Video Porn and the Amsterdam Sex Show Thing

I’ve never been big into video porn. I’ve never purchased the stuff, and I’ve never been one to demand that my friends let me borrow theirs. But I must admit, there is something to be said for the public availability of strangers being involved in what would normally be considered a private and intimate setting. Widely distributed voyeurism, if you will. Even better if this voyeurism were available to ANYONE with enough cash to buy in (instead of just being available to all those old senators and Bill O'Reilly). Again, it isn’t my bag, per se, but I do fancy the idea of it as a part-and-parcel product of advanced civilization.

That being said, I used to have a roommate with an impressive collection of finely edited video pornography. He was a connoisseur of the stuff. He would rent a dozen videos every few days, and would comb through it, searching for the best scenes and most skilled actors in the trade. Sometimes he would go through all those tapes, roughly ten hours of material, and only take a two minute clip to add to his library of porno-moments. He saw it all. He knew all their names, including the men. Along with the writers, producers, Best Boys, Grips, and microphone engineers. Hell, he probably had a favorite fluffer. He was dead serious about the art. His dream was to direct, and his collection was considered serious research.

He had the collection alphabetized, with each VHS tape containing some thirty-odd snippets from various and sundry “art films”, indexed only in his mind. He knew exactly where every take he had ever dubbed out of his rentals was to be found within the immense library of tapes, which were only labeled by their letter. If you asked him about such wonders as “The Squirter”, or his all-time favorite money shot, or the best triple-penetration to ever hit the adult video market… he would know exactly which tape to grab and exactly where to track the minute in order to locate said request. He was that dedicated, he was that professional. And for that, we offered him the title of:

MR SWANK.

When Mr. Swank moved in to my shit-hole of an apartment (there was a hole in the wall of my kitchen, which served as a Holland Tunnel of sorts for large insects and small rodents to enter my crib regularly), he brought only his tip-top wardrobe of the finest linens (Gucci, Versace, Klein, Yves St. Laurent, and the like, ‘cause he was smooth like that, seriously) and a large moving box stacked with his precious tapes. Beyond my playful interactions with the mildly amusing porn collections of my middle-school friends’ fathers, sneaking peaks at the wild word of grainy 70’s style stag flicks during my early teenage years, this was my first true foray into the depths of a most lucrative form of sexual fantasy. And I will admit, I initially found it most entertaining. After all, I am a guy. Guys love sex, and we love television. Right? So what could possibly be better than the combination of our two favorite pastimes? Theoretically: nothing could beat that partnership. Video porn has to be the pinnacle of male focus, distilled into some magnetic tape that is encased in plastic. Lazy sexual fantasy is a beautiful thing to behold. And behold it I did. Often. I watched every selection in his library repeatedly. I even had favorites, which I looked forward to revisiting periodically. It was a golden time for the tri-fecta of me, my TV, and my parents’ old and shitty VCR. We had a grand ol’ time.

But even Mr. Swank’s extensive collection, polished by his most discerning eye, did not keep my attention long enough to make me a lifelong fan of the genre. Eventually, I grew tired of the crappy acting, the bored chicken-heads being pounded by the same three half-limp douche bags in every goddamn flick, and the piss-poor production qualities associated with skin-flicks of that time. I guess it just got old. Mr. Swank cut through the nonsense to provide me with the best of the best, and I got spoiled. Then, I got really bored with the whole lot of it.

Nowadays, I don’t bother with the internet porn, and I don’t see myself skulking about in the back room of any local video rental dive any time soon. It just didn’t stick. Besides, my imagination has proven to be much more interesting. I do, however, reserve the right to revisit this form of lazy sexual fantasy as soon as my libido starts to wobble. I might need a jumpstart, know what I’m sayin’? One never knows.

But when I heard about the live sex shows in Amsterdam, I got fucking excited! Live?! Are you serious? Two people just get up on stage and pound it out in front of a theatre of strangers? My word, that’s like some sort of magical porno-circus! Sign me up! I mean, we get “donkey shows” down here in Texas, in the border towns, but that’s become more of a joke than it is a parade of sexual fantasy. The smell alone in those places will keep you from pitching a tent. And besides, who is impressed by a donkey who gets it up when shocked with a down-graded cattle-prod anyhow? Where’s the distinguishing sexual ability in that? Now if she were to get reamed by a walrus, or an ostrich or some shit, I might drop some pesos just for the kitsch factor.

But it wouldn’t be playing into any real fantasy of mine. I don’t wish the animal kingdom into my wet dreams. Honest.

Anyhow, the widely available sex shows in Amsterdam piqued my interest. So my lady and I signed up to check one out. We had no idea what to expect, and our travel guide-book-thing didn’t delve into any real detail as to what specifically goes on during the shows. And in typical Craig fashion, I didn’t bother to formulate any real expectations of my own. I was just excited to know that these things existed! Who the hell cares how they come together, they have to (I hate to say it) rock-out with their cock-out, right!?

Wrong.

We went to the most popular place, named Casa Rosso in the middle of the red light district (side note for anyone visiting the area any time soon: all those Kenyan and Congolese dudes milling about the area are pimps and strongmen, all the obnoxiously drunk white dudes are fellow patrons, and all the camera-bagged Asian couples will be gone before dark. That’s what I gathered. Take it for what you will). We were offered two types of show: with, and without drinks. My lady took the 30 Euro “no drink” ticket, and I nabbed a 45 Euro “with drink” ticket. My ticket granted me four drink tickets with which I could lay claim to four drinks, one at a time, of my choosing, through a waiter who would visit us during the show.

