Monday, September 21, 2009

Pet Peeve # 419

I understand the concept of getting a massage early in the morning and not having showered, (okay, well not really) but if you're feet look like you've been treading through soot, or like you've been using them to dig for oil, then we've got a problem. The spa has amenities, extremely nice ones I might add, and you should use them. Also, for your convenience, we provide expensive, aromatic body washes infused with all kinds of herbs and plant extracts from places I can't even pronounce. (So they must be good) If you don't have the decency to take a shower, in the name of all things holy, at least rinse off your dirty ass feet. If I pull back the sheet to discover filth covered soles, I guarantee two things are going to happen: I will massage them thoroughly while I try not to gag, and then I will thoroughly massage your face (with a smug grin). Just my way of giving back.

By the way, the same goes for your ass. The last thing I want to experience while I'm administering a forearm glide down the length of your back, as I contemplate what I'm going to have for lunch, is catching a whiff of pungent, putrid, rancid ass crack. The only thing I hate more than people who sit in the hot tub before a massage and force me smell their noxious chlorine fumes (paired with sweat and body funk) for an hour, is rank ass. Trust me, if there was a way I could make you smell your own ass without getting fired, I would have figured it out by now. Do us both a favor, just take a damn shower.

While we're on the topic of ass and feet funk, let me take a quick moment to also express another bane of my profession, spray on tans. I'm not really sure what possesses people to get a spray tan BEFORE getting a massage, but allow me a quick moment to eloquently, professionally, and respectfully illustrate my heartfelt concern........don't fucking do it. You smell like a tamale of burnt flesh rolled in paprika. Not only would I prefer you didn't expose me to your hazardous, fake tan vapors, but the filmy residue turns my sheets orange and is a bitch to get off my hands. If you want to accelerate the melanoma process, by all means don't let me stop you beef jerky. Just have the decency to pursue skin cancer AFTER a massage.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Dumb ass of the Week

I suppose you've waited long enough, here is the Dumbass of the Week Award..... This week was extremely difficult to decide, being that stupidity was so pervasive in the news. Although I generally bestow the award to dumbasses for whom no love is lost, this week's award is given with a slight pang of sorrow.

Drumroll please......... The winner is a two way tie! I know, I know...nothing like this has ever happened before, but calm yourselves...shortly you will agree.

First up, the manly Serena Williams. I gleefully hand over the award to Serena, who lost her temper and went off on a line judge at the U.S. front of millions. The powers at be managed to bleep out the content, but lucky for you my venerable readers, I have been trained by the government to read lips. Although no one will repeat exactly what she said, I know the precise words that were hurled towards the meek and unsuspecting little Asian woman like sharp daggers. Walking towards the unsuspecting woman, with muscles flexing and veins pulsating, Serena said through gritted teeth, "I will shove this fucking ball down your fucking throat!" Upon hearing the threat, the little woman ran to the chair umpire like a defenseless child fleeing from the chupacabra boogie man, fearing for her life. Serena's hair was disheveled, her eyes glowed angry and red, and she glistened with sweat like a hungry she wolf in the moonlight. She looked rather serious.

The line judge told the chair ump that Serena threatened to kill her, and although those were not the tennis star's exact words, they pretty much meant the same thing to a little Asian woman with no ninja training. Later in the press conference, Serena acted like no one could ever be afraid of her because she's never even been in a fight. Hmmm...would you fight her? I Didn't think so. I fail to see where that path of logic is a sound defensive position.

Since Serena had already been given a previous warning in the match for hurtling her racket, this infraction was a point deduction, a point Serena couldn't afford with the game already at match point. Her opponent won by default. Although the odds were exponentially against her launching a successful comeback at that point in the match, it must undoubtedly suck to lose in such fashion. Serena was eventually fined $10,000 for the outburst, and although I think she should have been suspended, they allowed her to play with her sister in the doubles final. Here's to Serena.....dumbass!

