Weekend Plans

I have none.  I will be headed to Leggs’ for a very laid-back BBQ.  She invited our girl, Mexican, and her baby daddy, Boo.  She said they would probably not show up.  These two are a classic illustration of a pattern in my life and the lives of my friends.

My friends pick the worst men to settle down with.  Partial blame for my singleness goes to them for setting such a horrible example of coupledom.  Losers, complete and total losers is who they chose to tough out the ups and downs of existence.  I really don’t have one shining example of success.  Maybe as alpha femmes, my friends and I were fated to settle on whoever could put up with our ass.  I could accept that explanation.  But why have children with them? 

Mexican and Boo have 4 children, 2 are from previous baby daddies, 1 is together, and 1 on the way together.  So I hear stories.  Boo claimed one child on his taxes, promising Mexican that he would chip in after he gets his IRS check.  He comes home one day with a brand new gold grill (teeth).  There is a child on the way, you’re struggling to make ends, and you blow your money on bling for your mouth?  Gag, choke, huh!?!?!  This is typical for the type of men my friends have chosen for themselves. 

I guess I am somewhat resentful, because as my friends are a part of my life, their significant other is a part of my life as well.  This person that I don’t respect as a human being and gives no contribution or enrichment is someone I have to waste my time with.  Look, I’ve dated plenty of losers, I mean, I’ve topped them all by a mile.  However, I didn’t bring them home, dress them up like daddy dearest, and proceed to form some lasting foundation with them.  No, I had as much fun as I could, then I got the hell out of there.  That’s why they’re called “bad boys” and not “husbands”.  You can’t throw a wool blanket over a wolf, and call it a sheep. 

If you try, the wool is pulled over your eyes, my friend.

Got to run, weekend update on Monday.

War of the Have’s & Have Nots

I read somewhere that the majority of casualties in Iraq are poor, white southern boys.  Those senator’s sons shouldn’t thank God they don’t have to serve, they should thank Dixie. 

I read somewhere that there are over 20,000 non-citizens currently serving in our military.  Those rich boys shouldn’t pay their Ivy League tuition, they should pay an illegal for taking their place.

The military has always been made up of the poor and dispossessed.  It is very rare to stumble across anyone who joined with other decent opportunities available to them.

I do not believe you should be able to send someone to fight a war you would not be willing to fight yourself. 

Change the World

Everyone should try.  Get your hands dirty.  Cradle an AIDS baby, help dig a well for a remote village, hug as many old people as you can (they won’t be here much longer), leave a legacy of kindness and generosity. 

When you hear people say, “They’re homeless ‘cuz they want to be,” or “She doesn’t work because she collects welfare,” or “They are always killing each other so just let them,”…you should feel sorry for them.  These are people who have lost hope, these are people who have given up on life, these are people who are close to giving up on themselves.

Remember, I was going to write a letter a day.  I’ve revisited this.  Once a week is a more realistic goal. 

I promise that if you live your life caring for the welfare of others especially in the face of personal gain, it will come back to you. 

I promise. 

Golson Ad Nauseum

I love my friends the Golsons.  The couple getting married in France.  They leave today and last night I was chillin’ at their home, the artists compound.  As I suspected, they left most details for the last minute.  The wedding slide show was not completed, and their vacation ensembles were lying all over, unpacked.  I am admittedly not a good source of assistance in these situations.  Organization is not my strength unless it comes to business.  With leisure, everyone is on their own.  Besides, I’m notorious for hauling wet clothes in my luggage because I will attempt laundry an hour before my plane leaves.

There were a few highlights to report.   Out of hundreds of slide show photos depicting the Golson’s life, I am not in even one.  Um yeah, burn.  Part expected, part don’t-care, part WTF.  Our funnier pics were mostly in Stanley.  She did mention something about not wanting to re-live that part of her life because of the accident.  When we there, she rolled her rig down a hill while she was piss-drunk.  The irony?  I was walking down that hill alone from the same river rat party and was the first to arrive on the scene.  Now why was that ironic?  Our friendship wasn’t even close enough for her to offer me a ride or I would’ve rolled down that hill with her.  I’ve always had a penchant for being sidelined at crucial moments like these, guardian angel maybe.  Anyways, she maintains it was life-changing.  I will maintain that it was the same shit; different day. 

For their wedding gift, I will be re-upholstering and gifting my chaise lounge they love so much.  I’m not in the slide show, they filled up their jet-set guest list before they ever said “boo” to me, and their demeanors have become increasingly narcissistic, BUT, I still love them.  They are like the annoying successful siblings I never had.