But first, we had to pay at the main location in order to get a voucher, which had to be walked to the other side of the canal (only 50 meters or so) to a separate and lesser (but related) establishment for a brief “pre show”. Exciting! Something to wet the ol’ proverbial whistle! Suuuhhhweeet! So we wandered over, entered the place and climbed up some dark stairwell which dropped us into a second-floor room. The room was already full, and the show was halfway over. We stood in the back and got an eyeful of what was to come. And I don’t mean cum.

On stage was a rather strangely paired couple, engaged in what would best be described as Sunday afternoon sex. The dude was scrawny, heroine chic-ish, and he was lazily slapping his numbed pud against what appeared to be a noticeably disinterested mother of four. She was staring off into the distance, and I believe he was examining his fingernails. No one seemed to be concentrating on the job at hand.

Two curious minutes later, some language-juggling titty-bar DJ-soundalike fellow mumbled some unintelligible crap over an intercom which caused the couple to stop their charade, face the crowd with a smile, and then they waved to us like we were all going on a cruise as a curtain closed around them. What the fuck is that? No “happy ending” in that joint. Dude just pulled it out and started waving like he was in a beauty pageant, junk pointing to the floor. Fucking weak.

Now I don’t know about you, but some sickly dude sticking his flaccid peter into a sleeping hole for five minutes does not constitute “sex” to me. There needs to be some excitement in there somewhere. Specifically, there must be a climax, or at least the obvious intention of such, in order for me to grant the label “sex”. And there needs to be some “show” in order for me to label anything a “show”. Maybe I’m all alone here, but I’m willing to go out on that limb for the sake of argument.

Somewhat disappointed, but determined that the main show would be more impressive, we clapped a half-hearted approval of their “performance” and filed back down the stairs. We crossed back over the canal and into the Casa Rosso. We were twenty strong, and eager to see some real action. And to drink. Well, I was anyhow.

I got my official drink tickets, and we were seated in a small theatre. Gradual stadium seating and all. My lady got an aisle seat, so she would be offered an unobscured view of the debauchery. I hunted for that waiter they promised would be hovering about. I did not know how long the show would last, but I estimated it to push upwards of an hour. That meant that I would only have fifteen minutes per drink. I don’t know why that gave me stress, but it did. "Oh, I better drink quick, lest I not be able to cash in all these tickets!" So when I couldn’t find the waiter, I simply got up and searched out the actual bar. Sometimes, it is best to seek out the source. It was upstairs in the back. I just walked up and requested all four drinks at once. No sense in falling victim to some pokey waiter who was already MIA, right? They informed me that a) I should only get my drinks from the waiter, and b) I can only get one drink at a time by handing my waiter both a ticket and my previous empty booze vessel. There went my brilliant strategy. But they let me take a drink back downstairs.

When I sat back down with a drink, all the other patrons started to get frazzled, with their little drink tickets vibrating in their shaking hands. They were all worried that they had somehow managed to miss the waiter’s first pass. Lucky for them, our waiter showed up. I hid my Heineken and requested a whiskey on the rocks. I wanted to keep the next drink properly queued so as to avoid any of the fretting displayed by my showmates. After all, I still did not know how long the show would last.

By the time I finished my Heinie, the waiter was delivering my whiskey. That’s when the show started. The curtains opened up, and there they were. Our first performers. And their piece had a bondage theme to it! Tight. There was some mild paddling, some slapping, and a bit of control-fetish in there. Nothing to write home about. But then, then… the deed was to begin!

I figured out why the dude’s back had been turned to us for the beginning of their scene. He was clearly unexcited to be there. I guess the paddling just didn’t do it for him. So, she got to working on him, out of our sight, his back still to us, to get him presentable. After a bit of coaxing, he was apparently ready. The turntable stage started to rotate, and they started their deal. After about a minute of witnessing the most uninspired sex of my life, I started to feel really sorry for these people. I mean, what must their real sex life be like? After all, a mechanic always has a broken car at home because he does not wish to work on anymore goddamn cars when he gets off the clock. Know what I’m saying? Damn. It was like mercy sex or something. As if a gay man and a lesbian both lost a bet and got stuck screwing each other in public. Wearing bad bondage gear. While Madonna’s “Erotica” played in the background. Sure, they switched positions on cue, and she even helped cram his drooper back into the game a couple of times. Hell, they might even be Bridge partners after work for all I know. But their chemistry would be best described as inert.

I just concentrated on my whiskey and kept a keen eye out for the waiter. No sense in wasting a good potential mid-day buzz on account of lame sex.

Madonna was interrupted by yet another language mangler with a microphone, which signaled the end of the first session of effort-free sex. The “sex” promptly ended, she waved like the Queen of England, and he pumped both his fists in the air as if to say “yeah baby, yeah! I wasn’t completely limp for the majority of the show this time! Fuck yeah!” I think I forgot to clap. But in my defense, the waiter had returned, and I had yet to finish my whiskey. I was stressing my missed opportunity at another Heineken, and had long lost interest in them anyway.

The curtain closed. I downed my last sip of gut-rot booze. And we discussed how interesting the outfits of the previous performers were. That’s right. I talked about their outfits. Like my momma always told me: “if you don’t have anything nice to say…” The waiter returned, thank god, and I got my beer order in before the next act.