And now, the co-winner of this week's award...[you know what to do]....Kanye West. Ugh, this pains me, but it must be done. I looked past the last time he opened his mouth when he wasn't rapping, but this faux pas is just unforgivable. As I'm sure all of you know at this point, during the MTV video music awards while Taylor Swift was receiving her first award, Mr. I'm a fucking asinine, dumbfuck imbecile, shit head, mother fucker, woe is me, I can do whatever the hell I want Kanye West, decided to interrupt the mild mannered teen and take microphone from Taylor's hands to announce that Beyonce's video was better. Seriously, who does that? He was appropriately booed and just like Senator Wilson's outburst towards the president, I think he should be reprimanded. Perhaps violently beaten with branches of wet Eucalyptus leaves then rolled in salt. I do love a variety of his songs, but I guarantee that I won't be buying anymore. What an ass.

Did I miss anyone?

Tuesday, September 15, 2009


I have a slew of blog posts that are eagerly waiting to be published and enjoyed by my thousands hundreds many two readers, but after perusing today's headlines, I knew that the following story took precedence. Along with my admiration for breasts, most of you know that I revere animals as well. Oftentimes, holding them in even higher regards than most humans; particularly the stupid ones. Case in point, Jessica Simpson. reports that a wild coyote snatched Jessica Simpson's beloved maltipoo, Daisy, then vanished whence it came. While certainly a tragedy, this event simply reinforces my belief that dogs weren't meant to be bred for toting around in purses. To add insult to injury, Jessica Simpson, in all her infinite wisdom, is offering a reward for anyone who can reunite her with her little dog carcass. Someone needs to tell her that her dog was pretty much dead the second it was abducted. To my knowledge, coyotes aren't the type of scavengers to bestow a pardon to their prey. Anything dubbed a maltipoo, was destined to be low on the food chain anyway. Many of her fans showed their support via Twitter, hoping that the star would eventually find her pooch. Apparently, her fans are just as bright as she is. Sorry Jess, should have gotten a Rottweiler.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Pet Peeve #811

People who don't take off their jewelry before a massage. I am not Jacob, or a pawn shop; I don't care how big the rock your husband got you is, you don't need to know what time it is, and no, I don't think your anklet is cute. Take it off. Pretty Please. With a fucking cherry on top.

If you can afford my prices, I already know you have money. Perhaps you're accustomed to going to lesser massage therapists, but when you come to me, you need to be as naked as the day you were born. Just like any other artist, I too need a clean canvas. One of the things that sets me apart from other therapists are my transitions (and my brownness). It's the one element of massage that is often overlooked, but is essential in slowing a busy mind, or turning it off altogether.

What often separates a good massage from a phenomenal one, is the ability to coax the mind into timelessness. The way to do that is to massage in a way that appears seamless. Seamlessness is achieved when the client's mind can no longer distinguish between elbows, hands, knuckles, palms, or forearms and the key is in transitioning. Transitions occur when you go from one tool to another, or between different strokes as it were, without a break in contact, speed, depth, or rhythm. However, when I have to maneuver around jewelry, snapping g-strings, or cascading hair, the massage is constantly interrupted and loses its flow. Don't get me wrong, you'll still get good work, but for the same price, wouldn't you prefer perfection?

Science has confirmed the myriad benefits of massage, but one that is rarely mentioned is Alpha waves. The brain emits Alpha waves when in rest or meditation. People who have more Alpha brain waves have less anxiety. Anxiety and stress reduce the strength of our immune systems. Ergo, having more Alpha waves could mean less anxiety and, correspondingly, stronger immune systems. An amazing massage with expert transitions, (and no obstructions) can optimize the duration of Alpha wave emission and in turn grant you greater results. In short, take your shit off and let me work my mojo. You'll thank me in the end......they always do.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Three Cups of Tea

Working in a luxury resort has many perks, one being that I get to meet and work on celebrities. Unfortunately, we have a very specific protocol to follow which limits the interaction we can have with our clients, putting a significant damper on my ability to find out the most coveted secrets in life, such as who will be leaving the cast of Gray's Anatomy, what new nursing show will emerge, and if Chuck and Blaire will reunite. I am, however, privy to other sources of intrigue, with the plethora of affluent eccentrics I meet, that love to talk about their work.

