

I walk into the pool hall with a friend, pay the entry fee and ask, “Am I still a 4?”

“Yes, you need to come in the money twice to be bumped up to a 5.”

I stagger to the nearest table for a couple practice games before checking the brackets to see my first opponent, “who’s Julio,” I ask my in-the-know friend.

“Julio?”

“Yes, The 7,” I say.

“He’s the best--,” he looks around, “he’s the best player here.” He looks around once more, “yeah, he’s the best player here. You can win easy with your handicap.” I hope so. I wasn’t too worried seeing as how I’d just slugged a half pint of vodka and had my first smoke in four days. Also, he was spotting me the last three balls, so if he ran the first six and missed, all I had to do was pocket the following ball to win (which happened once).

They called the matches and I went over to introduce myself. “Not use to giving away such an advantage,” said The 7.

“Won’t make a difference, you’ll still win,” I say. It was a good short match. We finish, shake hands again and I walk over to report the results.

“What was the score,” my friend asks.

“Three one.”

“Aw, well that guy’s really good. At least you got one game. Good job.”

“No, I won.”

“What!” He says with utter surprise.

“Yeah, I won,” I say while walking out for my ritual swig and smoke and feeling downright champish. Winning’s invigorating, especially when you’re not supposed to win. You can feel it in your belly and can’t help but to pop an electric smile, even alone, to yourself. I took another swig and heard my name inside.

I’m playing the guy with a Bluetooth set forever attached to his ear. Bluetooth man is a 6 and has to spot me the eight ball. He’s cocky, so I shoot sloppily a couple drunken times and he resigns himself to being nonchalant, shooting from the hip like a pitcher throwing with one eye closed. He’s a nice guy, but his conceit gets the best of him and he misses an easy shot leaving me a difficult cut on a two-nine combo from across the table:

I make the combo and win the first game and run from the four to the eight in the second game. It was a fine victory. He wins the third and fourth games, leaving me to break on the final rack. I break, make the one and play safe on the two. It’s not a difficult shot, but again, he’s so wonderfully blasé and thinks I won’t win that he leaves me another combo, albeit a much more difficult combo:

My left hand is tense and shaking like an old engine about to die, but I make the shot. “Fucker can shoot,” Bluetooth says in Spanish behind me. “He’s not a 4.”

I walk up to report my win and my friend asks for the score. “Three two,” I say allowing a feigned feeling of defeat to sag my face. His shoulders slump but before he says anything I say with a smile, “just kidding, I won.” He gets excited and I walk out for my swig and smoke and I get drunk. Neither The 7 or Bluetooth made eye contact with me as I stepped out, but I heard each say to a friend that I wasn’t a 4.

Maybe I'm not a 4, but because of it I came in third and won forty dollars that night.