The second act was a single girl dancing around on stage, striking poses and acting all flamboyant. She appeared to be of Brazilian descent, and was hopelessly adorable. She pranced about on stage, not really doing a whole hell of lot, causing much confusion in the crowd as to exactly what we had all paid for. Just as I felt myself tempted to start cleaning out my wallet, she started pulling hankies from her crotch. I would guess that she pulled approximately fifteen feet of knotted-together hankies out of there. Needless to say, I was pretty impressed. It was like a dirty carnival act or something. Regardless, it was much better than the earlier display.

We all clapped, and I clapped loudly, as the whiskey was starting to make such recommendations to me.

The garbled-mouth DJ muttered some nonsense, she bowed and waved, the curtain closed, and we all searched for the waiter. He came, we ordered, and discussed the merits of Ms. Hankie amongst ourselves until the curtains pulled back again.

This time, it was a Black couple. They had some good chemistry going too. All smiles. They handled each other well, and seemed genuinely interested in putting some work in. They made out for a bit, and then the turntable started to do its thing. She laid back, prepared for some action. He reached over to a bag behind them and pulled out a tube of lube. With his left hand he grabbed his tip, and with the right he squirted the cream over his bird as if he were applying toothpaste to a brush. Without missing a beat, he then proceeded to go all kinds of crazy on that girl. That man had rhythm. He dance-sexed her. Beyond the priceless lubing-of-the-meat part, it was a respectable show of sexmanship. I thought they would get a standing ovation for sure. But no luck. The DJ grumbled some jibberish, we got a wave, and the curtain closed. Still no money shot, no sense of completion, no exhausting release. Nothing of the sort.

Where’s that damn waiter? I don’t know when this show is going to end, and I still have one ticket left…

The next act was a real smiley girl. She was alone, and she danced around the stage like the hankie girl, almost step for step. Well, it seemed that way anyhow. We had been there about twenty minutes at that point, and I had already downed two beers and a whiskey on the rocks. My judgment of dance-steps might have been a bit impaired. But instead of hankies, this girl pulled a string of six beads. One bead at a time, in the name of time-killing theatrics I suppose. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Okay, bye!

DJ Grumble. Wave. Curtain closes. Goodness gracious, I guess.

Where the living hell is that goddamn waiter? If I have to take this goddamn ticket with me when I leave, then it better be pure LSD. Fucker.

The third couple was hilarious to me. Maybe it was the booze, I don’t know. It started with what was obviously a white girl who had been tanned to the color of yams, with dark contacts and jet-black dyed hair. I would guess she was Scandinavian by her build and features, so she looked awkward as hell. She was dressed up all American ghetto-fabulous with the requisite gear, kicks, and bling. She was pretending to be “kickin’ it out on the Ave” or some shit, when a dude in a trench coat comes strutting from stage right, with a durban hat covering his eyes. That’s when my drunk ass figured out why she looked so damn strange. Dude was black, and while the world loves to believe that racism only exists in the American Deep South, this little piece of poorly-done makeup work was plenty of evidence to the contrary. I guess white women are not eligible for black dongs in the mainstream sex shows of Amsterdam. Who'd a thunk it?

Here’s where a pocket of about six Asian tourists abandoned the building. Maybe they had reservations somewhere and did not want to lose their table. Maybe that whole bead thing really got their motors running, and they were off to "take care of some business". Who knows? They sure did dodge out of there in a hurry though.

Back to the sham. The girl was very attractive, even under all that shellac and gaudy jewelry. When she pulled off the dude’s trench coat, it was revealed that he was a pot-bellied fellow wearing boxer-briefs which were a bit too big for him. They were roomy, let's just say. He had the muscule mass of a seventh grader, and a nonexistent chin like mine. She danced around him while he stood there, slumped over, staring at her like a total perv, drooling. Perhaps this was what the "thespian" element of their "show" was supposed to be about. I have no idea. When they got to doin’ the do, he was hella excited to be there! She could have put a-lot more into her efforts in the excitement department, but I understand. He was not the most impressive specimen. But what he lacked in aesthetics, he made up for in heart! Dude was all into it! I thought he might actually seal the deal for a minute there. For a brief moment, he looked to be on the verge of a proper eruption... But the DJ cued the wave, and the curtain closed. Nada.

Hell-o waiter. 'Bout time you showed up. One final drink, and I’ll be… thanks! I’ll just down this last beer as if it were liquid clairvoyance and see if I’ll be paying for a drink individually (now that I've run out of tickets)… and the answer is: hell no. Hell. No. I’m fucked up before dinner. Again. Sex shows rule!

The next single-girl act hit the stage as if she were trying out for Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical” video. She was strutting around, doing lunges and ballet turns. I think she even threw some of that pilates crap in there, along with some high-impact yoga moves. Music was playing, but she may have been clinically deaf, so the beat was completely ignored. I was once again questioning my ticket purchase when she sat down in the center of the stage, lit a cigar, rolled backward on to her neck with her feet spread out into the air, and smoked that cigar with her cooter. Puff, puff, give. She popped it in, did some pelvic thrusts, plucked the cigar out, and exhaled the smoke from betwixt her legs. How fucking awesome is that? A true pecker puffer. I was floored by that one. I mean, I’ve been told stories of hookers in Thailand who could blow out candles, shoot ping-pong balls at targets, and pop balloons with darts – all using nothing more than their chonch muscles. But I dismissed it all as fables from the orient. But this woman pulled a Winston Churchill with her crotch! And then offered the cigar to some fellow in the first row as the curtains drew back together. Dude declined the offer. Big surprise. I mean, who knows where her cooter learned to smoke like that. Prison maybe? Shiiiiiiiit. Some crazy Irishman in the back row kept yelling “take it! Take it!” Absolutely fantastic stuff.

