Mauled by cougar

Vanity plate on the Cadillac STS departing my driveway this morning: "UBERMOM". Sometimes you don't think a story can get any better, and it does.

Dancing lessons from dad

In recent years I've taken time to look back on my upbringing, and I have come to the realization that my folks really did do the best they could to guide me towards becoming a productive member of society. In hindsight, my dad really was a cool guy, even though I thought he wasn't back in the late 80's.

I remember when I was in the sixth grade -- must have been 11 or maybe 12 -- just starting adolescence, scared to death of girls but equally fascinated by them at the same time, and faced with the impending doom of my first school dance. My dad must have sensed my nervousness . . . he didn't have to be clairvoyant to see it . . . because that morning, he asked me if I knew how to dance. I think I told him I did, but regardless, he told me he was going to tell me how to dance the twist. I think the twist was in style when he was an adolescent (the old man was high school class of '61), and in his mind, it was the dance to know. He said: "Son, the twist's the easiest dance there is to do. Just imagine that you just got out of the shower and you're drying your ass with a towel." And he demonstrated. It was awesome. Not at the time; not for me; but looking back on it, it was awesome. I don't think I got to twist that day. In fact, I remember hating everything about that particular school dance. But I have twisted since. And what do you know -- the old man was right!

A true velvet hammer

The drink count last night was as follows: a glass of Crown Royal (rocks) before dinner; split a bottle of wine with a lady friend over a steak, and then we went to the Pub right after that for a nightcap. Neither of us was as drunk as we wanted to be, so we explained our predicament to the waitress. She came back with a pint of Strongbow cider for each of us, along with a shot of Grey Goose's pear flavored vodka. She instructed us to drop the shot into the cider (like a Sake bomber). Well, the resulting concoction tasted like an apple jolly rancher, and went down as smooth as you can imagine. We had two each within a half hour. Let me tell you, the result was pretty spectacular. My house this morning was disheveled as only a drunk can dishevel, but the memories of the evening after my second cigarette at the pub are so tangled, I can't really piece it together well.

Because sometimes solitude's a chinga

File under dysfunctional: I still get dinner with my ex on a quasi-regular basis. It's just that I really don't like eating in restaurants alone. For example, tonight I was really craving a pizza, but didn't get the urge until around 7:30. Went to a brick-oven place, but it was filled mostly with couples, and I didn't feel like eating there alone, so I asked for the pizza to go. Good pizza, but brought it back home to eat. It's re-run season, so there's nothing good on the TV that I want to watch. I need a hobby besides drinking to fill these evenings.

And speaking of guns,

Just read this for the first time today:

MOSCOW — Sixty years after the AK-47 went into production, Mikhail Kalashnikov says he does not stay awake at night worrying about the bloodshed wrought by the world's most popular assault rifle.
"I sleep well. It's the politicians who are to blame for failing to come to an agreement and resorting to violence," Kalashnikov said Friday at a ceremony marking the birth of the rifle, whose initials stand for "Avtomat Kalashnikov."

What can I say? The man speaks veritas, even if he does look thorougly soused in the photographs. Looking over my posts, I notice a trend of a news item, followed by a movie/book quote. Because I'm too fucking busy to come up with original thoughts, I share the following from Yuri Orlov:

Of all the weapons in the vast Soviet arsenal, nothing was more profitable than Avtomat Kalashnikova model of 1947. More commonly known as the AK-47, or Kalashnikov. It's the world's most popular assault rifle. A weapon all fighters love. An elegantly simple 9 pound amalgamation of forged steel and plywood. It doesn't break, jam, or overheat. It'll shoot whether it's covered in mud or filled with sand. It's so easy, even a child can use it; and they do. The Soviets put the gun on a coin. Mozambique put it on their flag. Since the end of the Cold War, the Kalashnikov has become the Russian people's greatest export. After that comes vodka, caviar, and suicidal novelists. One thing is for sure, no one was lining up to buy their cars.

When the zombie apocalypse or the revolution comes, I know my AK is on the short-list of things I'll toss in the back of my pickup.

Because these types of signs work so well with guns. . . .

