Recently, I was hanging out at a great ice cream parlor with the wife and kids. There's a big shade over the patio, a diner next door that sells delicious burgers with sweet potato fries, and a huge playscape dotted with painted concrete cows. The boy loves to run around and play in the dirty cypress mulch on the ground by the slides. Thing 1 likes to climb stuff. In a space crowded with ladders and tubes and steps, she chooses things like the rickety fence bordering a busy street or a pile of rubble with re-bar sticking out of the ground. Like always.
At a group of tables next to us, there was a little group of kids having a birthday party. The guest of honor was a 6 or 7 year old boy. His mom fluttered around him, waiting on him incessantly. He was dressed in a cowboy outfit, not the kind we used to get with the stitching around the brim of the hat and a shiny plastic badge. He had on an expensive looking western shirt, a little black stetson, boots,jeans, and he sported a plastic winchester rifle with the muzzle painted red (so no cops would mistake him for an outlaw and plug him full of lead). None of the other boys had on any cowboy gear. After all, his mother must have thought, today was his special day and no one elses. I couldn't help but take it all in. His mother was a pretty woman,with a good tan and good shoes. She looked like she was well taken care of. The others were variations of her with progressively lighter hair and different grades of jewelry. All tanned, rested and probably not working too hard if at all. The boys were named the kind of fucked up names the smug upper middle class chooses for its sons, Birthday boy was Tyler, his buddies were Carter, Hunter, Wyatt, and Beckett. No, seriously, no shit.
I went over to my boy to see what treasure Thing 2 might have found in the filth. He showed me a popsicle stick. Like a dumbass, I went to go grab it and he pulled it away angrily. It was on now, mofo. I made it a fun game to try to take it away from him, letting him poke at me with it all the while
Finally, he gave it to me willingly and hugged me around the knee.
A little later on the playground, I notice Tyler the dickhead cowboy and his little fag posse are gathered around my boy. One of them pushes him, and he laughs and pushes the wispy little fucker back. Thing 2 is only two years old and thinks it's cool that they want to play with him. Thing 1 goes over there before I do and says the words I taught her to say " Leave my brother alone or I'm gonna kick you in the penis!" She says the words, clearly and loudly, the moms hear it too. I went over there and said "I want all you guys to break this up.Now, move your butts", I point at my two kids next and say, " You two, don't go near those boys again."
The moms are watching intently, as I would too. I start bringing the kids back on to the patio. I have my back turned to the group of frat boy incubators. One of them, I don't know which one, starts with a bitchy prelude...."Umm excuse me..." I just wave my hand dismissively without looking back and say..."Whatever...I don't wanna hear it." She shuts the fuck up, probably because she can't imagine a complete stranger not caring about what she wants to say because most strangers in her world are paid to care and respond accordingly.
We police up our table for trash. We leave directly. On the way back, I reflect on the differences between them and us. These boys have advantages my children will never have. They will be able to travel in a safe little bubble, meeting kids just like them. No one in their experience will want to kick their asses for being who they are. When it comes time for them to go to college, they will have built in safety nets. They will never have to question their sense of belonging. Then it came to me. Not one of them had a Father that cared enough about them to show up and play with them. Not one of those boys with their trendy yuppy names had a dad that would frolic and goof with them or teach them about kicking penises. Perhaps some day a Tony, or Juan, or Eddie will beat their asses good. It may make them better men for it.

A great American..

George Carlin is dead, or, as he would have put it, he no longer has an address in this plane of existence. That is not to say that he ever expressed any profound belief in the para normal or extra normal. He was a helluva guy. I didn't know him, but I have heard him in interviews and I have heard him crank out hours of thought provoking comedy. It is too bad that all they have managed to come up with as his signature routine was the "7 words you can't say on T.V.." It's a pity when you realize that it caused such a splash because he said Fuck and not because he posed the question, why do we give such words so much power?
I especially miss him because this is the time we need such a gadfly. In one interview, he said "everybody thinks people who believe that conspiracies exist are kooks and that they don't have a grasp on reality. What if I were to say that's right on? For instance, I don't believe that powerful people get together to manage outcomes that benefit them. I don't believe that secret government operatives have people killed and then cover it up. I don't believe that powerful interests don't co-opt the political process through huge contributions. In fact, I believe that powerful people always play by the rules. Now, who's the fucking kook?"
Yeah, he was a funny man. I can't help thinking that he knew what was up and so many of us are just sleepwalking. With all the theft and manipulation going on in our country, this one line makes me think deeply. He said, "It's called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe in it."