I was pretty looped by then. The booze was doing a fine job of keeping me entertained.

The fourth sex act was lame, and involved some poor Fabio reject who should have chanted “I can’t believe my steroid-damaged unit is so soft!” As his junk was giving him some serious trouble. I believe the ‘roids done did that man wrong. Stay off the juice kids, or your dick won’t work like it should.

DJ. Wave. Curtain.

Thank god.

The final act was the same chick who pulled the beads from deep within. I guess the management had decided that her little side-show act was pretty weak, and she would be required to do double duty if she wanted to earn equal pay. Whatever. She was the friendliest looking of them all, so we had no problem with it. She came back on stage with a banana, and requested that five people join her on stage. No one was jumping at the chance. Let’s face it, we all knew there would be no real sex involved. She wasn't going to allow five random dudes to just start taking turns on her (although I have heard of that happening, but it might just be more myth). And eating fruit from the crotch of a probable Amsterdam hooker is not exactly the best way to avoid potential health disasters (not to mention IBS from a dirty banana, or something equally nasty). But I was drunk enough to be game. To my lady, I was all "what are you waiting for? Let's do this!" Luckily, my lady was not under the cruel influence of the ill-idea recommending combo: whiskey and beer. She kept me seated, and probably saved me from a potential bout with hepatitis. Herpes Simplex 12 at the least.

Three drunken fools stumbled up there, danced around like drunken fools, and all tried to lay some game on the girl like drunken fools. It was all very funny, and very tragic at the same time. And then, the real potential for tragedy showed up. After two of the guys had taken a bite from the banana betwixt the fair maiden’s thighs, someone in a gorilla suit with a big ol’ strap-on dildo skipped out from stage right. Just as the third guy was about to take the final bite from the banana, bent over to get a good mouthful, he caught the gorilla out the corner of his eye. All hell seemed to break loose after that. It was all in fun, but everyone was up on their feet and paranoid once that gorilla began pacing the stage. None of those three dudes would let that gorilla out of their sight for a second. And that gorilla had one hell of a painful looking piece of rubber machinery bouncing around his waist. No more dancing on stage.

The gorilla walked off stage disgruntled, dejected. The three dudes remained apprehensive, if not horrified. The girl could not stop laughing (I think she seriously wanted to see one of them get hurt by the monkey).

DJ. Wave. Curtain.

Go see a sex show while you’re in Amsterdam. Let me know if your experience is different from mine. Fuck I’m tired of typing.

Out of touch

For the handfull of you who visit this place every now and again, I will be in Europe for the next ten days, getting my hash on. I will not be posting here, and I doubt I will be bothering with the internet in any fashion. Wish me luck, and I hope I survive the trip to post more garbage on February 8th.

Word be bond. You people need to stay out of trouble.

Narcissistic Babble Session

Sometimes, a man's just got to babble a bit. Ignore if you wish, I care not. Bygones.

**Begin Babble Session**

I am an agnostic who isn’t atheist only because I refuse to believe in “nothing”.

I am a heterosexual man who is trying to learn about what attracts men/women to men, for the sake of better understanding my environment. And I do not consider this an act of homosexuality.

I have two minds on almost every issue. I am an economist at heart, and that is what we tend to do.

I am the son of an accomplished Nurse, and an exceptional Structural Engineer. I am neither of them. I am both of them.

I wish I could practice my Mandarin Chinese more. I forget more and more as days go by, and this brings me stress.

I am a procrastinator who does not consider what he does difficult, so he waits to the last minute in order to make mundane tasks/responsibilities more interesting. This is far from a virtue, and I am aware of it.

I do not believe in being violent. But I believe that there are people who live by violence. And so, I believe in self defense, even when it goes against my other beliefs.

I believe that US national sports and US network television are the equivalent of Rome’s bread/circuses/gladiators campaign, designed to help distract us from what we really need to focus on. Because we are distracted, we do not honestly know what we should be focused on. This keeps me up at night.

I have not lost my temper in over five years. If I never lose it again, I will be just fine with that. But if I do blow it, I would prefer that no-one else be forced to witness it.

I believe that all politicians are just that: politicians. Believing that they are crusaders, champions of justice, or holders of any constitution beyond their own personal agenda is short-sighted and ignorant. Believing otherwise will get you exactly what you deserve: a politician. I am open to changing this opinion, but I have been given nothing to work with. I consider politicians to be a necessary evil.

I believe that all lawyers are politicians. This is through much personal experience, and personal friends who are lawyers are, unfortunately, lumped into this group. I consider all lawyers to be a necessary evil.

I believe in the peaceful coexistence of hypocrisy and definite truth. Definite truth being unattainable, and hypocrisy being our way of dealing with daily life knowing that definite truth is unattainable.

I believe that I am owed absolutely nothing by anyone. I also believe that it is this mindset which allows me (and the hard-working generations before me) to turn a blind eye to how my government mishandles my input into the tax system.

I know that I am lazy when it comes to proper watch-dogging of my own elected officials. I alone am responsible for allowing their misbehavior. I also know that each day I continue to be lazy, the harder it will be to correct said misbehavior.

