Gorto? Yeah, Gorto! GORTO!!!
This is, without a doubt, the single stupidest thing that has ever, and I do mean EVER, happened to me in my three+ years working with the [ ] corporation. This is a stpry that I will repeat over and over again to my friends, to my co-workers, to my children and my grandchildren, one that I will honestly and sincerely remember for it's sheer stupidity alone, until the day I die.
In without a doubt the single stupidest argument that has ever occured within that store, [ - ] and I got into an argument tonight over Gorto, the six-headed demon god from Valhalla.
The saddest thing is that, no, I am not kidding. I will repeat that sentance a second time now for dramatic effect. Be sure to stress it more the second time you read it ...
... [ - ] and I got into an argument tonight, an actual [ ~ ] argument, words were spoken, things were said, over Gorto, the six-headed demon god from Valhalla.
Can you believe that? I mean, can you believe that? Let the stupidity of that sink in for a bit there.
Now, let's repeat that wondrous sentance a third time for dramatic and, to a lesser extent, humorous effect, shall we ... [ - ] and I actually got into an actual argument tonight over Gorto, GORTO, the six-headed demon god from Valhalla.
Gorto? Yeah, Gorto! GORTO!!!
So as a lead bookseller, it is my duty to fill out the daily assignment sheet and let everyone know what they're doing. It upset me at first that no one usually took the time to read it until say an hour or two before we closed, so I always try to make it funny so that people will see what "wackiness" that crazy, funny Steve guy is up to and, as a result, know what the hell they're supposed to do. Usually, I find a theme and give people nicknames accordingly, like, Dr. Seuss titles ... and you're "Green Eggs and" Natasha, "Are You My" Steve, "The" Ian "That Stole Christmas" and so forth.
So tonight I wanted to do something different, so I decided, in one of my trademark humorous moments that I do all the time, decided for a funny bit to make someone up and pair that imaginary person up with someone to clean up a section, funny Andy Kauffman sort of crap, so that I could go up to Erica and say, "Hey Erica, just to let you know, you and Col. Schvantz are recovering magazines tonight."
So I assigned to clean up the breakroom " [ - ] and Gorto, the six-headed demon God from Valhalla." I thought that was funny. Comic gold. I think that I stole it from an old "Ren and Stimpy" cartoon, actually, although I might be mistaken.
[ - ] read it, ripped it up, pulled me aside, and told me that he had read what I wrote on the daily assignment sheet and said that he was hurt and offended and didn't "appreciate it one bit." I laughed it off until he stormed off. Can you believe that? He was actually hurt and offended by that.
[ - ] got offended by that? Then if he ever saw an episode of "South Park" thyen his testicles must explode or something because this is just the stupidest thing that has ever happened to me ever, spending seven hours at work thinking about Gorto the six-headed fire god from Valhalla. I tried to continue my work day but [ - ] would avoid me, not talk to me, not look me in the eyes like he knew that I was the Son of Sam or sonething.
I can only assume that he thought that I was calling HIM Gorto the six-headed demon god from Valhalla.
Later that night, I decided to write the events down in my "Children's Section Bookseller Communications Folder" which just so happens to be equipped with a notebook that has been placed there as both a way for my workers to communicate what has been done and needs to be done but also is there for workers in the kids section to rant. The golden rule is that what is written there STAYS there. And I wrote what had happened, very politely as per my modus opperandi as the manager in charge of the children's section, and I wrote it MINUS the cussing, saying that I really was sorry for the mistake but, Jesus Christ, it wasn't my fault that [ - ] couldn't take a goddamn joke.
All this over Gorto, the six-headed demon god from Valhalla, right?
This next part is kinda creepy.
So we're closing the store, I'm straightening the maps display, and I find a book that goes in my children's section, so I walk back to the kids section and I see [ - ] in MY section going through MY desk until he found MY "Children's Section Bookseller Communications Folder" and saw him flipping though the notebook until he found what I had written about today's events. Now I don't care how offended you are about Gorto, the six-headed demon god from Valhalla, but THAT is creepy and scary and psycho and going way too far, okay?
ALL THIS over something as incredibly stupid as Gorto, the six-headed demon god from Valhalla.
Gorto? Yeah, Gorto! GORTO!!!
I walk up to him, clear my throat, and ask him if he needs help with anything. Silence. Doesn't move, Just keeps reading. So I, feeling scared and pissed off and uncomfortable and a whole heaping helping of I don't know what the hell else, stammered out a half-assed apology to him, saying that I never meant for him to get upset over what I had written but it was honestly a stupid little joke and that the last thing that I meant was ...
I was still stammering out an apology when he put the folder back in the desk and walked out of the kids section, not saying anything, not looking at me, nothing. Absolute Helen Keller silence.
Someone seriously needs an enima is what I'm saying.
Sorry for trying to be funny. There's such a thing as a sense of humor, you know. You might want to think about buying one.
SCROLL TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS PAGE TO LISTEN TO MY HILARIOUS AND WILDLY OFFENSIVE PODCAST!
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Thursday, November 13, 2003
BACKGROUND: Primus "Pork Soda"
There is apparently a vision of the Virgin Mary in the United States right now, in New Jersey, in fact, which is astounding enough as it is considering what a rundown piece of shit state New Jersey is. Have you seen this so-called "vision?" How fucking stupid are people? Are Americans so desperate for some faith that theywill believe that an ugly, misshapen tree stump is the Virgin Mary? I've taken shits that look more like the Virgin Mary than the holy tree stump.
Being someone who created their own religion in 1996, I have spent the last eight or so years being super religious tolerance man. But the stupid, ignorant piece of shit religious right in this country has been pissing the hell out of me lately. Now I just have to tell the truth. Anyone and everyone who thinks that this is a holy vision is fucking stupid and should be put out of their misery. It's a stump, you dumb fucking idiots! A fucking tree stump! Get your heads out of Jesus' asshole and stop sucking God's cock, you ignorant piles of shit!
Sunday, November 2, 2003
BACKGROUND: Family Guy/Sealab/Aqua Teen
My vacation was fucking great. Went to San Francisco and saw Primus at the Warfield. That was fucking incredible. I must admit that my knowledge of Primus isn't as thurough as my knowledge of, say, White Stripes or the Groovie Ghoulies, but their album "Sailing the Seas of Cheese" is what got me through high school and at their concert they played the entire album in its entirety. And on Halloween I went trick-or-treating with my little girl and then went downtown and saw the original "Night of the Living Dead" on the big screen.
And tomorrow I go back to work, to sweating and bleeding and crying as the manager of the kids section of a big ass bookstore here in Hellafornia. And there is absolutely no denying it that the holidays are now upon us, you know? And from here on out it's a hardcore, flat out burn drag into Thanksgiving, Christmas, and beyond. I'm a little bit worried and a little bit scared, so I am really not really that excited to sleep tonight.
I just want to sit here and watch my cartoons and drink my soda and eat my cows and wait for sleep to come to me tonight. If I still smoked, I'd light up a cigarette and sit on the front porch. If I still drank, I'd do shots. This month is year one of my sobriety. No big thing. I just don't. If I had ice cream, I would get a gallon of it and bundle up in front of the television all night and into morning. That sorta mood.
Sunday, October 19, 2003
BACKGROUND: Saturday Night Live
First off, completely random rant here ... Vin Diesel is a fucking idiot. Complete and total fucking idiot. So is the new governor of California. He can't even pronounce the word "California," yet alone run the goddamn thing. But he's California's governor because the entire state is evil and is going straight to hell. And what the !HELL! is wrong with Tina Fey's mouth? Am I the only one that notices that? Huh? It's like someone stabbed her or tried to slash her mouth with a shiv or something. Do you notice that? And every year I watch Saturday Night Live it seems to me that it was ten times funnier last year. Isn't that strange? It's like I'm trapped in this bad SNL circle where every year I like last year better, but not until the year has passed. Strange.
My life currently revolves around the following things: work, Ed Wood, old episodes of Invader Zim and Sifl n' Olly, staying sober, positive vibes, Philly Cheesesteaks at Jack in the Box, my new Gamecube, comic books, the Groovie Ghoulies, Adult Swim (especially Family Guy, Aqua Teen, Sealab, and Home Movies, the single greatest cartoon on television today), changing diapers, and being happy. That is, in essence, my entire life right now. And it's damn good!
There is no negativity in my life, all the drama washed clean from my existance, and it feels fucking great! There was a lot of drama and violence and heartbreak and drama in my life but that bullshit was way back in 2002, back when I was an unhappy, stupid idiot that was constantly running straight into a brick wall. Fell free to read the past posts if you want a spicy, lurid story. But that crap and those bastards are way back in the past and this is the last time I will ever mention them and, hopefully, the last time I will ever think of them.
My self-made religion, Woodism, is doing great! The following is taken from an article written about me on ABCnews.com:
"The Wood opus so impressed Steve Galindo, a 24-year-old college student from Arizona, that he formed the Internet's Church of the Heavenly Wood, which claims more than 5,000 members.
"In case you're unfamiliar with Wood or the 1994 Tim Burton biopic starring Johnny Depp, in Plan 9, grave-robbing aliens raise an army of zombies to take over the Earth. The ultra-low-budget film featured cardboard tombstones, and when lead actor Bela Lugosi died four days into production, Wood replaced him with his wife's chiropractor.