Professionally, they are moving up on the food chain.  Having networked here and there, they may be designing a very popular nightclub spot downtown.  It’s only good to have friends in high places, if they can actually remember being at a lower altitude…haha…otherwise, it’s just an empty claim.

I called Aztec Gold last night, and we talked on the phone for a whole couple of hours.  Our conversation was actually filled with substantive topics.  He really can spar with my head trip on life.  It’s that old soul country boy wisdom.  When talking about friendships, he described them as “fecal”…haha…he meant “fickle”.  He sold me on both descriptions. 

Aztec has managed a sober existence for 3 years, he has a strong desire to drink these days.  I told him under no circumstances.  That everything is so much better in hi-def lucidity.  This from the fountain of recklessness.  I made it convincing enough.  I hope.

I will finally see him in a couple weeks.  Then I can wrap my arms around him and breathe him in.  His birthday is June 16th, he will be 26.  I have to think of the best gift.  Sharper Image maybe.

Thay It Is

Nina Ricci perfume is off the chain gang…hoo ahh! 

Darla is in love with a deaf man.  She’s trying to convince him to get a BB to text back and forth with her.  I never thought of text in such a con”text”, it is not so passive-aggressive in that case.  You know what they say about a man who only texts you, girl, he’s just not that into you.

I so need to get out of this town.  I missed the deadline that would grant me freedom once again.  My sub-conscience is undermining my consciousness.  It is definitely fear that is holding me back, fear and laziness.  The laziness stems from my superiority complex, like someone like me shouldn’t have to put forth so much effort.  God, this kind of self-analysis couldn’t even come from a hundred dollar-an-hour shrink (complex rears its ugly head).

This weekend, I am going to start sanding and staining that furniture in my living room.  I might paint too.  I want to have a couple BBQs this summer.  Would love to have some peeps over.  My apt is always under construction.  My life is always under construction.  One thing at a time though.

The Coca Cola company wrote me back regarding my suggestions.  I wrote to them about their manufacturing interests in Zimbabwe.  Mugabe has been challenged for his presidency and has ordered the military to rub out any opposition.  Ruthless tyrant.  Civil war could break out.  I asked Coca Cola to send en envoy, an ambassador to help make pleas and ask the government to end the violence against its people. 

The response reads:

Thank you for contacting The Coca-Cola Company, Ms. Salazar.  We appreciate the opportunity to respond.  Your letter to Muhtar Kent was forwarded to me for response.

We believe that our Company can and must be a catalyst for positive change through actions that are appropriate for a business to take, and we know that The Coca-Cola Company has a positive impact on countries where we do business.  We add value to and strengthen communities around the world where we operate through direct investment, employment, setting an example of best practices in our operations and upholding the highest standards of corporate responsibility.  However, as a business, we recognize our role is important, but it is also inherently and appropriately limited.  As a business organization, it is not our place to influence sovereign nations or take positions on political matters unrelated to the beverage industry.

We join others in expressing deep concern for the situation on the ground in Zimbabwe.  We know that all parties involved hope for a peaceful resolution.

Please contact us again should you have additional comments or questions.

Tom Barber
Industry and Consumer Affairs
The Coca Cola Company

What if for one day, businesses put their mission statements aside, and made their first priority, the lives of people? 

Hasn’t this guy ever heard of something called the “macro-environment”, if he thinks politics does not relate to the beverage industry, or any other industry, he should call it a day.  Politics absolutely affects business.  What a moron.

He claims that Coca Cola adds value to and strengthens communities around the world.  One word: Apartheid.  How quickly we forget. 

I am going to aim to write one letter a day on behalf of my causes.  Then I am going to publish the ‘bend-over-let-me-stick-this-in-your-ass’ responses, just so we’re all clear that they know…that we know (and so on). 

No Theme Today

“S” just called, she’s done with finals, and is patiently waiting for me to knock off work early.  I’m listening to Estelle’s “Come Over”, like sweet breath to my ears.  “S” told me her man has been hired on as a GM of a fitness franchise here.  We’re movin’ on up!  haha…maybe she can trade in that crappy Grand-Am.  We went from a slammed 500 series Beamer, to an Acura, to rollin’ the Grand-Am.  Economy’s been tough.  When I refer to “we”, I try to live my life without materialism, I enjoy that moral high-ground, so I rely on my friends and family to sell out to the “man” and collect the fringe benefits.  Works out well.  So, yeah, “we’re” movin’ on up.

I woke up this morning to the tragedy of Chengdu.  On the Today Show, I thought I saw a misty Anne Curry for a split moment as she was forced to segue into the dumb democratic primary.  Maybe it was me welling up.  Chengdu is where we send our students to study abroad here.  I wonder if they are surviving.