I believe that I will grow old, and die, with no countable legacy. No riches, no wealth to convey, no gold to tally. And I am okay with this.

I believe that the only real legacy a person of meager beginnings actually has, is their ability to help their contemporaries. I believe that if nothing else, my borderline anonymous existence will leave a legacy of helping those around me: live a little better. Live a little harder. Live a little more, than they would have otherwise.

I have not cried in over three years. It was almost ten years between that tear-session and the one which preceded it. I wish I was better at crying, but not too good to contain it.

I try NOT to wish ill-will on those who hold contempt for me, even though I know I am within my right to do so. In reality, it is the ill-will they have toward me which I hate more than anything. In response, it is a weapon I choose to sheath.

I believe in honesty at all costs, even in the face of harsh judgment. But I do not believe that the truth conquers all. In fact, I believe that multiple perspectives provide for many parallel and coherent truths for any given issue. But even in light of this refraction of justice, I believe in honesty at all costs.

I believe that the most sinister product ever made, even beyond Peeps, are cigarettes. Nothing is more polarizing for me, within the confines of my own mind, than the desire to dance with nicotine. They say that heroine addicts who manage to kick the smack, never manage to kick smoking. The hold is that powerful. And from experience, it is quite sinister.

I wish I had never been a liar. I wish I had never been a thief. I wish I had never been a cheater, a careless lover, an addict, a hard drinker, a coffee hound, a night owl, a bigot of any kind, or a lazy technocrat who allowed himself to think he was the shit. But most of all, I wish I didn’t regret any of the things I’ve been, good or bad, better or worse. Because that is who I am, and honestly, there is no apology necessary.

And lucky for me, I really don’t regret any of it, since I never really planned any of this crap anyway.

**End Babble Session**

So what does it mean: hero?

(((To who might give a shit: I did not mean for anyone to think that I would not be posting here anymore. Far from the truth. I am simply trying to tone it down a bit so I can focus more on other types of writing. Bygones.)))

I have met some amazing people in my life. People who were unafraid of testing boundaries, others who did not lead unto temptation, and some who simply didn’t bend without good reason. And I find these characteristics to be fascinating.

I believe I find them fascinating more because I am not prone to put much into pseudo-heroes. Superman is a pseudo hero, possibly the most popular of fake heroes. Spiderman is a fictitious character with no good explanation for existence. Batman is a Hollywood joke. Wonder Woman is just plain ridiculous. These are implausible and unreasonable heroes in my mind. They are unattainable goals, characters with unlimited resources to focus on the correction of invented ills.

What about real issues? Like, when some asshole successfully robs a liquor store and decides to shoot the clerk anyway? (The robber is an asshole because he shot the clerk, specifically, not because he robbed the store, which might be cool with me – case-by-case basis judgment on that one) Is the “super” hero a true hero because they pulled the gun from the robber's hand (after crashing through the window, and then destroying the entire store in the process of subduing the criminal) just before he tugged the trigger? “Foiled” is the term of choice, as I remember, for the comic characters. Or is it the politician who lobbies for higher minimum wage; the Grant Writer churning out proposals for social works programs for the unemployed; the director of a local hospital who is putting together a free-clinic system for the substance-abusing homeless? Is it the nameless, thankless social slaves who push for programs designed to prevent the desperation behind robbery (as a criminal act) in the first place? Seriously, what about REAL heroes? Superman is a joke, in my mind. As is The Punisher, Flash, Wolverine, or any other born-with-a-gift ninnies who may or may not benefit someone or something in the short term by muscling their way about. Worthless fiction. Certainly not worthy of being up on a platform, or given the title of Hero.

My Grandfather is a hero to me. My Father’s Father. He is a real hero, to me, because he actually DID things and MADE decisions which were beyond my scope of difficulty or understanding. He quit high school during the depression to go to work in cotton fields to help feed his family, after his father got injured on the job. He told me stories of abstracted currencies, rampant diseases, Central Texas scrips, and bartering for food during those dark times. And even though his formal education ended there, he never stopped pursuing knowledge. He taught himself auto mechanics (starting on Model Ts), electronics (“appliances” and “consumer electronics” including the Television were invented during his lifetime, so this was some cutting edge shit), and advanced reading comprehension through a never-ending library of books and periodicals. Then he had four kids, and his wife fell to osteoporosis, leaving him to raise all four (3 boys, 1 girl), cook, clean, and put in full-time factory work.

He never complained about his life. He never asked for anything. He never claimed to be “owed” anything by anyone. He always did what he believed was right. And most important to me, he did everything in his power to make sure that his brood had a one million percent better chance of success than he had. No cape. No tights. No killed-parents to “avenge” the death of. No gay-ass logo. No cut chin or endless technology to fall back on. He survived on will alone. He provided for everyone around him through sweat and sacrifice. He built everything from scratch, and did so without so much as a whimper. THAT is a hero. THAT is a character to extract something from, a model to try and live by.

But he did have his flaws, as all humans do. And I am mindful of those flaws, as I do not believe anyone is perfect. One of his most disturbing flaws was his tendency toward racism. There is no apology, in my opinion, for such beliefs. But he did grow up in segregated society, in Texas, in post-slavery times. Given that, I understand where he got it from, but I refuse to accept or condone it. There's a bit difference between recognition and acceptance. I recognize that my ass won't wipe itself after I drop the kids off at the pool, but I will never see my unwiped ass as acceptable. See the difference? For anyone who does not know me, just so we're clear: I find the idea of categorization by race for any reason beyond light-hearted conversation (as in: black people have hair which requires a different technique to cut when compared to whites) is evidence of stupidity, and latent tendencies toward other damaging cults-of-thought like Dianetics or Oprah Winfrey's Book Club (if she weren't black, of course, to the heartless racist).