"In Glen or Glenda, Wood explores transvestitism, a personal obsession.
"Some might doubt the Rev. Steve's credentials, but he's baptized more than 5,000 'Woodites' and has gone to elaborate lengths to show how Wood's alternative lifestyle and long list of failures should inspire us all to overcome our own shortcomings.
"Woodism is not for everyone, but it's helping to ensure Ed Wood's immortality, and that alone is a miracle. "
Interesting shit there, isn't it? The entire article is located right here if you want to check it out. Buck Wolf, the writer, is a good guy who has interviewed me before. Good guy, even though he's from New York. And of course, there WERE a few mistakes, like I'm 26 andf live in California, but, hey, what do you expect. He's from New York. Those people are way too busy listening to Howard Stern and yelling at each other to care about things like my age and shit.
Going to go see Primus in San Fran at the end of this month. It's strange but I still have a Phoenix mentality towards San Francisco, like it's some big 18 hour road trip to get there instead of being just over an hour away, so in my mind this is going to be huge when in fact it isn't. Strange stuff. Don't get me wrong, I miss Phoenix and my friends there, but after almost two years here, I wouldn't give up Sacramento for the world.
Britney Spears is singing a slow song. Time to try to sleep.
Monday, October 6, 2003
BACKGROUND: Groovie Ghoulies "Travels with my Amp"
Last Saturday night, I, Reverend Steve Galindo, along with Mr. Lobo of tv's Cinema Insomnia, hosted a very special midnight showing of Tim Burton's "Ed Wood" at downtown Sacramento's legendary Crest theater. I was there with my lovely, wonderful angel Tash, some incredible friends from my work, and a handful of friendly, loyal followers of Woodism, and I passed out flyers and preached the wonders of Ed Wood and Woodism. And before the film I took the stage and led the audience in a Woodian prayer.
That's a big thing for me, because I am in reality a shy little guy. I don't go out too much. I'm not a club sort of guy. I don't drink, don't smoke, and I don't do drugs. My life lately is really all about video games and trying to start a family. I can be really quiet and shy in situations that are new to me with people that I don't know. So taking the stage and preaching Woodism in front of hundreds upon hundreds of strangers was a really big step for me. I was so scared. But Tash was right there the whole time holding my hand, making me realize that I have to be myself, just say "fuck you" to all the nay-sayers, including the ones inside my own head, and just be myself.
I am a different man, a happier man, a family man, and a grown-up man. I have moved on. Anyone out there who is angry with me and pissed off at me and wants to vent and rage and scream at me is just yelling at a brick wall because your petty bickering doesn't phase me one bit. Be angry with me. I don't care. No more whining here about pasy friends and lost loves and broken hearts. Fuck that crap. That is all in the past. You are all in the past. I am no longer a "get into a fight/why did she leave me" sort of guy, the last breath of me that was a sad, depressed little drinker.
I am now a "changing diapers" guy. I am now a "give the baby a bath" guy. I am now Reverend Steve, less crazy manic guy and more growing up adult guy. And I have never been happier.
Saturday, September 6, 2003
BACKGROUND: Plan 9 from Outer Space
I am happy. I am healthy. I am happy and healthy. A wise little birdie let me know that the only time I ever write in this shitty little blog of mine is when I'm sad or angry or depressed. Well screw all that. I am extremely happy now, extremely positive and focused and driven and all in all happy to be alive. I'm amazed to even hear me say it. I'm happy as hell and I'm feeling great and my car is working fine and I have two days off and I have a movie in pre-production and I'm healthy and I'm feeling like I'm just flying on a cloud right now. Disneyland happy. That's how I feel.
Work? It's there. What I've been trying to do lately is just tell myself that, amid the work drama and the work backstabbing and the Machiavellian political maneuvering, I try to take a deep breath and say to myself It's just work, man. Relax. It's just a fucking bookstore. Try to place my work in its proper context. When working Barnes and Noble is at its worst it's still better than 75% of all the other jobs in America. And besides, I am not my job.
The bar? The hell with that. I am honestly and sincerely sorry to any of my old bar buddies, any of my old drinking buddies from back in the days, that might be reading this. I don't drink anymore and I don't smoke anymore so there's no reason that I should go to that small, dingy, dirtbag bar. No offense to all those people that I really got to know and love and respect, but I've been sober for ten months and smoke-free for almost a month, so why should I go to a bar at this point in my life?
And besides, I'm pretty sure that the bar is alive and that it wants to kill me. And I'm serious. Here's the story ...
One of my first sober nights, there was this guy at the bar who, through his own sheer stupidity, will remain nameless. Yeah, I was sober but I still spent most of my nights at the bar. That was really stupid of me, in retrospect, but I was having a hard time being sober and I wanted to hang out with my friends, all of which were hardcore drinkers at this ugly little dirt bar. So one night this friend of mine is bragging about how he, twentysomething guy, fucked this 48 year old lady at the bar. He went around proud like he just won a gold medal in the stupid olympics. He told me he was the alpha male of the bar now that he did the impossible and screwed this chick. The idiot.
He told me not to tell his girlfriend at the time that he had screwed this other chick. And out of nowhere I blurted out that I wouldn't tell his girlfriend, that the bar itself would find a way of letting her know that he had cheated on her. And then it came to me, the idea that the bar itself is a living, breathing entity kept alive through the negativity of its occupants in a very real, very Stephen King sense. Everyone every night coming in angry, getting in fights, dispensing drama, trading gossip, getting drunk which in and of itself is a negative act seeing as how alcohol is a depressant, and the bar was once a dormant building until so much anger and negativity floating through its doors caused it to stir. And now, like a bad horror movie, the bar is alive and it needs negativity to survive.
And I told my friend that the bar, which is alive and very much evil, will find a way to let his girlfriend know about his cheating ways. And sure enough, she somehow found out through the bar grapevine about his cheating and there was a lot of yelling and fighting, all of which happened underneath the roof of the bar's hungry mouth. That's now how I see the bar, as an evil entity, and I got out of there a month or two ago. I just stopped going to the bar, stopped spending every waking second there, stopped going entirely, and I've been working out and eating right and getting healthy and feeling happy and proud and content in my sobriety and yeah I miss the singing and the friends but I do not miss the bar. Not one bit.
Religion? Going well. Ever since I saw Ed Wood's magnum opus of a film, the legendary "Plan 9 from Outer Space" on the big screen at downtown Sacramento's legendary Crest theater, I've been a changed man. I've been a man that is no longer content with sitting on the sidelines anymore. I cannot just sit on my ass doing nothing. My life does not revolve entirely around the bar. I am better than that. And Ed Wood is helping me realize that.
This is me happy. This is me happy and healthy and positive and in love and feeling like a man. And this is me reclaiming my blog.
Thursday, July 3, 2003
BACKGROUND: Taproot "Welcome"
First off, there are a handful of people out there, not naming any names here, who are extremely upset that I haven't been talking to them, calling them, e-mailing them. It is not that I do not care. It is not that I do not like you guys. It is not that I am ignoring you. It's that I have a severe, contageous, painful eye infection that I am seeing a doctor for, that I am taking eye drops and painkillers for, that I am struggling with right now. I have spent this entire day taking pills, washing my eyes, taking my eye drops, and writhing is absolute pain. It's not that I hate you guys or that I'm an asshole. Well, actually, I am an asshole and I'm in extreme amounts of pain. So how's about that, huh?
The worst part about this severe eye infection is not that it might be contageous or that it might develope into a serious disease, but that I would have to miss work. I work hard, very hard, extremely hard, and I feel bad if I'm fucking five seconds late, let alone missing like a week's worth of work. Shit, man, that's tough. But that's the way it has to be. I mean, up to this sentance it has taken me over an hour and a half, just for this much writing. Any other time, like when my eyesight wasn't in jeopardy, this would have taken me twenty minutes or less, but now, my head always spinning, my eyesight shit, my eyes burning, I'm in serious bad shape.
But seriously, my eyes have been asking for this. My eyes have gone through so much bullshit, so much pain and suffering and drama these past twelve or so years that they've grown into eyes with a constitution the size of a castmember of Jackass, for shit's sake. My eyes used to be sensitive, but after years and years of hard, rigid contacts, then soft, then disposables, then the eye problems, the eye pains, and so much more, now that I'm a strong 26-years-old, you could spit on my eyes and then set them on fire and it wouldn't hurt them that bad. That's scary, but my eyes have been asking for this.
The worst case scenario, I lose my eyesight. Worst case scenario. Best case, I miss a few days of work, I suffer a few more days of pain, of drop dropping and pill popping, and I go back to work sometime next week, hopefully red eye-free (my eyes aren't a little bit red ... they're SPIDER MAN COSTUME red). It just sucks that I have to go through all this. I want to be out partying, watching shitty supper movies and eating Weinerschnitzaghetto and hanging out with all my homies at Empire comics (shout out to my cool comic book boyz in da hizzouse - vain attempt at being hip, part I) but instead I have to be here stranded at home struggling to open my eyes.
Wrestling had better not suck tomorrow.
