Leif Erikson

is one of my favorites by Interpol

It was the second time Charlene threatened to kill herself. We had been dating a year. It was turbulent but I loved her. That night she said she took a handful of expired pills and asked me to feed her children the next day. I lay there. Angry at her. I thought, ‘how dare you try and put your kids’ tears on me. Puta Madre.’

I tried to hold the anger in but that only made things worse.

She was suspicious of me because I lied to her early in our relationship. The lie was a mistake, but at the time I didn’t see it that way. I didn’t consider how hard it must have been for her to trust me again.

To prove I was sincere about never lying again; I cut myself off from everyone, let her check my phone, spent all my time with her-or on the phone with her. Did that work? Nope.

The night of the pills, I just wanted to not fight. I knew jealousy, like a lot of people do. I was accustomed to being the jealous one in a relationship. But this was different.

Its as if she used my one mistake to excuse her fucked up behavior.

Bettie Paige in a suitcase

“if her life is such a big joke. Why should I care?…It’s like learning a new language
Helps me catch up on my mind(mime?)
If you don’t bring up those lonely parts
This could be a good time…
You come here to me
We’ll collect those lonely parts
And set them down
You come here to me”

I was innocent but my innocence clouded my understanding of what she believed. And that’s very important to understand. I wanted us to be right. I thought I found my wife.

After a certain point I just stopped taking her accusations seriously.

Some people talk of recycled arguments that never get set to sleep. Arguments wailing at night, like a witch colored copy of an old resentment. Something that both of you can’t kick.

I’ve been thinking about the movie, “Leaving Las Vegas.” But I can’t remember why Nicholas Cage is trying kill himself with booze.

I mostly remember “Leaving” for the gorgeous Elisabeth Shue. Her blonde, wavy hair makes me wanna not comb my hair. But fuck! There’s no way mine would look that hot. Shue and the lovely, Sheri Moon Zombie kinda look the same. It’s their jawline smile. They have a similar beauty I find irresistible.

Charlene viewed my unwillingness to talk as a sign of guilt. The constant arguing was draining the life from my smile. I just wanted to show her. Get her in bed and rub her clit all over my face. Flip her over and eat her from behind.

But none of what I did got us back that way again.


Wake me up at beer thirty part 3

Phyllis pointed “onto” my skull with her decrepit digit as she passed behind me and the quaffed hair I was sportin’ that Friday.

She said bye.

“I’ll be seeing you later.”

“Oh I see what you did there!” Sherrie laughed as she picked up the creepy undertaker vibe I was putting down.

Shortly after, Sherrie and I left for Mephistopheles.

We pulled our bar stools out and sat down to the lukewarm crowd. The bar was also a hotel with a reputation for being haunted. I favored its nonchalant environment and could sometimes be found there; half in the bag.

The pretzel bites and beer battered queso gave us the salt and bread we needed to pony up for the rest of the night.

I bought us a second round of Jameson and beers.

“You should stop by my place. I got a little smoke if you wanna get hi?”


“Just don’t act weird.”

“I thought weird is why you found me charming.”

The bar manager Philip stopped by our table. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks.

A bearded biker looking guy walked up to our table. He had left his cigarettes behind. As he walked away Sherrie made a joke about stealing them. He laughed it off and kept moving. As he reached for the door, Sherrie joked, “I licked them all.”

“That would be okay with me,” biker man shot her a grin.

The thought of jealousy creeped around me again. I laughed it off. Sex with coworkers can be fun. But often. Someone wants more than what the other has to offer. Then it gets real awkward.

We went back inside and the bar was jam packed. Standing room. Like sardines. Sherrie took the lead as she spoke with every middle aged woman who was in the direct line of sight to our stools. It was a birthday party for a 5o-ish bleach blonde woman. She seemed friendly.