Here’s where another hero of mine comes to mind. My Mother’s Mother. When anyone even attempts to mention something that even resembles a blanket generalization, racist or otherwise, she’ll call it out for what it is: lazy stupidity. In front of your wife and kids. Ruthless. Not because she is against racism specifically, but because in her mind, all blanket generalizations are typically the idle product of a lazy mind’s attempt at analysis, where the result is half-baked and anger-fueled, and therefore deserving of ridicule. As an example, if one were to say to her, as an off-handed comment, a possible conversation starter (about drunken driving trends, perhaps) something like: “it looks like there are more Mexicans driving drunk around here these days.” She’d cynically reply, “where did you get that from?” To which you’d recognize the judgment in her voice, and nervously reply, “I read the paper, and that’s what I’m seeing.” To which she’d snap, “you aren’t reading close enough, because that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. And demeaning. That really is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Don't even try to backpeddle. She caught your lazy ass out there, mumbling some half-baked mumbo-jumbo, so don't even try to deny it. Just apologize for not thinking it through, and change the subject.

She’s not calling you a liar, or that the newspaper is not indeed focusing on a potential rise in Hispanic drunk-driving incidents in your area. But she is calling your analysis lazy. Or: that you are lacking the use of common sense toward the easy-to-manipulate media. So she's just calling a spade a spade, and rightfully so, you lazy turd. She is in tune with the constant logic which states oh-so-clear: we are all flawed, no one is perfect, and no one is perfectly flawed. It simply isn’t possible (well, highly IMPROBABLE, making it the exception to the rule is existent at all). I’m sure she gets scared when she’s passing a group of black teenage boys after dark, in a mall parking lot (she’s witnessed a mugging or two in her day). But I know that what she is afraid of is their desperation, not their skin color, and she is cognizant of that differentiation. She also grew up during the depression, and she’s seen her share of desperate individuals of all race, color, religion, and sexual preference do questionable things while under such influence. She knows not to be tricked by outside appearances.

Even beyond that, she knows better than to be tricked by others’ lazy-minded generalizations about race, gender, and such too. And she will not be political in her disgust when she brushes you off. “That’s just stupid. I’ve never heard anything so stupid in my life. How could you come to that conclusion if you thought it through? That’s just so… stupid.” Ruthless. And you’ll know that you have no argument against her. Even if you aren’t stupid to the core, you are certainly not proving otherwise by being so intellectually lazy in her presence. And she cut you down for it. And she’ll do it next time too. So, even though you’re only four years old, and it was just a stupid joke some other kid told you at daycare… you better buck up and figure it out quick, or she’ll repeat it often enough to start believing that you are, indeed, an idiot.

Do you want your Hero to be under the impression that you’re an idiot? That would really suck if you did.

Damn you lazy racists!

Favor to ask.

I have a friend who has decided to start writing. He wrote a brief screenplay based on some real-life events (the variety of reality-based fiction I prefer), and I am hoping you might drop by and read it. It will not take you more than ten minutes to do so, and the feedback, as long as it is honest, will be appreciated.

But please don't be a dick. Nobody here likes dick. (Except maybe you, but that's your own deal)

Again, if you like to read things, and comment on them, then please read his piece.

Here it be.

It is the January 17th post. Give it a go, will ya?

No worries.

sWords. Looking to find a horse around here.

I am going to drop some brain diarrhea here. Bare with me. Or don't.

For those who do not know, I fancy myself as a story Teller. A story Teller who is in the process of teaching himself how to write. In my life, I have gathered a little collection of situations and happenings, both of-my-hand and as an idle witness. I really enjoy telling, embellishing on, and putting my own spin on these events. Crafting them into the way I interpret or interpreted them when they were experienced. I see words as my favorite medium to transfer ideas from my head to the functioning world. Better than paint, better than elephant dung, better than fired clay. I like to slap words together to represent concepts I find relevant, and wrap the mess into a story blanket to make it less preachy.

I do this to get the crap out of my head.

And if anyone else enjoys it, then that is just more Bailey’s in my coffee. Friggin’ sweet.

But telling stories is very different from writing, which requires a high level of technical skill. A story can be accidentally funny, or anecdotally interesting… but if written correctly, can be a brilliant piece with almost immeasurable depth and limitless interpretation (think: The Old Man and the Sea, or… The Stranger). A well-written story has a life of its own, far beyond the source event(s) or the intent of the writer. The trinkety story beneath the writing becomes as multi-faceted as it is in the mind of the Teller.

Yes, that sounds cheesy as fuck, but you must admit, it really is an interest goal for a simple story teller to set his mind to: words as art. Shit… that’s crazy talk!

Yup.

In an attempt to work toward my goal (actually writing something, instead of just outlining plots, only to get distracted, and then blogging about –yet- another drunken escapade out here on the interweb instead), I intend to try and put whatever creative juju I have into whole-assed writing. If I am to ever learn how to write, I imagine it will require every remaining mental resource at my disposal.

That is to say, that whatever I post here in the coming months will more than likely be pieces of things I am working on. Stories which I feel warrant being written. So, if you only come here to bathe in bad grammar and tales of drunken idiocy, feel free to delete me from your favorites, or remove my link from your page. Bygones.