Monday, June 2, 2003
BACKGROUND: The Knockoffs "Sell the Move"
Ever since I was a child as far back as I can remember I've always been writting everything down. Always with a pen and a piece of paper folded up in my back pocket, writting down what happens to me and what's going on around me, what people say and what interesting things happen in my life. Always. And I've been writing diaries and journals ever since I was in third grade, constantly writing down the happenings in my life, ever last detail. In my 26 years of living, I must have gone through about fifty different books.
And always, ALWAYS, eventually I have had to destory it, to throw it away, to burn it to the ground or rip it to shreds and throw it in a trash can somewhere. So out of the fifty or so books I've written, I probably have about two or three still intact. Why? Let me tell you something - the most dangerous man in the world is the man who writes down his deepest innermost feelings on to paper, the man who writes down every single thing that happens to him every day. Trust me. I've been in this scenario so many times before. Eventually, someone will see what you've written and expose you, point fingers at you, ask you to explain yourself, ask for an apology, and look at you forever through a different set of eyes.
And I am not writing this to make any one person feel guilty or angry or upset. I am not writing this in spite or in anger or anything like that. It's just the truth. This scenario I'm in right now I've been in at least twenty, thirty, fifty times before. I never mean to hurt anyone. I just spend all my life pouring my innermost soul out on to the page, sometimes admitting only on to paper what I have never even admitted to myself. It's the total unmitigated truth from my own innermost soul and I've been doing it for 26 years. I am a quiet, shy, simple sort of guy but on paper I scream, I get angry, I yell, I scratch my ass, I call brown people spicks, I call white people hicks, and I don't worry about offending anyone, whereas in real life I'm way too much of a nice guy, apologizing for everything and trying to please everyone. Sorry. That's me. I am a writer, an observer, one who writes to try and better himself. That's me.
I am sorry that anyone might be offended with anything I have written here. But I am not sorry with any singe solitary thing I've written here and I will not apologize for anything I have ever written here. This is my soul, all poured out onto this computer keyboard. To apologize for that is to apologize for who I am and I cannot do that because I am who I am. I cannot apologize for myself being myself. Sorry.
And yet, here I am again in this oh-so-familiar scenario. And I must ask this to myself: why do I have this on-line diary? Honestly, why is this here? Why am I constantly writing about every intricate detail of my personal and private life on the internet for everyone to freely read it? Why whould anyone be that fucking stupid? Is it because of my whole Reverend Steve complex, my idea that I am someone more important than I really am, that somehow by writting my entire life out here in this blog that it will somehow help people? And is that all just bullshit? I don't know. I honestly don't know why I have this on-line diary other than I have to have it, just like I created my own religion in 1996, it was just something I did, something that I have to do, something laid out before me that just somehow came together in a way that I don't fully understand.
It's just something I do, something that I have to do. Sorry.
Now, normally, this is the part where, to stop further idiotic incidents like this from ever occuring again, I throw the journal in the trash or, in this case, just delete it from the web, erase it like a ghost, and destory every single late, tired night writing on my crappy little laptop computer in my kitchen. But this time, I'm not going to do that. I don't know why. I think it's because I believe that this blog, this diary I have here, is important, not because I think Reverend Steve is so important, but because this is honesty and truth and freedom and it's just who I am and unlike so many times past when a family member or a girlfriend has read my diary, I will not simply throw it away because this is who I am and you cannot just throw away who you are.
"Visions are worth fighting for. Why waste your life making someone else's dreams?"
I'm sorry anyone got offended, but I am not sorry I offended anyone. Sorry.
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
BACKGROUND: Digger "Monte Carlo"
I'm trying to be happy. I really am. I'm trying to be happy and positive and smile and hug people and resume my usual wisecracking, jokester life that everyone knows me for. I'm trying really hard to be a good, happy, well adjusted individual. It's just very hard because in being happy, there are a hundred things that I'm trying really hard NOT to think about.
Trying not to think about the serious car accident that I was in last week. You never know when something like that's going to happen. You don't. That's the truth. We get way too glazed, way too complacent in our cars. We think that we're Superman in our cars, we let our guards down, and we get too relaxed and not prepared enough. Hell, I was turning into the parking lot of my work and some punk 16 year old, no insurance, no license, his brother's car, he sideswipes me going about 30 mph, turns me around two or so times, and just drives off. Tries to, at least. Some complete stranger in an SUV chased him down, got him back to the scene. If he hadn't had done that, then Mr. 16 would have just kept driving, the asshole little kid.
Damn, I'm going to have to stop yelling "TERRORIST" at all the SUV drivers now.
I got pretty banged up, too, hitting my head on the top of my lowered windshield as I crashed into the median during my spinning. Sounds serious, right? Well, when the cops, the crack team of Sacramento, California police officers, eventually showed up to the scene, they really didn't give a flying fuck what was going on. They didn't give a fuck. They just treated it as a small little traffic dispute and let Mr. 16 go off with a warning, those Sac cop fuckers! Now I'm left with a $5,000 car bill and the two kids involved have dissappeared and their insurance refuses to do anything about it.
Let me tell you now, if you tell me you work for Geico insurance, I will violently rip off your private parts with my long, blunt fingernails and then pee on your bleeding corpse as you scream in pain on the floor below. Seriously.
Trying not to think about that.
Trying not to think about
Trying not to think about the little her, about her smile and her laugh and her hair and her eyes and her evil black bitch heart that will rot in hell for a thousand eternities for the bullshit she has put me through this past year. I'd be lying if I didn't say that I missed her immensely. I do. With all my being I honestly do miss being with her. It's just that with her comes heartbreak and drama and, eventually, violence from her psycho Big Him. And until she shows me otherwise, until she shows me that she can leave him, she is out of my life completely.
Trying not to think about all the women that I passed up. For Her. Trying not to think about all the women at work that I have such massive crushes on. Trying not to think about my ex-fiance who is now living in San Francisco, about two hours away from me. Trying not to think about how much weight I'm losing. Trying not to think about how great it would feel to pop a few pills and drink a few beers and go to sleep. Trying not to think about how much I miss the warm sunny day feel you get during the day in Arizona, a feeling like a blanket of sun draped all around you. Trying not to think about how much money I'm NOT making and how stupid everyone else in this world seems sometimes. Trying not to think about my love life. Don't get me wrong. It's great right now, my love life. It's happy and playful and all around cool as hell. I've just been hurt some many times this past two years or so that I'm scared, reserved, frightened, not sure of myself, let alone sure of what I'm loking for anymore.
I'm just trying not to think about a lot of stuff.
This probably sounds really down and depressing and it doesn't mean to be. My life is actually very positive right now, very happy-go-lucky sory of cool. There's just a whole lot of bad things right behind me, things that I can feel breathing down my neck every second of every day. They're there. I know they are. And it's a constant struggle to try and stay looking forward.
Thursday, May 1, 2003
BACKGROUND: "Paradise Lost 2: Revelations"
It's almost four in the morning and I cannot sleep. Spent an all-nighter at my bookstore, my wonderful corporate behemoth bookstore, working inventory. And now, obviously, it's almost four in the morning and I cannot sleep a single wink. Too tired from working all night and too wired from all the coffee I drank to keep me up all night, all battling each other in some sort of vicious circle in my stomache. Watching the early morning fog roll in slowly, blanketing the city softly as I drive through empty streets. White Stripes playing on my old tape deck as I watch my cigarette smoke drift out of my driver's side window and mix with the fog and drift off into the night. Figured this was a perfectly good blogging mood for me to be in.
Comic book movies. A ton of comic book movies. I figured that the massive rush of comic book movies would have happened a decade past, back when Batman was the hip Hollywood buzz word. A few came out. The Punisher was a pretty horrendous film, but at least it tried. It took the big budget summer monster X-Men to kick start the money grabbing comic book-to-big-screen stampede that we're drowning in now. Being a closeted comic book geek, I seem to find myself torn when all these films come out. I see them, I fall in love with them at the moment, but the more time passes between my first viewing of the film and my present state of mind, the more I realize that it wasn't all that great.
Daredevil was a good example of that. I loved it when I saw it, back on opening day, sitting there with my popcorn and my gummi worms, geeking out over all the sly little references hidden in the film specifically to appease geeks like me. But the more time covers up the euphoria of the theater experience, the more I realize that it's basically "Daredevil for Dummies." I understand that you cannot realistically put a comic book with decades of backstory and characterization and plot lines onto a big screen and truly give it justice, but to place the lengthy Daredevil/Electra concept and shorten it into a nice, dark, campy little hour and a half package isn't anywhere near smelling like justice.
I think that's enough geekdom for me for now.
I'm entering month six for my sobriety. It's fairly easy for me to not drink anymore. My drunk brother helps. No offense to my brother or my family, forgive me for shitting in my own nest like a dirty bird does, but my brother goes out every night and drinks to messy, stinking excess every night, turning his life into a blind sort of haze of drama and arguing and drunk memories every single night. And having that next to me, seeing that and the reprecussions of that every day, every night, helps keep me in check.
I thought that quitting drinking would be so much harder than it actually was. I come from a long line of drinkers. I vaguely remember being young and drinking with my parents from as far back as 11 and 12. And these past two years I became a social drinker who had to drink every single night, every single day. So when I decided that drinking just wasn't very fun anymore and decided to quit, I had in my head a sort of "Ed Wood" scene in my head where Bela committs himself for herion addiction, that I would be strapped to a bed, screaming. But no. Quitting is easy as long as you actually want to quit and my life has been excellent recently (well, ommitting the whole crazy mofo tries to kick my ass and threatens to kill me thing) and I see myself happily never drinking ever again.