62,000 dead in Myanmar, civil war looming in Zimbabwe, the Sudan still…and here I am in this cubicle coma, staring at my computer screens.  I cannot claim victory over feeling useless these days.  My hands, my eyes, my heart, all untapped resources for this crazy world…

I have to go meet “S”…

Ultimate Fighting is Homo-erotic

It is.  Roman-Greco wrestling was too.  Shining male bodies, scantily-clad puting each other in very compromising, tight, contortionist positions.  Looks like foreplay to me.

We went to the cage fights Saturday night.  Admittedly, it was very exciting, lots of adrenaline.  What I noticed was that these fighters were small, out of shape, physically confusing to me.  I’ve dated guys fresh out of prison that were true scrappers.  There is a lot of money to be made as a trainer, as a steady supplier of contenders, or fight promotions.   After the drinks loosened me up, I told Leggs we should look into it.

The ringside table was pimp.  The table service was money.  Big money.  At the end, the tab resembled a five-star restaurant bill.  I shot myself in the foot by going stag.  I could’ve at least split it.  Seven dollar beers, ouch.

Sunday was mother’s day.  Wonder what she is up to.  Wonder how long my stubbornness will get the best of me.  Wonder if I will admit all that is necessary for me to have peace.  Wonder if she thinks about me too.   Mothers.  Such a hold they have on us.  They can give up on us, hit the pipe, and sleep away our memory, and yet their touch is a blanket of warmth and refuge.  Just because they gave us life, our life is never complete without them.  What a price we sometimes pay.

Jason came over at the crack this morning.  I stayed up until midnight cleaning.  He’s so good at worshipping parts of me.  Just not the parts I would prefer him to worship.  I wasn’t even close to asking him the questions that have plagued me about this man.  He drives me nuts.  How dare I let my political enemy get the best of me.  I guess I am just keeping him close for now, as the saying would have it.  Promoted to commander, on his way to corporal.  Jason’s ambition is frightening, slightly enviable.  He asked why Gotti is not trained yet.  I guess that’s how things are in his world.  Everything is trained, follows orders, understands duty, and the only goal is to complete the mission.  Here I am…everything unruly, my home, my dog, my life.   Whatever, I didn’t sign up for any of that shit, he did.  He gets my gratitude, he was tasting it on his lips and chin on his way to work this morning…haha.  

Ok…so my gourd friend?  We think it’s a Japanese game show she’s been chosen for.  Hilarious.  At least it’s syndicated.  

Summer Anthem

She sounds like the lead singer of “The Sounds”, other times she sounds like a cross between Joan Jett and Gwen Stefani - her vocals are top-notch.  The lyrics are like sweet messages from angst heaven, “…We think you’re a joke, shove your hope where it don’t shine…”  Santogold is a genius.  She’s doing the obligatory Europe tour before her American tour.  It takes us awhile.  I first found her on Pandora with SIA radio.  I love music where ladies standoff with life and love.  SIA’s “Buttons”, Lily Allen’s “Cheryl Tweedy”.   

Karaoke Junkies

Karaoke, ‘kara’ meaning “empty”, and ‘oke’ meaning “orchestra”, in Japanese.  If you can’t spell it and interpret it, you should not be able to perform it.  That should get me to the front of the line quickly.

We went to the ‘dirty, dirty’ last night.  It’s in the middle of a dying town center nearby.  The kind of bar you go to when you’re feeling down about your lot in life.  Five minutes in that place will cause great amounts of gratitude for all that you are, and all that you have.  Tweakers, loners, fatties, geeks, retards, elderly, if I was forced to pigeon-hole them all.  “S” and I were supposed to go to the batting cages, but I was late in getting to her house (suburban coma).  So we settled on a beer and one karaoke song.

The karaoke master of ceremonies was a mixture of power-drunk and alcoholic-drunk.  A masculine woman with no teeth and no pesky urge to shower daily.  She only had two song books for a large group of people.  There was at least a 3 minute intermission between songs, which in karaoke time, is like 3 hours.  Dead air.  I snagged a book from a couple of large ladies at a large table.  “S” ordered a screwdriver, I had a greyhound.  Although we ordered well, the bartender poured us Stoli, god bless her heart.  A great bartender by the way, a put-away-wet, dairy queen blond in her early 30s.  The right amount of attentiveness, no trace of bartender arrogance.  It was time to pick our songs.