Assholes who need to die.......

Now, I don't think I should have put a bullet through somebody's skull tonight. Fucking with me doesn't warrant me emptying my $59.00 bitch gun into your back windshield...but I really wanted to. Sound like incoherent ramblings of a impotent madman? yeah, well maybe so, but let's start at the beginning.
There I was tonight, just minding my own. I was riding my bike. I had front and back lights on, just clipping on down a moderate slope. I took notice of a beat up old blue car coming toward me. Suddenly it slowed, I skinny white arm arced out of the passenger window. I heard the word "pussy!" just as I got hit really hard on my left side. I looked down and it was a busted egg. I whipped my bike around. If you can imagine my big self hitting the brake, putting my foot down and bringing the bike in a sweep, you can understand it's like a rhino break dancing. All this while yelling..."muuuuuthaaaaafuuckaaaaaaa!! on a dark street. They sped up and I started chasing them. They did a u turn and I rode toward the driver's side and they took off. I chased them through a red light on Justin lane and they went really fast. I saw them turn down a side street far off in the distance. I heard asshole #2 shout, "come on, fat ass!" I huffed and puffed. I had a huge grin on my face hoping that they would stop. In the back of my head, knowing that if they stopped, they would beat my ass the same way me and my friends would have done when we were younger..and drunk. I'm experienced enough to know that 2 on 1 are shitty odds. I don't care what black belt you think you have or what special warfare school you humped your way through. When two guys have something to beat you with, you're going to get hurt...but still, if you've ever been in a fight, it feels real. It's like getting laid and stealing a bag of money at the same time. for just a split second, you don't notice that your cheekbone has been broken and your shin has a dent in it that will always be there and remind you that it's cold outside. You get to punch someone else in the throat and feel how it has something hard inside of it, or you can just grab an arm and throw them down and start kicking. your toes get bruised and hurt like fuck and you just keep kicking them... SIGH......
Of course they didn't stop. After calling me pussy and fat ass they were the ones who ran from an old fat man on a bicycle. I stopped behind the grocery store thinking they might pull in there to lay low and drink boones farm or something. I picked up a 2X4 and started riding slowly back. I went down a few dark streets. I saw a couple of teenaged boys riding their ridiculously small bikes. I said..."hey, what's up?..you seen an old blue car around here?"
They looked at each other and then my piece of lumber..."I saw an old blue car when we were by the train tracks. They were talking shit and telling us to get off the road." They went back to looking at me like I was crazy and retarded. "Oh well," I said, as I threw the lumber down on someones lawn, "I guess I better head on home."....

sweetness and AIPAC

Lately, I've been thinking about whether or not my new found unbelief in the invisible superjew is constructive. I go back and forth with myself thinking that religion is ok and then consigning it back to the trash heap as just so much thought control and blind obedience. On the one hand, I have met a lot of religious people who are kind and decent and intelligent. On the other hand, many people of that stripe seem to radiate hatred and resentment of anyone who does not and will not agree to share their complex, fantastic world view. There is always some other group of people they despise whether it's muslims, jews, homosexuals, hindus,christians etc..
Sometimes I find myself making excuses for these people by rationalizing their unique repulsiveness..."there are good and bad people in every group"..
Well, it seems like the bad ones rise to the top like raw sewage in Venice. They insist on speaking in tongues or wearing special garments. They advocate genocide and then they complain to the empty heavens when anyone so much as bruises their own brethren. They expect every one to bow down to their own exceptional glory and regard everyone else as less than human. We will build our temple here and no one better say boo. This mosque will be built in the middle of your town. We will blast the call to prayer and mad dog anyone who looks in our general direction. I say fuck em all. open up a pool hall on the temple mount and start stocking it with strippers and hot tubs. They're operating fan clubs for a hollow barney suit. There is no invisible man in the sky who gives a shit about you or who you fuck or how you cut your foreskin or facial hair. If you don't want to eat pig meat or shrimp because it's nasty, then mazel tov..it IS nasty, but don't be laying a trip on anyone else about it.
There is no 24 hour pussy mart in the sky for martyred muslims. There is no such thing as a chosen people, sorry, but deep down inside, you know it's true. There is no sex in the champagne room. There is no reason for snake handling baptists to believe in the second coming.