My balls are really all up in the air right now, so to speak. Being a new man, I've been really trying to better myself recently and with that has come a few offers on my table. For starters, I might be traveling to Ohio in September to act in a low budget horror film. I'm very excited about this because one of the actors already signed up is Ed Wood actor Conrad Brooks who actually acted in the legendary cult film "Plan 9 from Outer Space" and I would kill my own mother for a chance to even meet him, let alone act alongside him. I've been acting for so long, even working on a few motion pictures in my nice little career, but the pinnacle of my career would honestly be acting with a man who worked for Ed Wood. I could die happy.
Also, it looks as though I might soon be acting for and collaborating with local Sacramento, California television show Cinema Insomia. They recently hosted an old school nighttime spook show featuring "Plan 9" and I was lucky enough to attend. It was honestly a night that I'll never forget, seeing Ed's magnum opus on the big screen. It was a touching experience and probably the closest I will ever get to seeing the film in a "Rocky Horror" setting, where I always thought a movie like that would really shine. People laughing, people smiling, people yelling at the screen and all in all thuroughly enjoying Ed's film the way that it should be enjoyed. Incredible stuff. Be sure to visit the show's web page because they have a little write up regarding me, which I enjoyed.
I'm writing a play, too, my second, one that's really serious, really personal, really beautiful. Forgive me stealing a line from a Kevin Smith movie but I finally had something personal to write about, something that wasn't about lost love or sadness or minimum wage. It's called "Two Hour Face-to-Face" and it just might be the greatest thing I've ever written. I'm still working on it. Actually, I'm denying my laptop and I'm carrying a little blue notebook around with me everywhere I go, writing every single second that I'm awake, as my current young, wonderful relationship victim, Kitty, can attest to. She hates it, honestly she does. Everywhere I go, everywhere, I have my notebook and my pen, writing every second I'm awake. I have to. This is good. This is my best work, pouring my blood and soul into the ripped, torn little pages of my notebook.
It's my "Citizen Kane" or, at best, it's my "Plan 9" and I want to finish writing it to see just how it ends. It's all flowing really well right now, not just my play writing but my whole life, really, and I'm really interested to see how it all turns out in the end. Such is life, I suppose.
Thursday, April 24, 2003
BACKGROUND: White Stripes "De Stijl"
For a while I was living in interesting times, always getting into adventures and fights and seductive relationships and life-threating situations where I almost died and had to deal with the police and go to court and get a temporary restraining order. It was a life lived in interesting times, every new day bringing with it a brand new adventure to live through. And I was never more depressed, more ragged, more stretched each way to my own personal limits. Friends fighting against friends, true loves turning against the ones they promised they would always love, lies, bickering, backstabbing, deceit, anger, madness, and much more assorted crazy bullshit all being tossed into a blender that seemed to be turning my life into a bad Jerry Springer rerun.
There's only so much interesting times that a shy little mexican boy like me can take before he starts to long for the sweet bliss of boredom.
Now my life is boring, repeditive, and I've never felt happier. Going to school, taking my classes, going to work, watching television, and sleeping. That's my life and goddamnit if it doesn't feel great! Yesterday, I actually woke up at noon. That was incredible! I woke up, no one wanted to kill me, there weren't any messages on my cell phone, no constant calls from some irrational angry boyfriend, no big long e-mails besides spam, no hangover because I don't drink anymore so no vague memories of the bar and bar drama and no drunk forty year old women wanting to get into my pants. Nothing. I woke up, watched television, and went to my classes. It was boring and pointless and above all, drama free, and I loved every goddamn moment of it!
A boring life free of drama is a life that's really worth living. Sitting here eating Weinerschnitzel and listening to early White Stripes and writing my great new play and letting all the bullshit drama pass me by like a calm spring breeze, the only drama coming from the squirrels outside that are angry at me for having no more peanuts for them. And I asked this great woman to go out with me and she said yes and now I have this really nice relationship with this woman named Kitty whom I really like to spend time with. A simple life, devoud of any more interesting times.
Calm. At peace. At one with my inner wetback. This is a great life right here.
Thursday, April 17, 2003
BACKGROUND: Flip the Switch @ http://fliptheswitch916.tripod.com
Anyone who has read this more than once knows my love, my insaine love, for wednesdays. Those are my days. And all the childlike excitement that I now derive from being able to walk into the comic book store by my house and having them say say, Hey Steve, and having them go and get the new comics waiting for me, just like I always dreamed about since I was a little child. I always wanted that, to be able to have a box of saves at the comic book store. And now every wed. I go to my local record store, my video store, my coffee place, and my comic book store where I relive my choldhood mental image of what being totally cool would seem like.
But no new comic books on my list of "saves" came out. That just sent the entire day on a strange spin. Really bizzare. Now my whole day has been just a slight bit spooky, you know, just a little bit out of whack.
I could spend this brand new blog space here warming up your ocular cavaty about all the drama, all the bullshit, all the verbal slaps and the mind games and the constant barrage of negative blah blah blah blah blah. I could tell you about how things are between me and the Big HIM. I choose not to. Instead, I choose to move on with my life. I choose to move on with my happy, positive, sober life, and once and for all move the past safely behind me. I could tell you all the latest news about whatever. But I don't have to, nor do I want to. Instead, what I should have done a long fucking time ago, I have decided to move on with my life and let the past float away in the wind of a cool April breeze.
Speaking of moving on, my ex-fiance Deborah just moved from another state thousands of miles away from me to being roughly about an hour and a half drive away from me. Isn't that a strong kick to the solarplexus? I'm not even sure what the fuck a fucking solarplexus is, but that's how I'm feeling. I've often wonder how she's been, if she's still as great and wonderful as I'm afraid she still is. Me, I'm a completely different person from the last time she saw her. Twenty lbs. skinnier, a whole lot quieter, more into music and poetry. Fuck, man, I probably won't even see her ever again. It's just that, after all this time I think that this is the point in my life where I might be able to be cool and friendly and civil to her again.
Out of all the people that I've ever known (relatives excluded), I've known her for the longest, since 1991 I reckon. That's a long time to be friends with someone. All my other friends from junior high, high school, catholic school, my old church days, all of that, none beat the amount of time I've known Deb. That means a lot to me, all that history, all that backstory, all between two people who have been fortunate, and sometimes unfortunate, enough to know one another for a lengthy duration of time. That's really something special and something that I enjoy immensely and something that I would not like to throw away. She means a lot to me and I really treated her like shit back when I was a drunkard. But she's always been the coolest the cool, the archetype woman that I've always sort of dream of, and she's always been some sort of friend to me.
So maybe we'll see each other. So out for a shit and a sandwitch. Eat a bagel and kill some minorities. Beat up a frenchman and dance our dreams away. Or maybe we'll just keep on truckin'. You never know.
Went out on a date two weeks ago. Went good. I wasn't expecting a successful night. I was preparing for Vietnam and I got the fall of Kirkuk and Operation Iraqui Freedom, if you know what I mean. We've talked and gone out since then. But then she went out for the weekend to work on the play she's staging and I had to deal with this whole guy wants to kill me thing. But it's now early thursday morning and I haven't heard from her or been able to reach her since about six days now. I mean, the weekend is over. Is she sending me a message here? Maybe. I don't know.
I know I should be single right now. It's a bit difficult to remain in that frame of mind when you have a young blonde woman's tits in your face and her hand down your pants, but nevertheless, in my head on those quiet times when it's just be and The White Stripes and the hum and rattle of my pimpmobile I realize that after all I've been through this past year/year and a half, that I need to stop chasing ass and try to better yourself, Steve.
I just want a friend a companion, someone I can cuddle with in front of the television with, someone to go to movies with and be all retarded with and go to concerts with. That's it. That's not too tough, is it?
Saturday, April 12, 2003
BACKGROUND: Liam Lynch "Fake Songs"
I had written originally written out the entire thing, every nook and cranny, threat for threat. And as you can see, I deleted most of it. I didn't want to have it up here anymore. It's pathetic and stupid. Besides, I don't want to get anyone pissed at me again. So instead, let me regale you with the "for dummies" which goes as follows ...
He came to my work, told me not to talk to her, not to see her, not to go anywhere near her. I tried to explain to him that he always say that and I always follow through with his wishes but it's always her that eventually calls me, comes to see me, writes me. He just repeated again, don't see her, don't talk to her. I tried to explain that this is between him and her and I did nothing, I am innocent, and I am in no way a part of this. He got off his bicycle and tried to kick my ass. My friends at work stepped up. He said he would "put a bullet in the back of [my] fucking head" and pedalled off. An hour later he called me at work threatening to kill me again. I called the cops and filed a report against him.
Now, as they say, the sword of damocles is hanging over his head and not only are people laying in wait for a chance to kick his ass but I'm getting a temporary restraining order on him so that he even so much as farts around me, his ass is in jail. I'm hoping that will end all this right there in its tracks.
