………’wake up young man, its time to wake up’………. melodic in that haunting voice that can only be Layne Staley floats through the buds in my ears or just through my mindpod. This song keeps coming back to me for reasons probably unintended by the writer and at first unclear to me. The lyrics are seemingly so simple yet really not so. They’re quite poignant actually, and ring true as many songs, good songs will. They stay with you for periods of time, come back to your mind when you have need for them and make you think… about everything and nothing, about yourself, about what ‘leaves [you need] to rake up’ in your own life. Are you ‘a crack up’… ‘dizzy and weakened by the haze’? He of course wrote all this of his battle with heroin and his need to wake up let go of that which was killing him in a slow form of suicide. In that way it isn’t something my squeaky drug free ass can understand. But maybe in a way I’m not as dissimilar as I think. I have ‘cracks and lines from where I gave up, making me an easy [wo]man to read.’ there have been times I’ve let ‘them bleed’ me and plead for peace. I’ve held on to my drug of choice, so to speak, my fear of letting go and putting myself out there; being afraid to fall on my face. I’ve watched this fear take root in my life in ways that weaken and infect me. Not so different. However, unlike our lyricist I will wake up. I need to wake up, not allow myself to slowly wither into nothing. After thirty-five years I am seeing that my affair with fear is costing me more than I am willing to give. I’ve spoken (or written) of this fear before and yet even the small steps I took to correct things haven’t changed what lies beneath. There is a current of fear that is in charge. it’s a self chosen level of deceit that gets me through the day so that I’m ‘not a crack up, dizzy and weakened by the haze’. But that isn’t living. On average I’m not quite half way through my life but I’m close. This scares the living shit out of me. I can look back and think of a few things that were good and times that were great but fear has kept me from following my heart and taking control of myself. I can’t remember a time where I truly put myself first or understood what that meant. The idea of doing for self isn’t something I really grasp. I’ve never let go and looked at the leaves as they fell around me for the beauty of the leaf. Thus I look back and have no memories of my own. Nothing that allows me to say ‘I did that and it was amazing’. I’ve born witness to amazing things, but I was a spectator. And really, who wants to be a spectator in their own life? I think my wake up call has come. So many things have piled up as of late and wading through them has been a process I’ve checked myself out of more than once. Its time to leave behind my tidy pile of leaves and stop raking, there will always be leaves. I need to get up off my seat on the rock, under the shade of the tree and let the sun shine on my face… time to wake up.
Sometimes it’s just like that: when you‘re on vacation and the only t-time you can get is the six-am , but you take it anyway; mostly because you know the course is beautiful and your dad who is on vacation with you won’t mind the Bailey’s in the morning coffee, (so the hang-over doesn’t really start as soon as you try to grip the club).
I’m learning it’s the attitude you jump in with. You could be pissed that your only time away from the day-to-day grind of life is being interrupted by a 5:30am wake up call – by your mom no less – or you could be stoked that you are with the pops on a beautiful sunny morning- before it’s fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk hot, while he pays for brunch at the turn, and Bloody Mary’s are included.
We make the choice every morning what the day will be. There are those days when we make Par-5 on what’s really a Par-5 (doh!) so midway through we have to adjust our stroke (I’m using the theme here, go with it).
the beauty of life is choice. We could look at everyday (alright, who am I kidding?); I could look at everyday as if I’m the ball, the club, or the player. Some days I really am the ball and I get the shit beat out of me every few minutes. When I think there’s a reprieve, not so much… it’s just the turn and the players are resting up before the back nine to beat the shit out of me again. Other times, I’m the club waiting for my chance to show off my shit, only to learn, it’s all dependent on the player. I could be primed and ready with all the stuff I need and my player is having an off day then damn it – so am I. (What is that all about?)
Some days you can choose to have a great attitude, but you are the mercy of other things, for some it’s scheduling or finances or whatever, and for some it’s their body just not wanting to cooperate; ether way, neither the club nor the ball chooses the day. It’s all dependent on the player. The player controls how much practice they get, whether they are mentally prepared to be up at 6:00am and ready to play, or whether they just want to have a round of whack-fuck with the boys and enjoy the weather.
