Thursday, December 30, 2010

Radar Love

I've been drivin' all night, my hand's wet on the wheel
There's a voice in my head that drives my heel
It's my baby callin', says I need you here
And it's half past four and I'm shifting gear

I don’t remember exactly when I figured out she was doing drugs.  She did a hell of a job hiding it from me as I recall.  Maybe not.  Maybe I just chose to ignore the signs that were always there.

Until they couldn’t be ignored anymore.

The first time she called after taking pills was after a fight we had over a friend of hers.  We had been dating for about a month.  I was just out of the Academy and working in the cellblock on the midnight shift.  She went out with some of her friends from the restaurant where she was a server, where we met in fact.  The friend who drove her was an exceptional scum bag with an arrest record that included drunk driving, and I had told her I didn’t want her to ride with him.

She didn’t like that and pointed out that I wasn’t her husband or father.  Since she was correct on both counts, I simply told her I didn’t want her to go and went to work.  She went anyway.  She called me at the station six times between the start of my shift and two in the morning, alternating between being sorry and being pissed off.  I finally told her that she should do her thing and hung up.  Enough was enough and I really didn’t need the drama at work.

The next call came at 3 a.m. when she informed me that she had taken a bottle of Xanax and that she was sorry.  I hopped in a squad car, drove to her house, and rushed her to the Emergency Room.  Not the last time we would be in an ER together…

The radio is playing some forgotten song
Brenda Lee's "Coming on Strong"
The road has got me hypnotized
And I'm speeding into a new sunrise

We met on Sunday evening.  I was in my second month at the Police Academy and some friends had flown in to visit me.  We went to dinner at a steak house near the harbor and there she was.  At the time I remember being giddy like a high school kid seeing the homecoming queen at the swimming pool.  We joked around a bit and flirted slightly.  It was my friend’s wife who pointed out that it seemed she was interested and she was right.  We went out for dinner a week later.  And I remember every moment of that first night in detail…

When I get lonely and I'm sure I've had enough
She sends her comfort coming in from above
Don't need no letter at all
We've got a thing that's called radar love
We’ve got a line in the sky, radar love

I don’t think I would have graduated from the Police Academy without her.  She made me feel like I was invincible and we began to talk about how we would spend the rest of our lives together.  We started and finished each other’s sentences and if we were any happier, I would think it was a dream.  She enrolled in a Nursing program and did well in her classes.  Then she began her training rotations.

Little things seemed wrong at first.  Stories would change several times or timelines wouldn’t match up.  Her moods swung and there were two more pill incidents. But I loved her so much it fucking hurt, and she was probably just stressed out, right?  I was sure as hell going to be there for her.  She had helped me through my time at the Academy, so I’d be damned if I questioned every little mistake…

No more speed, I'm almost there
Gotta keep cool now, gotta take care
Last car to pass, here I go
And the line of cars drove down real slow

Where we lived, there were not enough opportunities for nurses to train in a hospital.  There was an arrangement for some to be sent out of town to work at other Medical Centers.  She went away for a year.

And I never saw her alive again.

Talking to her friends she had been using drugs for a few years.  Her use stepped up once she entered the program but she had always been sure to hide it from me.  She wouldn’t let her friends around me so I wouldn’t notice anything.  Guess she learned from the first incident…

I was a great fucking cop, wasn’t I?

She died on a Sunday morning.  Her roommate found her when she came home from work.  While we hadn’t cut ties completely, we didn’t speak that often. The mood swings and distance had taken their toll.  She always said she loved me, and that when a job opened up close by, she would come back and we could get our plans for life together back on track.  I guess I believed her.  As far as I knew, she had never lied to me. 

It’s been seventeen years.  I guess I suspected what was going on.  And that’s the guilt I will carry until I die.  I suspected and did nothing.  I should have known better and ignored the signs.  Maybe I could have stopped her…

Or not.  We choose our paths in life and while free will allows us to switch, sometimes the thickets are too dense.  Sometimes we get stuck.  And as much as someone hacks away at the brush, we keep walking down the trail, unable or unwilling to hear the voices desperately imploring us to turn around.  Sometimes we choose self-destruction.

And leave those that love us behind.

And the radio played that forgotten song
Brenda Lee's "Coming on Strong"
And the newsman sang his same song
Oh, one more radar lover's gone

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

A Christmas Story...

