Chapters

Ninja Fists Coyote & Stun Gun Kaboom fer-EVER

My wife has been thrilling me with her wonderfulness recently.

We’ve been hanging out on a seriously larger scale than we had from about jan 1 to mid march.

We missed each other.

Here are a couple of the nice things she’s done for me:

• Convince me to go skiing, ski with me the entire time on the wimpy pink heart trails instead of the supa-mecha black diamond ones
• Fully prepared ingredients to make sushi together
• Dedicated a new sushi roll to me named “Fluffy Snuggle Roll” (Sorry if that makes you gag, I like it!)
• Not mercilessly tease me because of my inflated cheek because of a tooth abcess and subsequent root canal (I’m still paying the price for not going to a dentist for like 7 years)
• Love me sincerely

And so? I looked up our super-hero names.

Skiing in Boardshorts

In an ongoing theme, I would like to express my appreciation for what it means to live in San Diego.

Last weekend Sonya and I went to a ski resort northwest of LA named Big Bear. Yep, Big Bear- just like you might imagine Burt Reynolds calling himself driving a big rig in a con-voy. “Breaker, one-niner, I got a big can-do on that 400 case Coors run in 28 hours down at Texarkana yeeHA!”

But no. Big Bear is like a mini-colorado village full of LA people with the right snowboarding accessories.

We needed a nice weekend away. Sonya’s been punching it at work for the last 2.5 months working harder than anyone should have to. She’s been so nice and sane compared to how I would be: looking like John Whorfin and bouncing around strangling Johnathan Banks’ character in a modern day BBX8th.

The city itself is at around 8000ft, there is some natural snow at that altitude this time of year, but only cruddy little piles or on distant peaks. Consequently, all snow on the slope is man made. Atomized droplets sprayed with compressed air onto the slopes at night, coat the hill 6-12 inches thick for daytime use.

Skiing when the daytime temperature is 63° is fun. About 1/2 the people there were wearing t-shirts, tank-tops or even without shirts. The snow was a little slushy at times, icy at others but what a great time! I only fell 1/3 of a kajillion times and Sonya never even laughed. Not even after watching me ski halfway down a steep 500 yd run, lose control barreling straight towards the single other person on the hill, only to explode into a pile of limbs with various ski shrapnel propelling outwards in all directions right at their feet.

It was funny to see all the casino signs on the way… one named “Morongo” I kid you not. I wonder how close they got to using the slogan: “Morongo- Where all morons go!”

I’m 27 today!

Today, I am 27.

I have no complaints, though my sinuses have been plugged up/murdering themselves with broken glass and rosin wrapped fists. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in about an hour to get relief.

And then in about a week when my course of antibiotics is up I’ll eat about 30 pounds of yogurt to repopulate my thoroughly excellent stomach with hippy food tolerant bacteria.

Which reminds me of another “whoa, the universe is huge man…” type statement that is interesting to me; the concept of the human body as a collective rather than a singular organism. Strange and somewhat off-putting but still stop-whatever-productive-things-I’m-doing-and-shoegaze-for-a-little-while interesting.

Anyway, so long as my bodywide secret police animals keep pork worms out of my brain and my weener animal keep working I guess I’m ahead.

Thank you all for thinking of me!

Old People Haven’t Heard of Poop

So, perhaps you’re like me. Coming to age in a nice, if not normal, family. Let’s define age as however old I am (27 this coming Tuesday…)

In a recent post, I mentioned stepping on virgin ground.

Being young and always experiencing new things, it’s easy to mistake the things that are new to you as things that are new to all mankind; specifically your parents and extra specifically your grandparents.

For this reason, young rapscallions make such silly assumptions as: people in old movies never talked about sex and especially never got boners.

I too thought this, but have been enlightened.

I watched the movie “Streetcar named Desire” earlier this week starring Marlon Brando in tight t-shirts and some english woman playing a rediculous nymphomaniac.

They talked about sex, though the movie version was censored, and Marlon’s buddy Mitch gets a chubby after hefting the nympho into the air. It’s subtle but there in his face. (Talk about acting… how to give a facial expression to express that specific type of discomfort?)

Of course I’ve always known that my grandparents knew a thing or two, but who would have known that Great great aunt Millie who used to bake special cookies liked to swing both ways?