It is all a daily choice. We can be the ball and get the fuck whacked out of us at the whim of others, or be the club and do the whacking, but never know when or where. I think it far better to take control and be the player. Choose the course, the ball, and the club of your liking. Most importantly: what state are you in when you take the perfect club and whack the fuck out of the ball for yourself (it doesn’t mind). Grab each day with all you have and know you will come out on top. Make the day yours and own the course. After all, isn’t that how you earn the right to be a Tiger? Oh, er, wait.
from evenings out with new friends… Smalltown, whadya gonna do
the first time:
the mind elsewhere
all sizes tryin
all shapes are buyin
mixed and matchin
long islands in fashion
pour it neat
or make me a treat
vodka with lime
cocktails and wine
the gangs all here
time for a beer
shots line the bar
tips fill the jar
bouncer at the door
drunk’s on the floor
some cackling bitches
makin my ears bleed
hey friend havanutha
good to see ya brotha
okay another shot
whatever you got
erase my brain
that tasty grain
we’ll sleep it off tomorrow
the second time
we miss the sweater-vest
Leutinant at the bar
hat bein rocked, Capt’n kicked back
Columbian behind the bar servin it up
rocks or neat, he doesn’t give a fuck
Sars sips with pen in hand
the next great line could walk right up
Shygirl chats up the hottie
just chillin in the nook
Ah, the nights of smalltown…
entertainment in a glass
everyone checkin something
her tits, his ass
deals made on the sly
drunken texts sent on the fly
who said they were gonna drive
cuz it certainly was not I
Tourist season has thrust itself on my little town… Dumbass people from all manner of near and far reminding me why some people should not breed and some should never be given a license to drive a motorized vehicle. I think some of them are even sober but good gus people! That lighted red dot on a pole in front of you means stop. I’m pretty sure it does where you come from too. And the lighted yellow dot does not, in fact, mean mow down the local pedestrian at high speeds. I know, I may not like the idiot that walks in front of me at the last possible second but these are my idiots… Go home and find your own. You’ll probably be helping us all out because they won’t be here next tourist season. And stop bitching at the servers because 200 of you showed up all at the same time demanding changes to the special and extra this and that… it isn’t their fault the chef may not have gotten your order correct. Or if they put it in incorrectly it could be the fact you changed your mind 17 times. If you want deep fried crap go home, otherwise quit your bitchin and enjoy the fact that you can actually see the water from whence your food came.
So I’m ranting. Maybe its because I got cut off by a carloada. Or maybe because I had a hard time getting through downtown because the walkways were heavy with drunkass idiots. Maybe I just don’t appreciate junior or princess here with daddy’s cast off beemer from 2 years ago that they don’t know the first thing about driving let alone caring for. Whatever they have daddy’s big ol credit card to pay for the repairs so far be it from me to complain about that part. I’ll just be at my second job paying for my 10 year old Honda… Making sure they have extra caffeine in their small triple non-fat no whip mocha. (oops, I forgot the non fat part…). Welcome tourists, what can I make for your hangover, I mean get for you today??
I love you…
like dollar store lingere.
If you hear “how bizzaaa, how bizaaaa… how bizaaa, how bizaaaa” then the stylish croonings of “just you and I-I-I, sharing our dreams together” followed by “take it eeesay, take it e-e-esay, don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy. Lighten up while you still can, don’t even try to understand… just find a place to make your stand and take it eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesay.” All in succession you can only be listening to one thing (and no it is not one of my schizophrenic mixed cd’s but thank you for playing) that’s right campers…… you are enjoying the smooth stylings of the Dollar Tree Radio Network. I made a foray into my beloved dollar store this weekend with my girl (she too has a dollar store addiction that is borderline obsession – it runs in her family I think) and found a myriad of amazing items, that I can see purchasing under one roof (there is a Tarjet and a Wally for these things) but for the low, low price of one American dollar????? I don’t know – I just don’t see it. And the high end merchandise we encountered was enough to amaze even the staunchest skeptic of the dollar store virtue. In addition to the radio network (which by-the-by they throw in for free!!!) you have the shamrock section, the left over hearts section and the we heart jesus section. Now this is in addition to their usual jesus area for the patron that must have their jesus fix at times of year other than easter. This brings