NOTE: If you are easily offended by offensive things then please go somewhere else. I suggest or, you wuss!


Tuesday, March 25, 2003

My birthday was on March 22nd, for those of you who seemed to have missed it, which, in retrospect, seemed to be a lot of people this year.

MOOD: blankstareintomycoffeecup

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

I don't give a fuck about Elizabeth Smart.

MOOD: annoyedtiredcalm

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.

My days!

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

I've figured out the ultimate answer to the war in Iraq, the answer to all of America's problems.

MOOD: happyhungrysore

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

My life is like a constant roller coaster or, at best, a really long episode of "VH-1 Behind the Music."

MOOD: soresmilingastounded

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 - Fernando Pont-Verg├ęs"

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

I'm probably going to hell for this one but I'm probably going to go to hell smiling and laughing.

MOOD: soretiredlaughing

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

Jay got out of prison for the weekend and hugging him, embracing him for the first time in a month or two, I almost cried.

MOOD: quiethappyintrospective

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.