Like I said, I had it all written out right here but I deleted it. I don't want to piss someone off any more than he already is. I mean, even if I lay out the entire truth right here, someone would get angry. Then somebody would come to work and try to kick my ass again. Then somebody would come to my work and get his ass kicked, not by me, but by all the people who have my back. Then somebody would get thrown in jail and rot there for a million years.
But I don't want that. I don't want to see him in jail. I don't want him to be angry or mad or upset. I don't want anymore stupid drama bullshit. I don't want anymore bullshit drama in my life anymore, like I'm back in high school, like it's fucking junoir high. I'm going to invoke Terry Pratchett here when I say that I do not want to live in interesting times anymore. Fuck drama bullshit and fuck this high school bickering drama and fuck all this stupid, pointless "She heard from him who talked to this one guy who said that he says that he's really pissed at you" junior high stuff and fuck living in interesting times. My last year has been so fucking interesting that I'm sick of it.
This entire past year I have been forced into so much stupid, pointless, whining, crybaby bullshit, so much excitement and anger and yelling and fighting, so much bullshit drama interesting times. All I want now, all I want, is to be left alone, to be left in peace, to never have to talk about them, to think about them, to see them, to smell them, to see them, to spend time with them, to talk with them. I would be happy to live a boring, uneventful life from here on out, like three months of boredom. That would be my dream, my wish, to be bored and to not be flung into a new adventure and never have to deal with the lovebirds ever again.
And hopefully that's the end of that one. I'm scared, sure, but I'm not crying, not looking over my back. My back is taken care of, what with friends and police and security and that temporary restraining order I'm getting. But if that's the road he wants to travel, more interesting times, then more power to him.
Or, if he was in any way smart, he would just leave me alone.
I'm Reverend Steve. This is life and this is my web page and this is the man I am. Just live with it.
Friday, April 11, 2003
The Big HIM called me today about fifty times. At least fifty times, but probably more. Constantly calling. Leaving me a ton of messages. Always a phone ringing somewhere in the house, either the house phone or my own cell phone. Letting me know that he's not after me, that he's not going to come to my house and get me. He actually said that. Said that more than once, saying "Steve ... I'm not after you. If I was, I would have gotten you by now." That's an actual quote. Telling me to just answer the phone. Telling me that he just needs to talk to me.
And I never answered.
And he just called me more, called me more often, leaving me more messages, calling much more frequently. Just like before. But this time telling me that if I was a man that I would pick up the phone, that he is not going to come and get me, but I need to stop hiding from everything and just talk to him.
And I nevere answered. I didn't do shit. Usually, when he calls me like this, me and my mom look at each other and say "Well, guess Collyne's missing again" and we have a laugh. Because when the Big HIM calls me then it's usually because Collyne's ran away and he thinks that she's with me. Happened a few times before. And I figured that this is what happened this time. I mean, why is he calling. Why is he wanting to talk to me? Because she game be a birthday card?
Please stop calling me. And especially during wrestling.
I could easily live the rest of my life never speaking to you guys again. Seriously. Let's just try that out and see what happens.
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
BACKGROUND: Rolling Stones “Her Satanic Majesty’s Request”
Not that my 26th birthday was in any way disappointing for me. I had a very nice little time. I just can’t seem to get over the fact that as I get older, my birthdays become less and less of a big deal. The older I get the more people don’t seem to give a fuck about my birthday. And I’m not whining or bitching here. It’s just the truth. My birthday was more along the lines of a mellow day where I could try and forget about college and ex-girlfriends and the lovebirds and just hang out – no drama, no bullshit. Just mellow, positive thoughts all day.
I think in my head I still wish for the Chuck E. Cheese big birthday party with all my friends and everything every time my birthday rolls around, you know? That’s probably just my arrested development talking, the same voice that’s telling me right now to get off my ass and buy me one of the new Game Boy SP systems that were released today. But every time my birthday rolls around I expect huge presents and surprise parties and cake. And it just never happens. Not to say that my day in San Francisco and my new digital camera weren’t great presents - it’s just that I totally over-think and over-dream birthdays in my head and this year was no exception.
I stayed sober for my birthday, which I think solidifies the fact that I am now sober for good. If I stayed sober through the holidays, through New Year’s Eve, and through my birthdays, then I am now officially sober for good now. If I could refrain from drinking through all that, including all this lovebirds bullshit, then I can safely say that I can stay sober through any crap that god might throw at me, that sadistic little fucker.
Okay, I am just going to get this shit over and done with right here …
I did not quit drinking because I wanted to impress Collyne, show her that I’m a good, honest man. Fuck all that. I did not quit drinking because in my head I hold this dilution that I could become a successful professional wrestler someday. Fuck all that. That’s not it, either. I did not quit drinking to impress Deborah and I did not quit drinking because of some bullshit e-mail from Sarah and I did not quit drinking so that I could find me a new love of my life. Fuck all that. I didn’t do this because of any one person besides me. I did not quit drinking because of my weight, I did not quit drinking because some court is forcing me to, I did not quit drinking because of bullshit Jesus, I did not quit because of any self-help book or Dr. Phil seminar, and I did not quit drinking because of the freemasons.
Fuck all that.
I quit drinking because I didn’t like myself drinking anymore. It was fun for a while but it isn’t fun for me anymore. After years and years of hitting the bottle pretty damn heavily, I opened my eyes and realized that I didn’t like the drunk me, the wild me, the careless me, the don’t give a fuck me, the me that swims in bullshit drama every second of the damn day. As I got older, I found myself, because of alcohol, let into these petty, childish, stupid ass, high school patches of drama and I just didn’t want to do that crap anymore. No more hangovers, no more carelessness, and no more bullshit for me anymore.
I knew that I was better than that.
So I quit, just like that. And today’s day 116 of my sobriety and I feel fucking great, better that I’ve ever been before. Feel fresh. Feel wonderful. The only negative part is my weight – suddenly, I’m down to 120 lbs., which I haven’t weighed since high school. But that’s why I’m eating better and trying to work out. Just trying to better myself. It’s about goddamn time, too. Writing a book, one, which this time I actually plan on finishing. Writing music and singing with a few people. Writing poetry, too. Good shit. And I’m doing a few auditions here and there, nothing big or anything. Just trying to get out there and meet new people and find myself. That sounds like such bullshit but it’s the only way I can describe all this.
The thing that I’m really proud of, what I really feel great about, is how my viewpoint regarding drinking hasn’t changed. I still find myself at the bar, at the Maple Room a few nights a week drinking coffee, reading a book or writing in one of my journals, and singing kareoke. Talking with old friends. Being a wonderful designated driver. Being a sober example to all my friends at the bar. But not being preachy. My drinking viewpoint hasn’t changed one bit since I went sober. Drinking is wonderful. It’s fucking great. And if you want to do it, then more power to you, brother. Have fun drinking. And I don’t mean any of that in a joking, sarcastic sort of way. Drinking is wonderful. I loved my drinking phase. I really did. So, seriously, have fun drinking.
But I won’t and that’s that.
On a positive, albeit strange, note, this blog has been optioned for a movie. Yes, this blog, this story of my life, the life of Reverend Steve Galindo, has been purchased and may be made into a feature film. My director friend Michael Allesandro has purchased the legal rights to produce the film version of this blog for a whopping $0.35 and I'm hoping he gets Esai Morales, Richie's drunk brother from La Bamba to be me.
Went and saw WWE wrestling live yesterday, went to a taping of WWE Raw live here in Sacramento. I was like a child in a candy store, eyes all wide, my heart beating out of my fucking chest watching Stone Cold and my favorite, The Hurricane. I won't spend too long here talking about it but I feel really good from that. A little spiritual pick-me-up. Now I can move on with my life happier.
I received a delluge of e-mails regarding my last blog where I said, and I quote, "I don't give a fuck about Elizabeth Smart," the cute, doe-like, white girl that had the world on the dge of it's white girl missing-seats earlier this month. Many people were offended by the things I had to say and I just want to take this time to apologize honestly and sincerely to all of you out there who weren't offended in the hopes that one day I will indeed offend you, too. To those who were offended, you must admit, if Elizabeth Smart were black or yellow or brown, you wouldn't have gived a fuck about her kidnapped ass. You know that to be true.
And that's the end of that one.
Well, on the romance front, the shock and awe campaign of Operation Steve Romance has finally begun. I finally came to a point in my life where I liked myself and I was fine with being single. Reached a point where I realized that I needed to be alone now to fully understand who I was and who I wanted to be. Once I realized that, I found myself not giving a fuck about my hair or my weight or any of that bullshit. I stopped chasing women like a puppy dog and stopped pining over lost ones and just started to become comfortable with who I was and who I was trying to be.
Then I started seeing Carrie.
Just like that damn movie, The Tao of Steve, which is a damn fine film by the way if you haven’t seen it. You have to convince yourself that you don’t want what you want in order to get what it is that you want. That always works, always. And once I was happy with being single, in comes Carrie. We’re not together as in boyfriend and girlfriend, at least I don’t think. We’re two people who have been hurt so much that honestly like one another and are slowly seeing how things go. Testing the waters. Seeing how things blend between us. Having fun. I honestly like this girl and I hope this all goes well.
There’s just one problem.