me to the point of my little jaunt (little being 25 miles and a climate zone) the jesus candle. All of the other amazing items we found were a bonus. We were on the hunt for the jesus candle. I don’t think you can ever have enough protection in case of tsunami or zombie apocalypse so we needed a few. Besides, multi-colored columnar candles with patron saints of whatever or the sacred heart of jesus on them…. Is there anything better to light your evening?? That’s what I thought. Since the dollar tree’s closer to us have a wealth of said candles we just assumed (I know, I know) the one we were about to hit would too. But no. Not a one to be found anywhere in the store and the workers had no effing clue what we were talking about. I am refraining from the stereotype I could insert at this moment but good god people, how do you not know what we’re talking about when we describe in great detail what we are looking for??? I can’t read half the candle due to being language challenged and you can. Find me a damn candle. It took some random customer overhearing telling the employee in the language on the candle mind you, for him to get it. (He had previously shown us dinner table taper candles and tealights – I think he is “the re’tard” to which Zach Galifanakis refers in the Hangover.) This boy was not that bright. So after our disappointment we continued to browse the isles finding such amazing delights we almost forgot the fact that our candles were mia. First there was the 2 pack of disposable douches – in case you aren’t feeling fresh times two or you want to share with a friend. Then there was the cans of “potted meat”. Literally the cans (the size of those little liverwurst tins) said potted meat and didn’t specifically list what meat(s) on the ingredients or where said meat products may come from on whatever animal of origin they originated. I think this is yet another reason to be protected by jesus candles – which they didn’t have. Then there were the two pack (I’m sensing a theme in the feminine product isle) pregnancy tests. I don’t know about you, but I would be frightened of a pregnancy test purchased at the dollar store. I have no problem with free condoms but dollar store prego testing is a no go. All in all we ended up being entertained (mostly by the staff) and bringing back a wealth of easter materials for my roommate who is not in any way shape or form religious. Also we scored some sweet St. Patty’s beer steins. I’m not ready to call it a win but it wasn’t a loss either… we shared our dreams together.
Stop me if I’ve ranted on this subject before… okay, don’t… I think I’ve talked about it with reference to my mom at some point and likely will bring her up again. Tipping. not as in cow, not as in scales not as in o’ the hat and not as in a city in some Asian country (though I’m sure the Asian people everywhere in my college town think that’s totally funny every time they see it on a jar by a cash register *sar * )… but the kind of tip you leave a server or bartender or barista or valet or hairstylist or tattoo artist (yes, you should be doing this, if you are not… get a clue) even down to that dude/chick in the bathroom at your parents friends snooty (said oo like with your nose in the air, you know what I mean) country club where their daughter is marrying Dr. So and So of the Ladeda So and So’s.
Everyone has their own opinion on the subject. Those who grow up with parents in the “service” industry (get your mind out of the gutter) and those that have been in that industry themselves (really, out of the gutter!) know a few things about tips that the average joe/jane (why am I suddenly so politically correct???) does not. First they know that servers get taxed on a percentage of their sales. (This is 8% in California if you didn’t know) So whether or not you leave it they pay taxes on it. Now, does this mean you should tip well? Mr Pink says no. Not necessarily, but I consider the additional percentage as a part of my tab. The “standard” tip where I’m from is 15%, close to double what they pay in tax. This is a good system unless your tax rate is less than 8%. Another thing I know, since my mom was a server, is that those tips are counted on as wages, not just by them but by management and owners alike… They never get raises, they don’t get bonus’ and they don’t typically get tips from the big cheese of the days earnings didn’t meet the minimums. I also know there are the good times when someone leaves you a fat tip because it’s a holiday or just because. I know that my sixteenth birthday present came from my mom’s tips. But honestly does this matter to you or me?? Will it make a difference at your next meal?? And am I saying you need to tip the tattoo artist or hairstylist 15%… that’s a matter of preference. As to the bartender, that’s an entirely different blog. This one is about the everyday server that brings the food and beer to our table and makes us smile because we didn’t have to do it ourselves (lazy americans!).