Sometimes, when the stars align just right, I am blessed with opportunities to work on real genuine earth shakers. People who are special beyond belief, people who are grounded, intelligent, and humble; humanitarians who make the world a better place, people. . . . . like Greg Mortenson.

Greg Mortenson has been promoting education and literacy for children in remote villages in Afghanistan and Pakistan for over 15 years. He speaks at over 125 schools a year, and briefs U.S. Marines on Afghan customs and traditions prior to their deployment. He wrote the number one New York Times best seller, Three Cups of Tea, that chronicles his failed attempt to summit K2, the second highest peak after Everest, that is found in the Himalayan mountain ridge in Pakistan. During his descent, he becomes lost without food or shelter and roaming aimlessly on the verge of starvation. Eventually, he stumbles upon a remote village in Pakistan, where he is nursed back to health and vows to return to build the impoverished town a school. What follows, is the recount of the trials and tribulations of a man determined to spread literacy to a nation bound by thousands of years of tradition and violently skeptical towards Americans.

Three Cups of Tea, is is absolutely amazing and is only surpassed by Greg's inexorable passion for building schools. You can learn more about the book, and Greg, here.

I cannot accurately express how honored I was to be his therapist the day he came into my spa. When I saw the name of my first guest that morning, I thought it peculiar that it was similar to the famous author, but dismissed it as coincidence. All doubt was removed when I went to greet him. Greg (as he insisted I call him) had an enormous frame, unmistakable smile, and although soft spoken, had a commanding presence. I am not easily starstruck, but in this case, I was as giddy as a teenager on a first date.

During the massage, we engaged in some of the most riveting conversation I have ever had. I asked him questions about his adventures, and listened to him talk about his passion and expand upon events in the book. I couldn't believe that I was actually talking to this man, it was so surreal. At times, I felt like a journalist in an exclusive interview. We talked about his family, current projects, and the eminent arrival of his second book. Greg and I also talked about other books we liked, and he told me about meeting Khaled Hosseini, the author of Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns (Both fantastic books by the way).

Unfortunately, the hour went by all too quickly, but I am so grateful that I had the opportunity to meet and spend time with such an incredible and inspirational person. He was so humble and respectful, and thanked me profusely for my work. By the time I had escorted Greg back to the relaxation room, I knew that I had experienced one of the most memorable days in my life. It's not everyday that you get an opportunity to meet a modern day Gandhi.

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Secondhand Lions

On the recommendations of a couple of fellow bloggers, I went to Barnes & Noble to pick up a few summer reads, because everyone knows that my only passion in life that compares to my adoration of breasts, is books. They both can come hard or soft, they both can nurture you, entertain you, and even educate you. Books however will never sag. At least not for a very very long time.

Lolita and the Time Traveler's Wife were in my sights, among some other ones I've been meaning to pick up. The first, by Nabakov, I found with relative ease. I have two others of his already on my to read book shelf. The latter, however, was nowhere to be seen or found. Unfortunately, as it turned out, everywhere I went was also completely sold out!

As I was walking my dog this morning, I noticed a little garage sale in the neighborhood. Nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. Upon closer scrutiny, my eyes fell upon the most beautiful treasure I had ever seen.....a table, as though the broad shoulders of Atlas supporting the Earth, was holding the weight of a hundred books upon its back. My eyes widened, my heart's pace quickened, my mind began furiously deliberating the possibilities; how many books were there? What kind could they be? Could there be anything good in that mountainous heap of paper and print?