We sat at the bar, about to take our last shot. Then a dark skinned Chicana sidled up to Sherrie’s right. I couldn’t hear the entire conversation but the Chicana mentioned my tattoos and offered to show us hers. She leaned against the bar and slid her white shorts down revealing a tattoo and a baby blue thong. Sherrie let out a cackle and slapped the woman on her ass with a playfulness that got me thinking, “keep your mouth shut dummy, you’re about to see something awesome. ”

Chicana slid between me and Sherrie while saying, “cheers ” as she raised her glass to my beer. She couldn’t take her eyes off my arms as Sherrie joined in for the salute.

Before I went to Sherrie’s place I went back to my parent’s for 2 shots of Tequila I had laying around since the week before.

By the time I got to her place she was already down to a t-shirt and a small pair of cotton shorts. Her ass unfurled. I played it cool.

We laughed and drank. Smoked and enjoyed each other’s company.

“I don’t know what your relationship is but I can help you with that.”

I had no idea what the fuck that meant. I lowered my voice as she whispered “yeah like that.”

We giggled then the subject changed. Then again. Then that awkward moment passed.

We said goodbye and I drove home.

Me and Sherrie grew closer. We were good friends. Many laughs and many adventures. Eventually I quit the job and she met her boyfriend.

Wake me up at beer thirty part 2

Before I continue the second part of wake me up at beer thirty, I want to tell you about the worst pitch for heroin use.

In my beer thirty post(part 1) I mentioned growing up in a German town. For a while, I also lived in North Texas.

I was renting a room at the house of a bartender I knew from a local bar I frequented. For the most part I was alone and Gary the bartender didn’t care if I smoked pot, drank excessively at odd times of the day, partied on white, or just had a bunch of random strangers at the house. Gary wasn’t really home that much.

He approached me one afternoon and said “hey J you like to smoke pot righ? Have you ever thought of trying heroin?”

I laughed at the absurdity of his delivery. He stood there in the shadow of silence. I walked into the kitchen thinking, I should probably consider moving.

Wake me up at beer thirty pt2

Jimmie nine fingers leaned against the picnic table, his elbow perched on his knee, palm to chin. He leered at the table to my right. A flock of geriatric drinkers sat conversing among themselves. Sherrie and I were ready to bounce when I noticed Jimmie had made his way over to the table. Embracing, hugging and laughing as he made his way around the table.

A man with a hat that seemed part fedora and part cowboy, grumbled from behind dirty sunglasses, “hey it’s Jimmie and he can’t even count to ten!”

A few minutes and some handshakes later Jimmie made his way over to a miniature Phyllis Diller looking geezer and he accidentally spilled her beer. It seemed coincidental.

She stood up as Jimmie wiped the table. He introduced us and mentioned that I worked at a local funeral home. The grey haired, jewel bespeckled woman turned her attention to me. She went on about how, “the funeral home must be busy with the population growth.”

Phyllis leaned closer and slurred, “I can’t believe the funeral home would let you work there with all those tattoos.” As she said that she took her boney, Crypt Keeper finger and ran it up and down my forearm.

“I wear a suit and tie,” I responded plainly.

I couldn’t figure out if she was just curious, bothered by my tattoos, being flirtatious or if someone had slipped LSD into my beer and I had somehow wandered into an episode of the Golden Girls.

“Do you know Roy?” German Mario asked.

“Roy?! You know Roy? He’s one of my homies,” I said. Me and Mario talked about our mutual friend.

“Yeah we call him Jew boy” Mario said as he smirked.

Roy was German, from New Jersey but his accent did make me think (before I got to know him) that he was an old Jewish guy from New York. Mario went on to say the same thing.

I thought about my friend Roy and the name Jew boy and I began to miss my ex. She used the slur to make a joke once and it became our own private joke. I started to feel sad. I looked at Sherrie and suggested we go to the next bar

To be continued

Wake me up at beer thirty

It’s been a rough week of work. I still can’t stand my butter face co worker. Found that most of the office (and probably most of the population) can’t stand her either. Arrogant CuCuy lookin’ twat. Having issues with writer’s block, again. Same ole same ole. Finished my first sci fi horror story last month. The Sophomore curse is in effect tho and I can’t seem to finish “the actor.”