Someone has been calling me. Someone has been talking to me on the phone these past few days. Talking, joking. Almost like before. I won’t say who it is because I promised them that I wouldn’t tell anyone about this. And I’m keeping my promise by not telling you who it is that has been calling me. But let’s just call her, for absolutely no reason whatsoever, let’s call her the cable guy.
The cable guy has been calling me. It’s been months since I talked to the cable guy and now out of nowhere she just starts calling me. I can’t tell you much but I can tell you that I’m scared. I’m frightened. I’m supposed to see the cable guy soon because she has some stuff that she wants to give to me. Calling to see how I’ve been doing. Calling for my birthday. Calling just to talk.
I miss the cable guy. I do so badly. But the cable guy will not fucking hurt me again. No.
Wednesday, March 12, 2003
BACKGROUND: stereotyperider "same chords, same songs, same six strings" (worth buying)
I know that a large part of this is my angry sober side - I was much more passive-agressive when I was drinking - but remind me again why I should give a flying fuck about Elizabeth Smart. About six or seven months ago in Utah a guy broke into a house at night and took a young 14-year-old away at gunpoint. And now, six or seven months later, that girl has been found, now fifteen, perfectly fine.
Ok, now, remind me again why I should give a flying fuck? Why the hell are you cutting into my Pokemon cartoons to let me know that young Elizabeth Smart has been found? Like I give a fuck. Like I care. Shit, I'm dealing with my own problems and my own responsibilities and my own bills and my own job and my own sobriety and my own romance problems and my own life, so why the hell did you just cut into my cartoons to tell me that some fucking little teenager has been found alive? Shit, she could have been found dead dressed as Kiefer Sutherland knee deep in koala shit in a men's restroom of a Denny's in Portugal and I think I would still not give a shit.
This is what pisses me off about this the most. You put an alert about this missing girl all over the entire nation, you get the local police in Utah working in conjunction with the FBI, you have all these newscasts focusing about the missing Elizabeth Smart. Pretty little white girl, blonde hair, blue eyes. Chick who'd be on the cheerleading team in the movie Heathers. I'm sorry, but if she had brown eyes and black hair abd brown skin, or if she were black, then America, who likes to think it isn't racist but for the most part is, wouldn't give a fuck about Elizabeth Smart.
It's the truth. It's the sad truth but the truth nonetheless. So, in essence, I'm sitting here watching cartoons and the American media machine just inturrupted to tell me, "Don't worry, people of America! The little white girl is safe. She is safe. No need to panic. We found the white person. Go back to your normal lives. The little white girl is safe. We now go to a live news conference in Utah where white police men will talk about how they found the white girl. We repeat, the white person is safe."
I say all this through the side of my mouth, however, since most minorities hate me.
This is a strange, difficult thing for me to talk about. Sure, my name is Esteban Christian Galindo and I have thick, brown skin and mappy black hair and a skinny Cantimflas moustache and some seriously baggy pants and I drive a cold blue eighties Caddy, right? I mean, fuck, if I saw me at the mall then even I'd watch out for my wallet. Through all outward appearances, I am a brown-skinned Latino guy, la raza and all that stuff. But I am a minority within a minority and that always leaves me on sort of the outside rim of everything.
I mean, sure I'm Latino. But I don't know spanish, I hate mexican food, I'm listening to a Tempe, Arizona garage punk band, I'm eating sauerkraut, I'm downloading Neil Diamond songs, I have one of my fingernails painted blue, and I'm reading a biography on Grace Slick. I don't speak a work of spanish. I don't give a shit about my car. I'm only 123 lbs. I don't really like Mexico, the place, you know? It's just not my style. I'd rather go to the mall and play pinball. I am a very original man. I'm my own person. I don't put up this false front of me being a bad ass or me having some sort of gangster street cred. Shit, I usually wear Hulk Hogan t-shirts over my Ataris hooded sweatshirt.
The other day I was helping these teenage kids find some books for their class. They were all tall and buff and they had on their gold chain hoopty bling-bling whatever shit on, pants showing their joe boxers, total gang bangers, latino Ali G sort of guys. I show them their books. One of them asks me if I'm latino. I say yeah.
Then the little slimey gang-banging Cheech kid starts speaking in this fast-paced spanish slang sort of thing to me. I don't know spanish. Never have, probably never will. It's not that I hate my culture or any of that, but people see me and they forget that I love and care about my culture. I was born in Prestcott, Arizona in a small little shack in the woods. Shit, I was the spanish population of Prestcott, Arizona. Then I spent the rest of my life moving from upper-middle class white suburb to lower-middle class suburb. I never had a need to speak spanish. So I don't know it. Simple as that.
So I tell mini-Cheech that I don't know spanish and he up and tells me, "Dude, you don't know spanish, you ain't latino, pendejo!" Walks away. That's that. I've been dealing with that sort of shit my entire life. I sit here and type all of this shit about Elizabeth Smart and how upset I am that they focus on the missing little white girl when thousands of young minority children that could be found with the help of the media will never be found because of the color of their skin, I type all this stuff about America not giving a rat's ass about the minority population when, in an ironic twist, the minority population doesn't give a rat's ass about me.
Strange how that works, huh?
Well, my mutant ability to send women running screaming back to their ex-boyfriends has once again taken it's toll. The girl, the nice blonde girl I scored with a few days ago, a week or so ago? Yeah, well, I was thinking that we had something special and that a nice, honest, loving relationship would blossom there between us. And she thought that she should give her ex another try. I think that this power of mine could possibly get me registered Professer Xavier's School for Gifted Children. Here's to hoping.
My friend Jay is back, finally, back for good. Out of the brig, out of trouble with the Army and the law and now once again back in my life. And he seriously wants to beat the living shit out of the Big HIM. And he might, too. And I would tell you all about that. And I will tell you all about that one of these days. But not today. It's wednesday. And wednesdays are my days. They're mydays, my special days for comic books and music and sodas and ice cream and toy stores and shopping and video games and whatever the fuck I want.
Jay and the Big HIM might beat the shit out of each other, and for good reasons, too. Strong, incredible, personal reasons. But the sun is starting to get. The white fence around my little backyard is starting to turn yellow and gold. It's warm with a small cold breeze running through the leaves on the trees. And I'm going to let that breeze take away all the drama, all the who did what to who nonsense, all the bickering and the negativity. And I'm going to take a nice, long, hot shower and let the nighttime roll about me.
So some other time, okay? I promise.
Friday, March 7, 2003
BACKGROUND: The Atarts "So Long, Astoria" (worth buying!)
I, Reverend Steve Galindo, the twenty-five year old founder of the world's first Ed Wood-based religion, have found out an answer to all the problems of America. I have found the ultimate answer that will not only solve all of the problems in Iraq but will also save thousands of lives of American soldiers. The answer was so obvious ...
Send the band Great White over to Iraq to do a big concert there. They'll use their pyro and set the entire nation on fire. Everyone dead and no young American solders dead, except maybe a few washed up musicians. That's that. It's that easy.
Wednesday, March 5, 2003
BACKGROUND: Groovie Ghoulies "Re-Animation Festival"
First off, I got lucky last night.
Two words ... latino heat!
Secondly, ever since I posted my e-mail address on the upper right hand corner of this blog of mine, I've come to the startling realization that, yes indeedie, people actually read this thing, which is interesting. I got three e-mail responses from people regarding my last post about singing the Elvis Costello song "Alison" at the kareoke bar in front of Col, my ex. two of them were women who were suprisingly supportive of me and my male plight but still felt bad for poor little Col.
The third e-mail was from a reader in Buenos Aries, which is a long way away from Sacramento, California. And if it's alright with everyone involved, I would like to reprint it here.
"Hey, man... that Alison story was really something! I loved the way you put it on black and white!
Some years ago, as far as Buenos Aires is from L.A., I was here sitting and listening to taht song and thinking 'fuck! this is the gratest loss song of fucking music history! and I´d love to make the world know i feel that way!!' Well... there was no internet back then... no blogs...Couldn' t do anything about it... the years passed by and today, by plain pure browsing spree, I stumbled on your writing, which in fact, honors that beautiful song of ol' fat Elvis Costello! And by the way...You really kicked that girl´s soul! (and his partner's ass! ) Keep up the good work, and cheers from Argentina (land of the best malbec in the world!) PS: If you feel like it, drop by my blog at http://www.readingrobot.com.ar - Fernando Pont-Vergés"
There ain't nothing better than internet props.
So, my friend Jay is getting out either the 11th or the 12th, which is good. That's going to be an incredible party, having Jay back for good. Also, he just might be able to make some more sense out of the whole Col, Big HIM situation. Which might be good. They're not talking to me, especially after the Alison incident. And I'm going to actually try, over the next week or two, to post right here a little clip of me actually singing that song, singing "Alison" at the dirt bar. I ound a way that I can record it on my phone and post it right here. I've never done it before, but we're going to try.
So, about last night ...
Last night I showed up at the bar, sat down with a pack of smokes and a coffee, sat in the back, and just wrote poetry. Me with my cell phone and my dirty, scraggly black hair and my cigarette smoke and my leather jacket with a small white "loser" button on the collar, me sitting alone in the back of the dark little bar writing poetry and smoking. I imagine that I looked pretty menacing to anyone who didn't know me and didn't see the dirty black hooded sweater I had on with the words "Helper Monkeys" in big letters on the front.