As if compelled by a force not my own, my legs carried me directly to where Atlas knelt, with my dog in a similar trance as he locked in on a box of stuffed animals. Trying to remain calm and not appear too desperate, I quickly began my investigative probe. As I scanned the titles of books, I quickly came to 2 major conclusions: 1) Whoever was selling these books has amazing taste. 2) they must either be an idiot, or have lost their mind for selling them for only 50 cents a piece. We were both drooling noticeably.

The Namesake, White Oleander, Drowning Ruth, What the Dead Know, and Atonement were my final choices. Can you believe that? For $2.50 I managed to snag these stupendous books for a fraction of what I spent at the store. I know what you're thinking, why didn't I buy more? Well, the truth is, not only is my to read shelf growing exponentially out of control, but I would't have had anywhere to put them.

As I was guiltlessly ripping my neighbor's off, and my dog the head of a lion, the owner came down and we began discussing our passion for literature and how this table of books barely put a dent in what she had upstairs. For a moment, I imagined a vast library of books in her home, shelves upon shelves of awesomeness, countless stacks as high as the ceiling, books consuming every open space and covering furniture like wild Ivy. The thought made me smile. We talked for about twenty minutes before my dog was like, dude the lion's dead and you're boring the shit out of me, can we go? The book lady asked which ones I had purchased, and as I went down the list I said, "Oh, yes, and apparently that decapitated lion as well."

I never did find the Time Traveler's Wife, but I found so much more instead. Just goes to show you that you don't always get what you want.......sometimes you get more! Oh, and the city's no place for a lion.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Smart People

I read an article the other day about the concerns of proper grammar usage and spelling in everyday life in relation to texting. The main theme of the article was sort of rhetorical, but did pose the question of whether or not we, society in general, were becoming stupider more stupid due to the frequency in which we use slang, acronyms, abbreviations, and phonetics to communicate through text messaging.

The author of the article interviewed a few experts, one being in language and communication, who ultimately believed that our intelligence would go on unaffected and that the proficiency of our written and spoken language would not be ill fated. [using a pretentious British accent] I, however, vehemently disagree with that assessment. As a matter of fact, I think that stupidity has become pandemic and the ever growing popularity of hip techno devices is eventually going to create generations of dimwitted morons. Uh, did I say eventually?

Look, I like texting for a myriad of reasons (it's more challenging to drive that way) Mainly, because making a phone call requires very specific protocols, which ultimately take up valuable time. Customary salutation, determining if current moment is appropriate to continue verbal communication or if another time would be preferred, transfer of meaningless data, polite responses, possible awkward silences, promises and/or excuses, exit strategy, and termination of transmission.

Now, since time is such a precious commodity and because I am such a thoughtful person, I figure it's faster (and more polite) to just send someone a text. This process is even more poignant if all you have is a quick question, or are unable to talk. This way, the person can determine the importance of the correspondence, and respond accordingly, or as time permits. Furthermore, I like to be even more efficient, by shortening words,and leaving out some punctuations. Otherwise, if I have to spend too much time texting, it becomes self defeating.

Being that this is the case, my two most aggravating pet peeves as of late, are people who despise improper grammar in text messages and people who speak as though they are text messaging. To address the former, as long as you are intelligent enough to understand what I am texting you, then the process through which I send the information is irrelevant. If I shorten words or leave them out entirely, I'm doing so for the sake of time, not because I can't spell. God forbid you have to use your brain for a moment.

The latter is much more frustrating because once this form of communication has infected your speech, it's quite difficult to overcome. For instance, I don't mind when my sister texts me a word like "whatevs", "latr", or "cuz". However, what I can't stand is when people start chopping words in half or fusing words together whilst speaking. One of my friends does this so incessantly that if you were eavesdropping you would think he was a "motard". (moron + retard = motard) See how that works? Yeah, I think it's stupid too. He'll say things like, "Damn she's hidi!" As if adding a third syllable would expend too much energy. Dude, you're 40 years old, don't be an idiot.