And in other news

Study: Anti-smoking ads have opposite effect on teens. And water is still wet. My smokes are up to over $6 a pack, and I'm sure half of that goes to nonsense such as funding these silly ads. Cute girls have gotten far more teenaged boys smoking than Joe Camel ever did. On the plus-side, due to this new puritanism, I've made all sorts of new friends, as we smokers have been relegated to 10 square-feet of the outside patio, 20 feet from the door of any given bar anymore.

As for why I smoke? Even after 13 years of knowing it's bad for me? Because, let's face it, smoking IS cool. It's only uncool when uncool people do it. If you're fat and ugly, you're fat and ugly; smoking just makes you a fat and ugly smoker. Luis Buñuel, who was far more articulate than I ever will be, summarized why I smoke as follows:

“If alcohol is queen, then tobacco is her consort. It's a fond companion for all occasions, a loyal friend through fair weather and foul. People smoke to celebrate a happy moment, or to hide a bitter regret. Whether you're alone or with friends, it's a joy for all the senses. What lovelier sight is there than that double row of white cigarettes, lined up like soldiers on parade and wrapped in silver paper? I love to touch the pack in my pocket, open it, savor the feel of the cigarette between my fingers, the paper on my lips, the taste of tobacco on my tongue. I love to watch the flame spurt up, love to watch it come closer and closer, filling me with its warmth.”

I'll talk about the queen another day. I believe I'll take a cigarette break now.

By choice, man!

My pal Zeke just got this e-mail from a girl he asked out:

Alright, I want to be really honest with you about something. I was trying to decide whether to tell you in person or in email and then I decided just to tell you before dinner tomorrow. I am fine with going to dinner tomorrow, but I just want you to know (and I have no idea what you want or are thinking) but if what you want is potentially a relationship, I can’t promise you that I’m ready for that right now. I just got out of a long term relationship and I am not ready to jump into another one right now. I just want to be honest because I don’t want to give off any type of wrong impression about anything. I am not saying I will never want one but I literally just broke up with my boyfriend of two years a little less than two months ago. If now knowing this you would rather not have dinner, I totally understand, but I just wanted to make sure you know where I stand.

Talk about a buzz-kill. I'm surprised she didn't close with "let's just be friends" or some other insipid write-off along those lines. Off the top of my head, I'm reminded of the line from the movie Hitch: "No woman wakes up saying 'God, I hope I don't get swept off my feet today!' Now, she might say 'This is a really bad time for me,' or something like 'I just need some space,' or my personal favorite, 'I'm really into my career right now.' You believe that? Neither does she. You know why? 'Cause she's lying to you, that's why." Whether this broad is consciously lying to Zeke or whether she's lying to herself, I don't think it really matters all that much: what does Zeke stand to gain from actually going to dinner with her? Nada. Goose Egg. If I were in the same town as him, I'd tell him to cancel on her and come by my place instead. He could give me $50 and I'd kick him in the nuts. He'd get the same feeling as he's going to get if he actually goes to dinner with this peach, and he'd save himself at least $20.

He didn't ask for a suggestion as to what to write back, but if I were him, I'd say: "That's great, because I was just looking for a piece of ass myself! If you're down for an NSA rendezvous, then I'm your man!" or something to that effect. Unfortunately for him, he won't, since he happens to be a nice guy.

Inspiration

On the plains of Hesitation lie the blackened bones of countless millions who at the dawn of Victory sat down to rest and resting died.

Over fifteen years ago, I read that quote on a poster at a gun show and committed it to memory. Since then, I've tried to find the source of it, but haven't been able to find the true source. Lots of attributions -- and the closest I've come is Omar Khayyam, but I've never actually found a credible source that proves it. A buddy in college thought the quote a bit pretentious and summarized it as follows: "He who hesitates, masturbates."

Homage to the taco

Damn, I'm craving a taco and it's only 9:45 a.m. I hate to say it, but I suspect the taco is edging out the hot-dog as all-American fare. How can one not like the taco in its simplicity and nutritional elegance? What's better than a taco? Three tacos.

Didn't get fired today. . .

Tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of Raymond K. Hessle's life. His breakfast will taste better than any meal you and I have ever had.