Started talking with this girl. Wonderful girl. First met her about a year ago. Blonde, cute, smart. Real air of confidence around her that really attracted me to her immediately. We've been passive friends for about a year now. But she had just been dumped and I always have a story about the lovebirds so we started swapping loss stories like to crippled Vietnam veterans. I let her read some of my powtry. We talked, smoked, kissed. And then last night. And then this morning. I don't even know how to begin talking about last night. It was like everything that happened wasn't really happening, like ghosts dancing in a evening fog that might not really be there.
I don't want to jump the gun here. I always seem to do that sort of thing. It would be really premature of me to come here and preach about how happy I am and how my problems are over and how this one might be the one. I always do that sort of thing and it always comes back to bite me in the ass. But last night was just what I needed. I really felt like I took a deep breath and dived into the deep end of the pool.
Now I just need to see if I remember how to swim.
But today is Wednesday. And Wednesdays are my days. My days. It's a cool 68 degrees outside, almost perfect weather, perfect March weather. Ice cream weather. No clouds in the sky. Birds and squirrels are everywhere, running and fucking and playing and singing. And Wednesdays are the days where I get me some coffee and go out and do what I can to make myself feel better. Wednesdays are the days when the new comic books come out, so I'll be driving down to a few of my favorite comic book stores and saying hello. Then get me some Weinerschnitzagoodcheapcrappyfood, maybe get me a CD or a new video to watch when I get home.
Spend this entire day doing whatever I can to please myself. My day. Wednesdays are the best days of the week for me. And if only everyone could take some time in their lives for themselves, to just give themselves a day for themselves, then we would be a better, kinder, gentle world. Honestly. Mean that.
Two months ago, I would spend my Wednesdays with my girls. Collyne and her daughter, Isis. Playing with them, making them smile, lounging around the apartment listening to music and drinking coffee. That feeling, that strong feeling inside that you belong, that you love and are loved in return. And I miss those days. I really do. But it only hurts to focus on the past and that is most definitely the past. The future lies ahead and it's bright and shiny and filled with happiness and music and comic books and sex. Any future is a future to look forward to.
My life is like a constant roller coaster or, at best, a really long episode of "VH-1 Behind the Music." That's not to say that it isn't really fucking entertaining.
Monday, March 3, 2003
BACKGROUND: Elvis Costello "My Aim is True"
This was fun. This was good. It started out as the most painfully uncomfortable night of my entire life, a night of pain and sadness and drama and possible violence and it ended with Elvis Costello and me feeling happy, feeling positive, finally feeling like I did something good, something right, and all because I made someone feel like shit.
Set the scene for you.
It was this past Saturday and Jay was going to be at the bar. This was going to be the last night that he was going to be in town before he reported back to his prison/base in San Diego and everyone was set to show up to hang out with him and party with him one last time before he gets locked up again.
And this bar, this shitty little bar of ours, is a small little crappy hole of a bar. It's small and smokey and dark and cold and it's frequented by the same old people every night, ever week, and they are all friendly and inviting. I say that this place is a shitty dive in only the nicest of terms because I love the place and everyone there has taken me into their lives as a member of the family. All the same people day and night and they will all get to know you and care about you. It's a shitty dive but it's a nice shitty dive populated by nice people and everyone was set to be there on Saturday to support Jay.
We were all there - Jo (feeling better since being attacked), Dawn (Joe's girlfriend), Kat (pregnant), Cas, Sandman, Sky (trying to hook me up with someone), Big Dave, Barb (always ready to smoke you out), Crazy John, Chee-low. Everyone was there buying Jay drinks, singing with Jay, talking to him, letting him know how much he meant to them. It was HIS night, Jay's time, and it was a night based on positivity. And me with my coffee and my journal, I was laughing and writing and singing and being positive and having a great damn time.
And after an hour or so the lovebirds stroll in, hand-in-hand.
That was painful.
Now, way I see it, I figured a long time ago that this was pretty much inevitable and that it was going to happen sooner or later. So I was ready to be a man about it, to be quiet but not silent, friendly but not clingy, and to just suck things up and move on, trying slowly but surely to interject these two back into my life without letting my guard down like I did so carelessly so many times past. I was breathing regularly, trying not to shake or sweat, and I was ready to take it like a man and do this right.
I ask the Big HIM for a light. He leans toward me and, right off the bat, says "Steve, I'm avoiding you."
Jesus fucking Christ. I'm sitting there, smiling, being positive, ready to move on with my life, ready to be a man, ready to live life, and I'm met by that creepy, bitter little bullshit. Jesus fucking Christ. I want to honestly move on beyond all the bullshit and the heartache and the drama and all I wanted was a fucking light. If you don't want to be a man about this, then that's your problem and it isn't mine.
Of course I didn't way any of this. I'm a sober pussy now. I sat down, smoked my cigarettes, wrote my thoughts, and did my own thing. We usually all sat down at a round table in the back, all whatever of us, and I noticed the little things. The hands on knees. The little kisses. the fact that she refused to talk to me or look at me and although the Big HIM never talked to me after his angry first sentance, his looks of death were in rapid succession like machine gun fire.
On one occasion, I was just done singing and the only free seat was between Joe and Collyne. I sat there and began talking about Star Wars with Joe and everyone else. Within five, maybe ten seconds, Ricky had moved his seat from the bar between Collyne and us, holding her hand, and staring at me as if at any second he was ready and willing to kick my ass. Shortly after that, they started sitting down at the opposite end of the bar. That was their side.
And I'm not saying that he's in any way an asshole for doing that. He's completely in the right for being a bit concerned, a bit trepidatious, a bit on edge. Maybe he took it a bit too far like the overly-angered a-hole I know that he is and can be, but I'm not saying that he's the bad guy here. I just wish he knew that I'm not the bad guy, either, that maybe the bad guy is the person that left him for me, then left me for him, then left him for me, then left me for him, then left him for me, then left left me for him YET AGAIN, then comes to the bar I frequrent and walks in hand-in-hand with HIM and looks at me like I'm Hitler and not just some guy with his heart broken and just expects me to walk on eggshells for the rest of my life because somehow I get my heart broken and I'm the bad guy here.
Just wish that he realized at least for one split second that in reality I'm the victim and he's the victim and she's the bad guy and that I'm just as confused and angry as he is but unlike him and unlike her I just want to mellow out, be positive, and move on with my life, and that maybe after he realizes that, then maybe he can stop breathing down my asshole for a few seconds.
There was no unterior motive as to why I decided to sing Elvis Costello's song "Alison" other than it honestly is a beautiful little song that expresses heartache and loss really well and I had heard it on the way to the bar and now I just felt like singing it. I sang it a few feet from Collyne, my ex, who had to stand there inches from her ex-boyfriend and hear him sing the saddest song in the world about a woman leaving you for someone else. This woman couldn't bear to look at me, let alone look at me eye-to-eye, and the next thing she knows I'm just a few feet in front of her singing "Alison" with passion and feeling and pain.
And when I got to the second verse, the one with "Well, I see you got a husband now" I realized that this was going to be painful, that this was going to look really fucking bad. I can see her from the corner of my eye freaking out emotionally and it's then that I start to shake, start to sweat, start to realize that every single solitary soul in attendance is going to think after this last verse that I decided to sing this song for her, that I want her back, that "my aim is true" and that this song is in some way being sung so beautifully and righteously just to make her feel bad.
I only looked her way about four, five times the entire night. The last time I did, a few minutes after I sang my song and a few minutes before the lovebirds decided to leave, she was outside seemingly crying, the Big HIM holding her in his big, tattooed arms.
And I'm such an asshole that all I could do was laugh. I'm not sure why, but I knew that it got to her, that she felt bad, that she felt in that song, in my voice, at least a tenth of the pain that I've been dealing with these past few months, hell, this whole damn year falling in and out of love. And me having the cojones to be able to get in front of her and sing that song and not waver, not stutter, not get scared and run away like I used to do at the sing of confrontation, says that maybe beyond all the talk perhaps I am ready to move on, to be myself, to be a man and not let myself get trapped in all this stupid, idiotic, high school drama bullshit and move on with my life.
Sorry, mamacita, but that shit was fucking funny.
Saturday, March 1, 2003
BACKGROUND: Digger "Monte Carlo"
When I first came to Sacramento a little over a year ago, when I first met her, it was the three of them. Collyne, the Big HIM, and Jay. Three of them. Best of friends. Right from the very beginning it was the lovebirds and their tall, rugged, scary looking friend Jay.
I remember when I first met them, the three of them. That night, I was at the bar drinking like a crazy man. It was back when I was Mr. Skinny Heavy Drinking Man and I didn't know shit from Sacramento except for my job and my house and this crappy little bar that my older brother Joe always took me to, a little dump with cheap beer and kareoke and one of the only smoking bars left in California. I still loved Deb but she was in Arizona and I was here and I knew deep down inside, subconsciously, that things were ending, that I was at the end of the road.
So I got up on the mic and sang a rocked out, screaming death metal, Limp Bizkit version of "Hit Me, Baby, One More Time." Just out of nowhere. It was one of those songs that I always joked that I would sing one day. So I did it. And by the end of the song half the bar was buying me drinks and the other half wanted to kick my ass.