“S” and I have different approaches to choosing a song.  I have no delusions of grandeur when it comes to karaoke.  My singing voice is flat and off-key.  I would consider myself an entertainer.  My song choices revolve around my audience.  I search for songs off the beaten karaoke path.  These songs are difficult for the average karaoke singer, and only for entertainment purposes.  Freddie Mercury of Queen, Robert Plant of Led Zepplin, Billy Joel, Foghat, these are all examples of artists you would not seriously attempt to karaoke.  “S” on the other hand can carry a tune, she’s definitely a contralto, higher than Nina Simone, lower than Christina Aguilera.  “S” typically does the same list of songs, although she will throw in one or two that she wants to experiment with.  My songs are always changing.

I was stoked to sing “Fat Bottomed Girls” by Queen.  I just discovered it a week ago.  Bryan May, the Queen guitarist, wrote the song.  What a genious.  When I turned my song into the slurring karaoke MC, she held my hopes hostage for about 5 minutes while looking for it, then finally declared that she did not have that song available.  In my disgust, I asked if there were any other song choices we should stay away from due to her supply issues.  I think I walked away without waiting for an answer.  I went back to her a drink later and handed her Led Zepplin’s “Whole Lotta Love”, what a great yelling song.  Robert Plant is a god.

When I got up there, I danced, I yelled, “…keepa coolin baby…”, and the pack of guys in the corner table gave me a couple hoots and hollers.  What worked is that this song is great even with awful vocals.  It’s upbeat, and sexy.  Afterwards, my throat hurt from the yelling.  I wanted another shot at, I knew I could nail it so much better the second time around.  Alas, you have to move on.

Someone sang the “S” trademark Cher song, “If I Could Turn Back Time”, twice.  I honestly can’t remember what she ended up singing.  That is the pitfall of karaoke.  Like a self-absorbed junkie looking for another hit, pun intended, all you can think about after singing one song, is what you’re going to sing next.  The clapping and accolades for other singers is robotic and not very heart-felt. 

I sang a duet with “S”, Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe”.  We were quite good.  I called my country boy sweetheart up north, and left it on his voicemail.  I went on to sing, “Move Out (Anthony’s Song) by Billy Joel.  I know with some practice, that could become one of my classics.

I had to work in the morning, but the drinks and the karaoke junkie in me kicked in.  We finally left at about 1:30am, played a little Yahtzee, chatted, then went to bed. 

Haven’t done that in awhile, it was refreshing.  Until tomorrow. 

I Dream About Him

He’s a country boy, and I’m a city girl.  We met in college.  He would sit by me in business class and listen to me challenge the professor.  I don’t know what I was doing in business school.  When the topics were profit margins, overseas manufacturing, and maximizing stockholder wealth, all I wanted to talk about was environmental practices, sweat shops, and genetically-modified food.  I went through 5 years of that.  He loved it though.  He got me.  At first I thought he just wanted my proofreading skills (calling his spelling and grammar poor would be an understatement), but then we started revealing ourselves.  I could not wait to see him in class.  I would get goosebumps when he leaned over to share a secret or tease me.  The way he threw back his head when he laughed, and flashed his smile, he made me want to sell all my worldly possessions and learn how to jar preserves.  I would read his term papers and make fun of him.  He never minded.  His favorite part was when I would ask him about women and sex.  Nothing was ever too personal.  He was an open book.  There was something unexplainable about our connection. 

We were from different corners of the earth.  However, we both had this aching desire to experience life and not conform, both stuck between selling our souls for money and success and searching for a higher plane of happiness.  I would prod him, test him, question his faith (his family is Mormon), make him search himself.  No one had ever done that for him.  He would call me beautiful and worthy, he admired my intelligence, such a rarity.  Every man desires a smart woman, as long as it doesn’t tread on their ego.  I’ve never tread lightly on anything.  I morph from self-effacing to a bold assertiveness, it’s really quite a spectacle.  My recreational drug use and casual sex only served to fascinate him.  Imagine that, I could be myself with all the lunacy and seediness that make that possible, and he lost no love.  What he liked most was how I couldn’t watch my manners.  If he was moody, I called him an asshole.  If he talked about hunting or politics or religion, I would give him a puzzled look as if he’d just pissed all over my Edwardian rug.  I always shot him straight.  It tickled him.  Imagine that, not having to bat my eyelashes, feign interest, or spoon-feed his narcissism.  Um, jack-fucking-pot. 

I did not see him too much after college.  We keep in touch still.  I call him after breakups, and bouts of my kamikaze syndrome.  When the world doesn’t make sense anymore, and I’m feeling like I’ve done my best, and nothing gives, I dream about him.  I dream of us running away to old Mexico and searching for Aztec gold.  A dusty road, a bottle of cheap tequila, couple of gold pans and his shining blue eyes.

Someday maybe.