Tonight I heard a group of college (surprise) boys talking about the bill at one of my favorite places. There was chatting about who ate this and you drank that and blah blah blah. In the end they split the bill 5 ways pus some for tax and tip. The money was collected and there was just under 15%. I think the splitting the bill 5 ways was great. If you go out with the same people all the time split the bill evenly and it comes out in the wash. Stop bickering over who ate what and how many because next time you may eat more and not have enough. I can tell you I’ve put in $45 when I had 1 beer and 1 appetizer and have no complaints…. Why?? Because there have been times I put in nothing and had the same. Regardless of how you split the tab, add the tip on first. That server was good to you. Unless they sucked then who knows, but I just don’t go back to places I get shitty service or ask to sit in someonelse’s section. The only reason to short a server is if they really suck. And I’m talking bowling ball through a garden hose kind of suck. Otherwise, think about it…. You could be the one running around with 8 tables of obnoxious drunken dudes and a bartender with molasses in his ass sweating your ass off all to find out you made $47 on an $800 night. You could’ve been out with ‘mater and the cows…
so there I was, there I was, there I was… in the dive bar, surrounded by the finest assortment of whiskey tango in the county. You cannot find better grade cougar in three states! (well there is this one place in Barstow, but I digress) I think camel toe was spotted a collective 9 times, beating my personal best by a good 2. There was the red-neck woman in her oh so amazing white cowboy boots sayin -hey y’all and yee-haw- to all the other hostile man haters that wanted to key his truck the next time he cheats. (Hell Yeah…. oh) You had the cougar at the bar, or the table, or pool table or wherever you seemed to be looking, that had past her prime (about 15 years ago) walkin around with unrestrained titsag, nose ring and cut jeans all while Levon was callin his child Jesus.. but the son of a preacher man had already done taught himself out. A secret agent man found his crown and did some coke (or wait found it in some coke?) while the homey made some doves cry in the corner – probably because their ears were bleeding. There was the hot teacher who wanted him to want her but I think the boyfriend was back and a total eclipse of the heart was narrowly avoided. Oh well, it could have been worse, he could have been a dancing queen- eek!) But even still, with all the ear bleeding, mind numbing top-of-the-lung-screeching, I can’t seem to stay away too long.. it just seems to hurt so good….
bruised, scarred, broken, patched and mended
taped together with nights sleepless dreams
too many times
bitter tears can no longer stain
life’s toll leaves a weary man to pause
running a finger where life once was
behind the thick black flesh
love snarls and bites her restraint
freedom is now denied
yet hope remains still
loves strength is alive in the beast
bruised, scarred, broken, patched…
Its no secret I’m a fan of the kare-jokey. Its also no secret that I’m that bitch that comes out of no where (after several people who suck ass and make your ears bleed) and sings a simple song that has everyone but those in the know looking about the room to find out where the song is coming from. I’m also that bitch no one wants to be after in the rotation. Following the dj dude is one thing – he’s supposed to be good right??? But no one wants to follow the girl who was sitting in the corner and out of no where did Dusty Springfield right, all the while effing their shit up… changed their game plan so to speak. You may not think it’s a game out there or a competition, but it is. Everyone of them thinks they are/would/should/could have been the next American idol or the next biggest thing on Star Search oh yeah, I went there to the way back, but Ed McMahon blows all of them out of the water by far – may he rest in peace (I know I totally aged myself but really… Ryan Seacrest???? Jesus H people- come on, I know you can do better!). Anyhow, I digress… It’s kind of a competitive world amongst the karoke regulars, and I don’t play that game. I come to sing for me, or because one of my friends asked me to, or my bro said “you should do Winger!!!! (hums in the background….she’s only seventeen) yeah, I wonder if they have that???” For that reason I don’t go often and I don’t get sucked into their world… I don’t bring my own cd tracts….
So Last week, yeah… Cougarific, cougarama, cougarlicious….. that was the name of the game. I was sitting there with my lovely friends, sipping on my club soda watchin the Fat Bottomed Girl rock it Like a Virgin. Granted she is not fat bottomed but she certainly wasn’t a virgin (further proved later by the rats nest hair I just got some outside and need a drink look). When I told her it Hurt So Good she gave a look to the dude she was with that said “oh yeah bay-bee, I got your hurt right here… She had it covered so I stopped paying attention to her. I didn’t feel like vomiting in my mouth any more at the nasty PDA, made worse by the fact that she either a. hired him so tonight he was havin the poon or b. didn’t realize it and is way dumber than should be allowed or c. chose to ignore the fact that her date would have been more comfortable chillin with Freddie Mercury. I think the first hour or so of that pair was worth all the ear bleeding I had to sit through. But it got old. And nothing was worth that on guy that thought the way to Dream On was scream at the top of his lungs so people in grover could hear him…. I could have done without that.