It evolved into a song that I became known for. People would come in and ask me to sing it. They still do. People would see me aat work or at the mall and call me Britney. Word got around. Next thing you know, one drunk night talking with a reporter got me an article in a local zine about my church and me singing Britney Spears. When Papa Roach came to the bar, they came up to me and actually told me that they heard that I do a mean Britney, so I sang it for them and they digged it. I rarely sing it anymore. it doesn't have the same kick when I'm sober.
But it was that first night, first time singing it, when they came up to me. The Big HIM, Collyne, and Jay. Said how much they loved it, said how cool I was, and that they just wanted to hang out with me. Then the Big HIM started waxing the holy trilogy with my bother. I bet now that if he hadn't have been talking Star Wars that Joe or I wouldn't have given a shit about them.
Honestly, I fell for her bad when I first saw her. Short girl, like five-foot-one. I have a thing for short, sprite looking women. And so cute, so nice, so beautiful, but open and honest and with a wild streak inside her soul. And, now that all this is gone and done and past I can say, honestly, I saw my ex in her.
I didn't even know that her and the Big HIM were married. That's where the problems began, me being cute, funny, charming Steve, hitting on her, trying my lousy Latino Heat moves like I was back in high school. But when the shoe finally dropped and Deb, my fiance at the time, finally broke things off with me, I was sad and distraught and my usual want to committ suicide but knowing I won't because I'm too much of a pussy sort of thing.
And every free moment I had, they would be there, hanging out with me, picking me up, taking me out. I really got to know them. Especially Jay. He wasn't the big, scary, intimidating guy I first thought he was. He was a kind, gentle, shy guy with problems and a really deep loyalty to people in his family and eventually I became a part of that familyve the fourteen/sixteen hour trip from Sacramento to Phoenix to help me get the rest of my shit from the break-up. He became the guy I could call and hang out with and cry to.
Most importantly, as Col and me decided that things weren't going well between her and the Big HIM and that we liked each other and wanted to try to pursue a relationship together, he was there. He was the go-between and he was the bodyguard and he was the protector for both me and her, helping her out as well as being there for me. When the Big HIM found out and freaked out, I went into hiding. I was so scared that I kept calling in sick from work, going to cold, dark, hidden bars I've never been to before that they wouldn't find me at. And I think I was trying to drink myself to death or at best trying to drink myself into a state where I didn't have to think about how in love I was and how much my life was at risk from the Big HIM's violent temper.
I wrote all this at the beginning of this blog but the change of the new year erased all that. So this is a lot like a flashback, or clip show, from a bad sitcom.
My brother knew about all this and sided with the Big HIM. There was even talk that even he might beat the shit out of me. Even my mother, my own fucking mother, knew. You could see in her eyes how scared and dissapointed she was every time she looked at me. The only person I felt comfortable talking to was Jay. He met me at the mall and gave me more money so that I could drink some more. That meant a lot to me.
The second time, actually, more like the fourth of fifth time, that Col and I decided that we wanted to try this all again, I was hesitant but she had just gotten divorced from HIM and was living with a friend and trying to get into school and turning her life around and she still loved me and I still loved her and she was starting a new life and wanted me to be a part of that. So we got back together. That's really where the new year started and this new blog came about. Going to concerts, spending nights together. Having fun. Being together.
But Jay had gone AWOL from the Navy and they came around looking for him. So they took him and put him in a prison in San Diego and shortly after that she stopped calling me and started talking to the Big HIM again. And now, a month or two later, I'm single and they're married again. And she e-mails me saying that she can't have me in her life anymore. And I don't feel too sad, either. Not crying or being overly moody sad. Just lonely. Just missing having someone there. Miss being that special goober in someone's heart.
Got out of work late. Decided to meet Joe at the bar (still sober - day 91, I think). And when I was walking up to the mic to sing "Wicked Games" I saw Jay, standing right in front of me, tall, menacing, trying not to cry. We hugged and talked. I smoked up a storm. Crazy. Stone Cold Steve Austin is back and now Jay was back. It was like everything was right in the world.
He's only here for the weekend, though, and then he has to get back to his base. He'll be out in two weeks though, back for good. We talked, reminisced about the good times. And then, eventually, I had to ask about the lovebirds. He got mad, angry, upset. Said how pissed off he was that things happened the way they did and that Col had gone back with the Big HIM again after all the drama and the sacrifices. Said how he had now completely lost all her trust and that he just felt like slapping her across the face for all he had put her through, put US through.
That's when I tried to detach myself from the group, sit in the back with some old friends and smoke.
Hearing him say it, I realized how final this all was now. How over it all was now. And also mixed in was all this guilt at how upset he was, not that I felt bad that he had gone through all that, but instead I felt guilty for not feeling what he was feeling. He felt hurt, upset, betrayed, offended that he had his heart and trust broken by this woman. Hearing him say "You know how I feel, right?" and me not being able to say that because I didn't feel that way at all anymore.
I just feel like moving on. Moving on with my life. I'm not angry or hurt or betrayed. I'm positive. I'm happy. I just want to move on from here, use this as a stepping stone and finally get back to what I've been put here for, use all this talent inside me to create something special, something the whole world can see.
It's great to have Jay back. Shit, it's great to have Stone Cold Steve Austin back. But, and this is going to paint me as such a fucking nerd, but like Stone Cold and his persona problems with his wife and the law and with drinking, he's just chalking it up to life experienced and trying to get back to his life, to entertaining, to being himself. And that's me.
Stone Cold Latino Loser. That's me.
I have to go to sleep now, not to fall asleep, but to be able to wake up.
Sunday, February 23, 2003
BACKGROUND: "Ed Wood"
Sitting here sober, almost three in the morning. Feeling tired, feeling sore from working out, feeling annoying from always having to babysitting all the drunk people around me. Sitting here watching the only movie that can currently make me cry, but in a good way, watching that and drinking soda, taking my valerian root and my melatonin, hoping I get to see the pay-per-view this evening.
Slow, quiet feelings of contentment that I know I shouldn't be feeling but somehow am. Feelings of confusion but not loud, screaming questions of who I am and where should I be. They're just sort of sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette, minding their own. The predominant emotion is one of quiet cool, one of quiet contentment. One of silence.
At work today, all this shit with my brother and Casey and the lovebirds and my family and my financial problems just sort of built up on me like a drug that's slow but eventually has you on your back foaming at the mouth. I was angry. Not my usual sort of quiet, passive, low rage anger but one that had my knuckles white and my teeth clenched. Adding to the fire was this fuel of idiotic people, these stupid fucking wasteless masses of humanity why had no idea what the fuck they were looking for but expected me to find it.
Nothing but sadness and stress and loneliness and above all anger, high intensity anger and rage coursing through my entire body. Wanted to get into a fight. Wanted to have sex with a complete and total stranger. Wanted a shot of Imperial Whiskey. Wanted to set someone's house on fire.
When we were closed, I got a hug from Katie, one of my cute little work crushes. Just getting a hug from her, having her hold me in her arms, I found myself near tears for the rest of the night. Not from sadness or loneliness but from a lack of angeer and a profound realization on the idiocy of existance but not in a depression sense. From then on I found a bizarre subconscious realization somewhere within myself that whatever's happening to me, whatever's going on with me and with the world around me, that it's all just bullshit and that I should just get a soda and have a smoke and move on with my life. Not so much embracing the chaos but realizing it's there, saying hi to it, and just moving on with things.
Got an e-mail from Collyne, breaking the silence that has grown between us since she decided to fall in love with me, promise me that she would love me forever, then leave me for her ex-husband. Wasn't expecting an e-mail from her, especially one saying that she was starting a new life, wiping the slate clean, that I was a teriffic friend (I've said it before and I'll say it again - I'm everyone's nice, cute gay friend but without the gay part), but that I could no longer be a part of her life anymore.
Ain't that about a bitch?
That should have me sad. That should have me dressing in black and painting my fingernails black and smoking cloves and shaving my head and wtriting shitty poetry and listening to The Cure and all that ostentatiously depressing bullshit. And yet somehow I'm not. I'm not drinking to forget. Instead, I'm embracing the past but not to excess so that I can focus on the future, whatever it may be. I'm not slowing down. Instead, I find that I have more energy, more drive, like I was back in high school. In fact, I'm not sad at all. I'm just sitting here, drinking my soda, watching my movies, and waiting for Stone Cold to come back.
Sure I'm sad. I mean, I loved Collyne. I could have seen myself spending my life trying to make her smile. I could have seen a lot of happiness for a long, long time. And in the year that I have known her, I really did fall bad for that woman on countless occasions. But she has a weakness for her ex, the infamous Big HIM, and they have something that I could never take away or even come close to replacing.
And I don't want to say the "B" word, because I'm not that kind of guy, but, I mean, she has spent the last year collecting the pieces of my broken heart like they're fucking Beanie Babies and the road that I am on is not a new one for me, nor is this the first time she's sent me down this road. Nothing new. All that is new is old and the setting I find myself in is one that I've been in so many times past that this time around, it doesn't hurt as much.
Fuck 'em. Time will still tick relentlessly on and the world will keep spinning and life will continue to kick me in the fucking testicles regardless of if this woman loves me. So fuck 'em. Life goes on, even if you don't want it to, so suck it in and walk it off. That's what I say and so far it's worked for me.