I’m sending my mother off to visit her sister as a Christmas gift.  I thought at the time that this was the greatest gift ever given and was smugly patting myself on the back as possibly being the best son ever, second only to Jesus.  And in my book, it was close.

So I was surprised when I received a phone call from my father in which he sounded less than proud of me.

“So what the fuck were you thinking?”

“Huh?” I responded, thoroughly confused.

“Thinking.  What the fuck were you?”

“Mom wanted to go to visit her sister.  I paid for it, which makes me AWESOME.  I am not sure I know what you’re getting at.”

“Awesome? Really?  In your little plan, where do I fit in?”

“Awwwww! That’s cute.  You’re going to miss her.  It’s only a week..”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Miss her? WHO THE FUCK WILL COOK MY CHRISTMAS DINNER????”

This got my attention.  By extension, who the fuck was going to cook MY Christmas dinner?  I just gifted myself out of Christmas ham.  Shit.  I had to think quick.

“Thought of that already,” I lied. “I’m going to cook dinner for the both of us.”

Fuck. Did I really just say that? Stick and move, Ali.  Rumble, young man, rumble….

“Really?”, came the unconvinced response. “What?”

“Turducken.”, I blurted out.  I was digging a hole that British Petroleum would be proud of.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Turducken.” I repeated. “A stuffed boneless chicken, stuffed in a duck, which is then stuffed inside a turkey.  Tur-duck-en.”

“Shit.”, was the only thing I heard before he hung up.

Shit indeed.

For the next several hours I busied myself researching my brainstorm on the Internet.  Fairly early on, it was evident I would not be doing this from scratch.  Deboning a chicken and a duck then shoving them up a turkey’s ass was not on the agenda for the next few weeks.  Not to mention the 12 pounds of stuffing I was going to need.  Who the hell had time to make something like this?

Those wacky Cajuns, that’s who.  I will leave you to ponder the history relating to the invention of this particular culinary specialty, but it probably went something like this:

“Hey Boudreau?  What will you give me if I stick this live chicken up that turkeys ass?”

“Piddly shit, Francois.  I’ll stick this duck up my ass for two dollars.”


Anyway, I found a web site that sold these monstrosities already made and frozen.  The variety was mind-boggling.  You could get them stuffed with cornbread, andouille sausage, shrimp, and….ok just those three.  So maybe not boggling.  Did I mention they stuff a turkey with a duck with a chicken?  It sounds so….dirty.

While I was trying to decide, I clicked on something called “Fowl De Cochon.”

Fuck me sideways.

It was a stuffed chicken, stuffed inside a duck, stuffed inside a turkey, then stuffed inside a whole pig.

That is seven kinds of awesome wrapped in bacon, my friends.  What kind of sick, inbred mind does it take to create something like that?  What seemed excessive before was now positively pedestrian when compared to the Fowl De Cochon, which is French for “Birds stuffed up a pig’s ass”.  I think.  I never took French.

I must have it.  Except now I gotta go buy a new oven that this huge bastard will fit in.  Anyone know how to get roast pig smell out of an oven?  I want to return this bad boy the day after Christmas, like they do with the big screen TV’s after the Superbowl…

This is going to be awesome.  And while I don’t make a habit of quoting fictional crippled children, “God (or insert the Deity of your choice) Bless Us, Every One”…

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

I Just Called To Say I Love(d) You.....

I was talking to my ex-girlfriend the other day.  Understand that this is widely viewed as a bad idea in most of the civilized world, but she was calling to invite me to her college graduation on Friday.  While I would love to brag that I am such a stud that college age women flock to me, let me explain.

While she is about 10 years younger than me, Linda was one of the thousands of people who left college the first time because she simply wasn’t ready to give her full attention to the task.  We got along so well because I fell into this category as well, though I had remedied the situation before we met.  I spent much of the first two years we were together trying to convince her to go back to school.

“You know you’re one of the smarter people I know.  You should probably just suck it up and go back to college.”

“I can’t do that.  I crashed and burned the first time.  They wouldn’t let me back in.”, she would always answer.

“If that was true, they wouldn’t have let me back in, much less let me stay for a Master’s degree.  The first time I was in school I was simultaneously placed on academic AND conduct probation the same semester.  Hell, I failed Art 100 because it started at 7:30am.”