That’s right. This blog might be turning into the same ol’ writer hack bullshit that you see out here in blogworld. If you are like me, then you hate the stink of it all.

“Hi! Welcome to Shanda’s Magical Writing Blog! OMG I luuuurve writing! LMFAOFODEEEFEI!!! When I get bigger, I am going to write like Sex and The City!”

I support anyone looking to express themselves. Everyone has an itch to scratch, a Black Beauty that they're searching for. But if I simply dwell in hackery (OMFG NO!), then I promise to shoot "the writing horse" before it pisses me off with its inceasant limping.

I already have a job and shit. No need to cram a square peg in a circle hole.

Again, I cannot stress this enough: I’m not claiming to be a writer. Yet. I’m a story Teller. A Teller who wishes to polish it up a bit, and do what every human being on this planet (worth their salt) should be doing: make an effort to transform his life experiences into something meaningful (even if he fails).

And I will be practicing. Here. And I will welcome any and all critique, unless you’re a dick, in which case I will ignore you like I ignore the whimpers of my battered liver.

Word. Words. Worded Words. sWords.

Maybe I will Never Learn.... Right.

It is strange how little things seem to change, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that a substantial and deeply needed adjustment demands to be made. Especially when it comes to keeping primal behavior in check… while floating the Great River Booze. I’m not talking about controlling one’s sexual urges, although that is a legitimate problem for most (I believe I am beyond that mumbo-jumbo at this juncture in my life), I am referring to good ole fashioned idiocy, ill-founded decisions, and knee-jerk directions which almost always leave everyone around you yelling awkward brilliance at you such as:

1) For the last time, put that down. Yes, it is seriously ON FIRE.
2) For the last time, take a step back. Yes, that is a river, and it is a long drop.
3) No, I do not want to arm wrestle you. Or that chick. Or the cab driver.
4) No, you cannot pee here.
5) No, you cannot smoke that here.
6) WHERE did you get these pills?
7) How did you end up with two different shoes on?
8) Whose pants ARE those?
9) Dude, I don’t know you. You spit when you talk, and that’s nasty.
10) GET UP. You’re going to be hit by a car.

Friday was an interesting dive into such idiocy. While I’m never proud of what I do when I’ve given up all ideas of reason, I can never really fault myself either. This is what I do from time to time, and the frequency of occurrence is (thankfully?) decreasing (slowly).

So here are some questions I am currently asking myself:

1) Which came first, the craziness or the liquor?
2) What standards am I using to decide that I “get crazy” anyhow?
3) What the hell difference would it make if I answered 1 and 2?

My left knee is all fucked up. And I blame Friday night. Rather, I blame the combination of me + Friday night + mixed booze + Red Bull + latent frustration with the point of it all. But really, losing some of the functionality of my weakest of legs is a small price to pay considering: the high value risked in exchange for a good time.

It started simple enough, at Deville, for happy hour. No waves there, just some standard Mandarin & Tonics to ease my way out of the week. Good conversation, good crowd, and Vance & Carol brought pizza. By eight o’clock, the initial group of a dozen had whittled down to two. Me and Alan. I don’t get to hang with Alan that much, as our schedules never really mesh with convenience, so this was a rare opportunity to hang out and catch up. Alan is one of those really rare individuals who knows what he wants, keeps that list reasonable, and he quietly achieves those goals, never seeking approval for his successes or achievements. He is his own motivation. So, he’s a guy to learn some real life lessons from. Maybe he has discovered some sort of shortcut to the discovery of Meaning, and all we needed to do was discuss it… But we decided to drink instead.

Don’t judge, hater.

An hour later, we’re on our way to Foundation to kick it with Mare, Jen, and Brandon. Three more Mandarin & tonics later, I’m arguing with Jen about the merits of “Rock Out With Your Cock Out” as a catch-phrase. I hate the damn thing because it makes no sense to me. Plus, it was on Britney Spears’ husband’s mesh-back trucker hat. I get the idea that someone just wanted to rhyme Rock with Cock, and that stupid-ass phrase was the answer they came up with: the new Flasher motto. Fuck that pointless saying, and fuck those hats too. I lump that Von Dutch nonsense in there as well (damn, they make a killing selling those shitty hats to dumb-fuck hipsters and L.A. socialites, destroying my sense of decency in the world).

We staggered out of Foundation and ended up at Red Fez. That’s where the Red Bull reared its ugly-ass liquid-cocaine head. I wanted one vodka-Red Bull, just to get the blood flowing. I had been drinking for five hours straight at that point, and wanted to last at least four more. Well, one turned into three. Which turned into me harassing the guest DJ with questions about the whereabouts of the resident DJ, pestering some stupid chicken-heads for a hit off their hookah (they rent hookahs there, Moroccan theme and all), and talking incessantly to anyone in earshot (including while at the urinals, which is strictly forbidden by the Guy Code). Alan jumped on the Red Bull train, and we and the ladies steam-rolled our way to Oslo for yet: more drinks and grooves.

A word to those who enjoy fighting at the club: you aren’t gangsta, and neither are your dumb-ass friends. This isn’t Good Fellas, and you aren’t Fitty Cent. The 90-pound ladies need to mind their business (don’t start any shit, because you CANNOT back it up, and your poor boyfriend will be stuck with medical bills, all because you are an idiot with a big mouth) and the men need to be gentlemen (don’t touch on anyone else’s lady or destroy everyone else’s good time by being a macho, gotta-prove-somethin’-to-my-daddy dick head because get this: no one gives a shit). That’s how the civilized world works. If you don’t like it, move to Haiti. I hope you choke on your own broken teeth. Asshole.