I finally saw Spiderman and couldn’t help but think of the step-daughter I almost had. She resembles Mj. The movie was good. I saw it alone but it doesn’t matter even when I am in a room with someone, I feel alone.

The following is a work of non-fiction…Mostly.

It was Friday and I offered to buy my coworker a beer after work. She had a nice ass and after a few conversations we made plans to meet for a beer. We sipped our beers slowly at a bar, in the German town I grew up in; the watering hole was called the Toit. I liked the dive bar atmosphere and the place had this juke box with a selection of artists I really liked; such a George Jones, Johnny Cash, the Rolling Stones, Def Leppard, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding and George Straight. The music selection seemed to cut off somewhere around the 90’s. The beer was cheap and it was a good place to begin the night. Sherrie was older and lived in a college town 15 minutes from where we worked. I wasn’t certain that I wanted to sleep with her (I’ve had previous problems after screwing former coworkers who often got attached afterwards) but I was tired of moping over my ex so I figured ‘what the fuck?’

The company of a pretty woman was better than drinking at home alone.

We vented about work, swapping stories and laughing at our past; the ice between us broke, and Sherrie suggested we ‘smoke a ciggy outside on the patio, if there is one?’

Standing outside the front door of the Toit, our heads bounced back and forth as we noticed that all four picnic tables under the awning were full of people. Then an older man sitting at the table closest to us, waved us over and offered for Sherrie and I to join his table. We sat down and introductions were made. Jimmie, an alcohol swollen biker with glasses, mustache and cut off sleeves t-shirt, had wiry grey and white hair that puffed out comfortably under his Harley Davidson ball cap. Seated to his left was a bookish 30-40ish guy named Jeff. To Sherrie’s right was the other 60-70ish man who looked like Mario from Super Mario Bros. He bore a strong resemblance to someone of German and Irish descent. If I had to guess, his occupation was plumber. He was pudgy and as we all got comfortable with each other, I noticed Sherrie kept leaning into “Kraut Mario,” while making remarks, as she touched him on his shoulder casually.

Jealousy burned across the surface of my face the second time she did it.

But then I remembered that I wasn’t completely confident that I wanted to take her panties off; so I played it cool.

Sherrie and I talked about going to another bar-Mephistopheles’ but before we could finish our beers Jeff bought the table a round. We soaked up another along with the charm of our company. While bullshittin’ I noticed that Jimmie had these enormous hands. He must have been a mechanic or someone who worked with his hands. I mentioned the part time job I had at one of the local funeral homes; it was once a German, family owned establishment. As Jimmie drunkenly squawked and joked, I noticed that he was missing a finger.

“Yeah that Mesican can sure barbeque,” Jimmie said to me. He explained that he was waiting on his friend from the valley named Henry. Jimmie’s brother in law had just died of cancer and his ‘fat Mesican friend Henry’ was meeting him there to hit a local lake; to prepare for a barbeque plate sale. The competition/benefit was taking place the next day, on a Saturday. It was being held to raise funds for funeral expenses in honor of Jimmie’s brother in law. Jimmie and Henry were planning on smoking a brisket and drinking all night.

To be continued.

What the fuck does that really look good? Really? Really.

My wallet looks like it belongs to a bum. Holy fuck have things been…weird.

The job is going well. I just survived a baptism of fire. Ask me what being stuck in a well hung room full of smarmy sales fuck tards is like. Not happy about the pay but the job does provide me with a semi stress free work place and plenty of free time for writing.

I finished my first sci fi horror story. Now it’s time to see about publication. Shopping my work around has been a slow, brutal process. I don’t like it. But until things change, I guess it has to be done.

This week I should have a set of poems and pics available on Amazon. I think there are more platforms to publish on besides Amazon and…

Name a few if you know of any.