“You say that like you’re proud..”

“I am actually.  Do you know the kind of effort it takes to fail a class that consists of drawing and watching slideshows?  That’s a level of commitment you will never be able to match, honey.”

“I really don’t want to know, but how did you manage conduct probation as well?”

“Hung a linebacker by his ankles from the third floor of Johnson Hall.”

“You did what?  Why would you do that to another person?  And a football player?”

“He was third string.  I think they used him as a tackling dummy to preserve the equipment.  And he deserved it because he cut in line in the bathroom.  That is a dick move that requires retribution.”

And so it went.  I eventually convinced her to go and she is graduating in a few days.  We broke up about a year ago because I suddenly noticed that she was crazy.  Either that or she suddenly became crazy.  But after much beer-induced reflection, I believe it was the former and that she had always been crazy.  Great sex is Temporary Alzheimer’s Syndrome to those of us with a Y-chromosome.  Consider that your Understanding Men tip of the day, ladies.

So, being co-dependent (and crazy.  Did I mention crazy?), she found another boyfriend fairly quickly. I still golf with her Dad, so we ran into each other a few times and I met the dude.  Between us, I actually think that he is a good guy.  They’ve been living together for 6 months and he hasn’t smothered her in her sleep yet, so bonus right?  However, the BDC Man Code states:

Thou shalt not be cool to an ex-girlfriend’s new man friend.  Exceptions are as follows:  NFL Players, Any Member of AC/DC, Really Good Financial Advisors, Jesse James, Any Member of Pink Floyd Except Roger Waters Cause He’s A Prick, and The Guy Who Invented Fat Tire Pale Ale.

So when I’m around them, I act like a complete ass.  Now I am the first to admit that this is not a far step at all from my regular personality.  But her Dad thinks it’s funny as hell and the new guy kisses my ass because I’m bigger than him and she still seems to place value on my opinion.  I sense that I am walking a fine line between amusing myself and actually breaking them up, in which case she will probably try and get back together with me.  Since this cannot in any way be allowed to happen, I may have to start giving him my approval. 

Grudgingly, of course.  The Man Code must be obeyed.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Purple Jesus meet Purple Yahweh....

Minnesota Vikings fans know Adrian Peterson as “Purple Jesus”, because of his extreme athletic ability and part in reviving the Minnesota offense from the dead.  Before he was drafted, the running game was anemic, and the rest of the offense wasn’t faring much better due to the departure of Randy Moss as well as the less than stellar QB play of one Tarvaris Jackson.  “T Jack”, as Jackson calls himself couldn’t throw a tantrum, much less a complete pass, and his pathetic display as the play caller was a failed experiment from Day 1.

T Jack’s particular brand of suckiness led to the signing of one Brett Lorenzo Favre…


Lorenzo?  WTF?

/checks Wikipedia/

Fuck me. Lorenzo it is.  Brett, or “T Mobile” as the ladies call him, signed with the Vikings last year and immediately went on a tear that made Minnesota look like the goddamn New England Patriots.  The 40 year old QB took his intrepid band of purple clad warriors to the NFC Championship and was within one play of going to the Super Bowl.  Later it was found that he destroyed his ankle and was playing in pain that few could stomach.   The “after” pictures were enough to make a Medical Examiner wince…

Even though the Vikings suck rancid ass this year and Favre has thrown 1,489 interceptions, he is still an iron man.  He has played through an elbow injury, a fractured foot and heel, a gash on his chin requiring 12 stitches, a probable concussion from the same incident, and now a shoulder injury that could result in his throwing arm falling off.  All at 41 years old.  Yet he has started 297 consecutive games in the NFL, and if history is any indication, will make that 298 tonight in Detroit.  Even if he has to play with one arm, like that guy Harrison Ford was chasing in “The Fugitive”.

He is doing all of this mind you, in the midst of a sex scandal of sorts.  He is accused of “sexting” this icon of womanly virtue…

Demure, isn’t she?  Her name is Jenn Sterger.  While they both worked for the Jets, Lorenzo is accused of texting her and wanting to have sex with her.  That’s right, he wanted to have sex with the incredibly hot woman pictured above…

The fucking animal.  He should be shot.