So while I was swaying to the beat on the dance floor at Oslo, minding my own, keeping myself out of trouble, a goddamn fight breaks out OVER my head. It reminded me of Houston in that the two fellows were Asian, skinny, and apparently more interested in pre-gunfire posturing rather than trading punches. My drunk ass was stuck between the two, hand on each chest, determined to keep them from hating each other. I have no idea why I cared, or why I ever care, but I did (do). I HATE fights at clubs. I go there for a good time, and it really pisses me off when knuckleheads don’t know how to act. Not that staggering around, burning people with carelessly gestured cigarettes, and sleeping in bathroom stalls is acceptable behavior… but I see that behavior as more of an annoyance than a true threat, and therefore less egregious a violation of club protocol.

Alan and Mare were completely against me standing in the middle of a fight on the dance floor, and I remember them repeatedly tugging at me, trying to pull me to the periphery. I did my best to stand my ground, as these two groups continued to talk shit to one another, over my head. Other strangers were getting involved. There was a growing contingency of whiteys, jumping in on one Asian dude’s side, which continues to confound me (they just yelled incoherently about “kicking some fucking ass”, over and over, and over and over and over… I was afraid I would get lumped into their camp).

Then, as sudden as it seemed to start, it dissipated. One of the two left, as did his crew, and we continued dancing as if nothing had happened. Details are a bit hazy, so I am not sure what broke the thing up. Did the gorilla-bouncers show up? The cops (I’ve seen a couple of “take-downs” in there before)? Or did everyone finally focus in on the ridiculous Caucasian guy, flailing about in the middle of dance floor exclaiming “guys, guys, seriously, this is Austin! We don’t fight here!” It certainly isn’t a boast, but I really do fantasize that they all looked at me and said to themselves “damn, look this piece of work right here. Shouldn’t he be beggin’ for change out front or something? Wait a minute, what am I angry about? Whatever, I’m outta this bitch. Peace.”

My right arm has some good bruises on it. Nice, deep purple ones with brownish-grey lining. I’m not sure if those were misguided punches thrown my direction, or my friends’ man-handling of me to get me off the dance floor… whatever.

Last Call hit, and we were booted out onto the street. There was no way in hell we were going home any time soon (I like to keep hanging around downtown after getting piss-drunk, because it is genius. Pure genius). (No, it isn’t) So Alan and I decide to hit up Katz’s for some grub. We get all the way there, only to decide that we did not want to wait in line for a table. Too much Red Bull running through the system makes a person anxious and irritable. A little booze makes you an idiot. The combination may prove lethal if applied to two guys waiting in a long-ass line for half-rate food.

So I peed on the building instead, and then we left.

We headed back toward the dirty section of 6th street for a Best-Wurst Bratwurst (lovely). Halfway there, the Red Bull and my tendency toward idiocy huddled together and came up with a brilliant plan to expend some of this unnecessary energy…

A foot race. Down the crowded streets of 6th, oozing with all the obnoxious fraternity monkeys and G-Unit rejects: all flammable with booze. Absolutely brilliant.

We set our feet on a pavement line, just before Colorado, called the mark, and took off running a full-on race. Like a couple of fifth-graders. I swear, I thought I was flying. My feet could barely keep up with body as my dress shoes slipped and skidded their way over puddles of urine, around trash cans, hurdling curbs and the sleeping homeless. Alan was WAY ahead of me until we hit Congress, where he slowed down for traffic. We did not have the green. And that is where brass-balled lunacy will help you make the call that will bring home the trophy. Into traffic I went, at full speed, dodging drunk drivers like a Frogger pro. I kept hauling ass until I hit Brazos, jumping over/through what felt like an almost endless gauntlet of drunken frat-boys’ attempts to trip, punch, and knock me down. Why they gotta hate on drunken sprinter? I mean, shit.

When I finally came to a stop on the corner where the Best-Wurst goods are peddled, I did so on my left leg. Not good. When I stopped, all the force of my momentum was transferred to my left knee, and it popped. Audibly. Fuckmenuts, my knee is now shot.

But I got a damn good Best-Wurst out of the deal. I even let them put all that nasty condiment shit on there. De-fucking-licious. The knee will mend anyhow.

But that isn’t the point. The three questions still loom, demanding as ever, as I hobble about at work today, dragging my left foot as if it were cleft.

Which came first: craziness or liquor? Well, I guess it is safe to say that I’ve always been a bit insane. Last Friday is hardly evidence of that, but it might be rated as indicative. The liquor simply greases the gears of the machine. Once I have no more need for the machine, I will abandon the fuel. That’s my best guess.

What standards am I using to decide that I “get crazy”? None. After writing this, I don’t believe I do “get crazy”. My reactions to things are perfectly sane, and relatively tame. Crazy is when you go to a 6pm happy hour at Bennigan’s, and twelve hours later you find yourself tossing salads to “work” your way out of a prison in central Mexico. All I do is moon people, start foot races, and pee in a sink every now and again (don’t hate, don’t knock it ‘till you tried it, and don’t wash your hands at the Denny’s near St. Johns and IH35 – trust me on this one).

So, answering 1 and 2 really has not helped me get anywhere. Damnit. So much for introspection.

Damn you Best-Wurst!