Keep writing. I love the stuff I’m reading here on WordPress.

Rebel Without a Cause

“I am well aware that I have always been of an inferior race.  I cannot understand revolt.  My race has never risen, except to plunder: to devour like wolves a beast they did not kill.”

Bad Blood from “A Season in Hell”

Arthur Rimbaud

The last few weeks I have been in a trance of self-reflection.  Some would call it a depressive rut but I prefer to embrace denial about these sorts of moments.

It started back in November…

It had been about a week since my Grandma had passed away, and I was down in New Braunfels for the funeral.  The day before the funeral my family had a small get together after the Rosary.  As the alcohol poured into the early part of the next day, the last remaining few at my grandma’s house shared stories and refreshed memories of the days that have long since been gone.

And as most of these conversations normally go, someone brought up the “incident” and as the customary protocol we began to unravel the events that took place that day.  However what has become a new element to the plot is the piece of food that was utilized in the ruckus.  Was it a piece of turkey?  No maybe it had been a roll, which has been often quoted, or perhaps some mash and gravy?

The “incident” my cousins often relish in reliving, took place Thanksgiving when I was 17.  I had been listening to Alice Cooper’s, “I love the Dead,” and drinking a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 since 4 a.m.  My dad kept a booze cabinet in the house and I swiped a bottle from right under his moustache.

I stumbled out my room about 12 o’clock, mostly ‘cause my mom yelled at me to get up.  I was feeling less than cheery when the rest of my family started to show up.  Everyone started to circulate through the kitchen to get food and my sister asked in a tone that felt accusatory, “what’s wrong with you?”

My sister had no idea what was about to happen.  I turned to her and slapped her with some turkey, tossed some corn into her hair and yelled; “This is all bullshit!” and ran for the front door.

In the background I could hear one of my cousins yell, “Run Forrest, Run!”

I made my way down to a neighborhood two streets over from my house and passed out in an alley behind my friend’s home.  I woke a few hours later and made the walk of shame back to my parents’ house.

It’s funny when you think you are being such a rebel.  You know, really shaking up the establishment.  Sticking it to the man.  But in reality all you’re doing is wasting good turkey and gravy.

For quite some time, incidents like that (and many more) became memories I believed personified who I was in the sight scopes of others.  Just another anecdote at family functions to add to the layer of embarrassment.

Trying to decipher what it is about that moment that spurs communal recollection of hilarity can often make you question who and what you are.  There is little doubt that I was in pain about something.  What that was has been lost along with what food item I actually pummeled my sister with.  To this I have concluded instead of dwelling on what thoughts others may have or have had of you, take a chance and change your perspective of “yourself” today.  ‘Cause it is easier to work with present perceptions than to alter the past.

Back to Screwed

Sitting in the kitchen.  Thinking over the past two weeks.  My second week of college and my fourth attempt at getting a degree.  I began to reflect on all the crap I have been through over these two weeks.  Not in a bitchy sort of way, but in a reflective Buddha kind of way.  I realized the hardest part about going to school is not the school work itself.  No, the school work seems to be the easiest part (thus far).  What seems to be the most difficult part is the constant organization one needs to attain, the constant self-motivation, the constant hustle mentality, you have to be awake to the apathy of others around you and be aware enough to “not” step into it.  You have to be able to follow up on financial aid forms, deadlines, scholarships, and anything else out there that could make school more affordable.  You have to be able to juggle your personal life, taking the dog for a walk, getting exercise, and getting the right amount of nutrition.  Don’t forget to kiss the wifey and give her your undivided attention or she won’t give you your “special medicine.”  You have to make sure that you get to work on time and still have time for homework, get to school on time and stay awake through a boring ass lecture…

These factors seem more difficult to keep up with then the actual school work itself.  I wouldn’t say I feel overwhelmed so much as I feel my eyes are open to what I could have handled years ago had I not had such a defeatist attitude.  At the thought of this I feel like crying, however I don’t have it written down in my daily planner.