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH WANTING TO HAVE SEX WITH HER?  Blind men want to fuck her.  Gay men would turn straight to fuck her.  Hell, 75% of the women reading this want to fuck her.  How is this the crime of the century?  Ok, so he also allegedly texted her pictures of his stubble covered wiener.  So what?  Have him autograph the cockshots and sell them on EBay.  Problem solved.  Why report the incident two fucking years later?  If you were so offended by old man pecker, notify the goddamn authorities as soon as you get 8 x 10’s of one.  Don’t wait until the night before the Vikings play the Jets to leak the story to a website.  It doesn’t exactly indicate a pressing need for justice, does it?

She claims to be some sort of journalist or sideline reporter but as far as I can tell her job is to stretch T-shirts and wiggle her ass.  But it’s ok.  She went to college to learn her craft…

Don’t get me wrong.  If a woman is harassed in a manner that makes her feel scared or uneasy, I am the first motherfucker to advocate a punch in the nads.  I hate bullies and think people who harm women and children deserve the death penalty.  I’m sensitive like that.  But this situation reeks of headline grabbing and an opportunistic display of “victimhood”.  Apparently the NFL agrees.  The normally suspension happy league has held off on any action, despite threats from Sterger’s camp and a completed investigation.

So not only is he an iron man, he’s also a lucky son of a bitch.  Because despite what I just said, Favre was a dumb ass to send pictures of his schlong to a woman he just met.  Makes you wonder at the shit he got away with in Green Bay, where they thought he was a god…


Not a god…

Son of a bitch.  Favre is God.  Not in the “You are an awesome football player” sense. I mean in the “I will strike your ass down with a fucking thunderbolt” way.  It all makes sense now.  Miraculous healing?  Check.  Miracle comebacks?  Plenty of them.  Plays that should have had no earthly way of succeeding but did?  You’re goddamn right.  Holy punishment befalling his enemies?  I am surprised that Brad Childress doesn’t have ass cancer as we speak.  But Favre did get him fired as Head Coach, so that counts too.

Come to think of it, a huge snowstorm SUDDENLY appears and keeps the New York Giants from reaching Minnesota for yesterday’s game.  So the league moves the game to Monday, giving his Holiness an extra day to heal and extend the starting streak.  Then, cause He’s all biblical and shit, he causes the roof of the Metrodome to IMPLODE.  This causes the game to be moved to Detroit, the Sodom and/or Gomorrah of the NFL.  Prime ground for some proselytizing.


Saturday, December 11, 2010

Pissing the Night Away....

I have neighbors who like to sing karaoke.  Whenever they have their friends over for a few cocktails, I can be sure that before long the karaoke machine in the garage will be fired up and I will be treated to the melodious sounds of Streisand, Manilow, and Whitney Houston.  By the way, have you SEEN Whitney lately?

Wack, indeed.

Anyway, my neighbors.  Now I am as much of a fan of the occasional sing along as anybody.  In fact, I do not feel like it is bragging to say that I can lay down the Neil Diamond like nobody's business.  But my neighbors sound like they are deep frying live cats when they sing.  The singing is so bad, I believe Al Qaeda is trying to weaponize it.  And it's not just one person.  They ALL suck.  It's a statistical impossibilty to put together a group that sings that bad randomly.  Out of 10 average people anywhere, mathematically at least one of them should be capable of carrying a tune.  So I can only conclude that this particular group of tone deaf, mumbling, and screeching shit birds was gathered together ON PURPOSE.  There had to be an audition that made the preliminary rounds of American Idol sound like the goddamn Vienna Boys Choir in comparison.  Pants on the ground, fuckers. Pants on the ground...

To make matters worse, none of these musically challenged individuals speak English as their first language.  Or second language from the sound of it.  It's like living next to the touring company of Close Encounters of the Third Kind: The Musical.  I don't even know what fucking language they are speaking.  The other day they were singing a song that wasn't half bad.  I couldn't understand the words, so I figured they were performing a song from their native land.  Then I caught the chorus:

I get knocked down, and I get up again,
You aint never gonna keep me down..

Fucking Chumbawumba.  Even when they speak English, I haven't a damn clue as to what they are saying.  If you have never heard a heavily accented version of "Tub Thumping" consider yourselves blessed by God. 

Me?  Not so much.  I'm gonna go find somewhere to get drunk and belt out "Sweet Caroline".  Nothing clears the mind of bad karaoke better than a rousing rendition of a Neil Diamond classic.  He's the Jewish Elvis...