INK

Well summer is here and it's time to go swimming. I don't have big bucks, so that means public pool time. That means maximum sunburn fun and extreme sideshow action for me and my
tattoos. Here in Austin, everybody has tattoos it seems. But most of them are the flower on the ankle...barbed wire armlet or celtic butt crack halo. I enjoy looking at these tats. They are beautiful reminders that the mom chasing Hunter or Tyler or Jordan around the playscape used to be a party girl in college. Mostly the sorority type. Then their mates, the dudes, have some really rugged suns and cocapeli tribal shit on their formerly jock torsos. I'm a stay at home dad, so I end up being the only guy in the joint. In I walk with my 330 pound self, looking like Bluto in 3D. A lot of my work was done with a model car motor and india ink at the kitchen table. It seemed like a good idea at the time and we were all out of beer at that point. What the fuck, it's not like it's forever. The raised super black stuff only looks cool because it's scar tissue. The ex-cons I work with have better stuff than me. Sure, they did it in a cell with ashes and a staple, but they really took their time. It was a labor of love. I have real basic stuff for the most part. I'm especially proud of the really professional A+ on my rib cage..
"Did you get good grades?" children would ask. I would reply..."no, it's my blood type"..."what's that for?"..."No, actually I'm kidding. I really like school..a lot"
Huge, terrifying biblical pictures are emblazoned on my back too. Violent, apocalyptic imagery.
I often wear a t-shirt, but I must admit. I have a bit of pride in not looking like the horrible blob guy with a back hair sweater that tries to cover his man tits by wearing a shirt in the pool. I end up taking it off. I ain't going out like that.
Still, I should have gotten a hot vespa chick tattoo or a japanese character for "peace" which actually means "soy cracker". I really feel left out.
Oh well, If I can make a few bucks and not spend it on bullshit like children's shoes or dental care, I can get a really bitchin' cocapeli on my ankle.

The fighter.

There are few things I hate as much as holding a screaming child at the doctor. Yesterday Ed got tubes in his ears and a sliced up toungue. He proved that he has the potential to become a mean drunk. When he came back from recovery and the anesthesia was wearing off, He started crying, then yelling angrily and punching and kicking. He even threw in a couple of head butts for good measure. Being an experienced bouncer, I recognized these actions for what they truly were. He was disoriented, bloody, and pissed off. I have had the same feelings after "just one more" tequila....dizzy, beaten, and ready for payback. The only difference between him and me is that he was in a surgical center not a police station in San Angelo.
The upside is that for hours and hours after we brought him home, I would find him going around the house just listening to things in amazement. He actually can listen to you when you tell him things. No, he can HEAR you. Not listening is a family trait that I'm sure he will continue to display.
Today, I noticed him picking his arse and grimacing. I've been concerned about some fire ant bites on his gluteus maximus and now it looked like one had gotten infected. (Yes...I am that guy now, the one who talks about his kids disgusting ailments on the interweb.) Anyway, I got an appointment with a doc within 30 minutes cause I'm afraid this looks like MRSA. This skinny blonde chick who looks like a high school cheerleader is his doctor today, not his regular doc. She asks a few questions, gets me to drop the diaper on the boy and squeezes this fucking robins egg sized abcess until it gives forth. Meanwhile, I have to hold him in a bear hug and he's pulling my eyelids and hair and making cauliflower of my ears. He basically gives me every dirty move there is except the scrotum twist. All the while he's yelling out baby babble which starts to sound like real words..."sumbitch let me go! I'm gonna punch you in the nuts when you get outta the shower for this you muhfucka!"
It's a MIRACLE!!.
Anyway, he's been through too much in a short period of time. Just to be safe, I'm going to start wearing a cup around him.

Bliss

There is room here for two
and more between them
they are in the car surrounded
by their own memories
he looks out the window into the
narrow dark ditches lined with weeds and
thinks about the chain gangs
that cut them and the snakes
that call them home.
He looks through the waning light for
bigfoot and sees only dull ziploc bags
and styrofoam in the saplings
She is driving, teeth grinding not wanting
to look at this man who she
no longer knows, this millstone
with back hair and a paunch
she prays for a blown tire
or an act of nature
to end this trip she is on
not caring which trip
as long as he is not there.
He looks at her and wishes for
the same thing.