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Dear Japan...

Attention to My Family and Friends of Japanese Descent,

While I in no shape or form blame you personally for Dec. 7, 1941, you have to admit that sneak attacking a sleepy little Hawaiian Island on a SUNDAY MORNING no less, was pretty fucked up.  Now I know that none of you have served in the Imperial Japanese Navy (except maybe for Julie's uncle Kazuhiro, that guy just reeks of Kamikaze), however the deed was done and it's time we address the elephant in the kimono so to speak.

Sunday Morning.  I mean WTF?  That's like sneak punching a retard while he's taking a piss.  Ok, all's fair in love and war and all of that shit, but really?  All I know is I better not hear any more fucking whining about that whole Atomic bomb thing.  At least we waited till a decent fucking hour...

But I digress.  In the spirit of moving forward and healing old wounds,  I am requesting, nay demanding, reparations for suffering and loss of sleep on behalf of my ancestors.  In fact, as an American and a Hawaiian, I should get double, you shithooks.  Please submit said reparations in the form of beer, Jack Daniels, or straight cash homey, by close of business today.  Only then can we move on and be a shining example of love and cooperation to the rest of the world, you back punching sons of bitches...

Peace Be With You.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Of Carpet Munching and Seafood...

I have a friend whose wife actually left him for a woman.  By that I mean she found his manhood so off-putting that she has sworn off penises for life.  At least that's what I tell him every time we talk, which for some reason has become fewer and farther between.

 Glenn, as we'll call him, mostly because that's his real name (should've paid me for that Cowboys bet, douchebag), has not had great luck with women.  In point of fact, he has had abysmal luck with women.  Whenever one of us was completely shit upon by a female, we invariably cheered ourselves up by saying, "Hey, at least I'm/you're not Glenn."  Then we laughed ourselves silly while pointing and laughing at him and ordering another beer.  Good times....

All of this was made worse by the fact that we were all cops at the time.  There is nothing more humiliating than turning your wife lesbian other than being a cop and turning your wife lesbian.  Cops are like 6th graders on crack when it comes to pointing out any and all human foibles.  Needless to say, Glenn did not enjoy going to work after the divorce.  We used to post carpet ads and pictures of clams on his locker just to remind him of his ex-wife's favorite meals.  Once, a less than imaginative patrolman hung a picture of Tera Patrick going to town on some girl on Glenn's locker as a joke.  We taped his ass cheeks together for lack of creativity. It was embarrassing really....

Did I mention the woman his ex-wife ended up with was probably the hottest human being on the planet?  That was fun too.  Glenn had to endure our graphic ruminations on what positions and "marital aids" the two women were using.  We asked him to see if they would agree to make a movie for us to show at the Christmas party.  The final straw, I think, was seeing the two women making out at a nightclub we had all gone to after work one night.  He threw his beer at the wall and yelled that we needed to leave as he stormed out to the car.  We understood, I mean, it had to be difficult watching the show.  An hour later we walked outside and went home.  Hey, I drove...

Glenn transferred to another PD the next month.  I also left police work all together the next year to go back to school.  He calls every now and then, mostly during the Holidays.  He has since been remarried to a very nice woman, who to my knowledge does not like to lick vaginas.  But I know he's scared to death that he'll turn another one.  You can hear it in his voice.  I try to reassure him, but after going through what he went through, he doesn't believe me.  Well that plus he's a pussy.  Which makes me wonder why the first wife left him, considering her current proclivity.  Fuck it, I gotta go finish cutting out rug ads to put in Glenn's Christmas card....

Friday, December 3, 2010

Coca Cola Flavored Kit Kats and other Asian Treasures...

Growing up in Hawaii meant exposure to many different cultures and their traditions.  Other than Hawaiian, by far the most predominant cultural influences are Asian in origin.  I grew up following the adventures of Japanese super heroes.  While most of you were playing Superman, Batman, or Spider Man, my friends and I were posing as Kikaida (pictured below), Kamen Rider V3, and Rainbow Man (a lot less gayer than it sounds, though come to think of it he did cry a lot. What the hell did I know? I was 8).  Japanese heroes, before all of this freaky manga crap the kids are in to now, were what kids in Hawaii aspired to be, regardless of ethnic origin.