Many people see this as a process of social evolution, where I think it's more indicative of a nation that will continue to lose its competitive potential in the global market. We are breeding fatter and dumber offspring and people think this isn't a problem. Most European kids speak multiple languages, are well traveled, and know where Papua New Guinea is on a map. I bet if you ask an American kid, he'd probably think Papua New Guinea is a rapper. Damn shame.

Thursday, July 9, 2009


Apparently, cellphones are the bane of my existence. If I'm not getting bitched out by some disgruntled cashier over one, I'm putting my phone through the most rigorous high velocity impact tests known to man. I'm not quite certain how some of this shit happens, but I've managed to drop my phone in a toilet and accidentally kick it across a parking lot a few times. It's been stepped on, bounced off the bed into the wall, and more times than I can count. . . . . I've forgotten that it's in my lap when I get out of the car, but am quickly reminded as I hear the familiar sound of metal and plastic crashing and scraping along unrelenting cement.

I used to drive a big truck and one day after coming home from buying a brand new phone, as I was exiting this mammoth vehicle, I managed to drop my two hour old phone which literally shattered into thousands of unrecognizable pieces. Buttons flew in every direction, the LCD display was obliterated, and I had to use the voice recognition key for a week before I was sent a replacement. All I can remember is how thankful I was that I had had the foresight to purchase the insurance.

Years later, and I'm still pushing my phones to the limits of their structural engineering fortitude. The interesting part is that I take amazingly good care of everything else I own. I treat my DVD's so gingerly you would think I was a mad scientist handling explosive materials, I avoid vigorous driving to reduce wear and tear on my car, and I still dust off my Playstation 2 that's probably older than most of your kids. I know what you're thinking, How can someone so assiduously protective of his belongings allow for such atrocities to happen? I wish I knew. I drop kicked my phone in the throat just last night.

My friends call me the Text Master. I don't have one of those nifty miniature keyboard touch pads, oh no. I have the old school model which you can operate with one thumb. You've never seen a phalanx move with such precision and blinding speed. I text multiple people at the same time, I text while I eat, while I drive, while I watch T.V., and when I'm shopping. I text at the gym, in between clients, during my lunch break, and while I walk the dog. As a matter of fact, I'm texting right now. In retaliation to my pervasive texting, my phone's 9 key has decided to stop functioning. I think it's sprained. It works sometimes, other times I have to think of another word to use that doesn't need a W, X, Y, or Z. You'd be surprised how often you use a "W" or "Y".

This isn't the first time my phone's suffered a Repetitive Stress Injury (RSI). A few months ago, it was the number 3 key. It's virtually impossible to text without the letters D,E, or F. Trust me, I've tried, and I possess a rather impressive lexicon. A few months before that, various directions on my select key would give out from time to time, making navigating through menus more difficult than threading a needle in the dark with lotion on your hands. (I don't know, I'm guessing that's tough) At the very least, as equally frustrating.

Why don't I get a new phone you ask, well, not only do I feel a special kinship with my phone, but I've invested more money in that damn thing than my car. I've had to buy multiple batteries (one on account of the toilet debacle), blue teeth, (plural for blue tooth?) car chargers, and home chargers. I'm also not too keen on parting with my current phone, because I like to text while I drive. You can't do that with one hand on the majority of these new phones. I'm not ready to part with that facet of my communicative repertoire. I see countless nimrods texting with two hands as they drive. That's just a little risky, and not to mention, down right stupid.

I suppose it's time to say good bye to this phone and turn it in for a newer model. Who knows, after getting to know the new one, I might really like her. I just hope they can transfer all the naked pictures I've collected.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

What's Eating Gilbert Grape

I had a disconcerting experience today while I picked up a few things at a local store. After I had located my desired items and deposited them in the bacteria infested cesspool of a shopping basket, I headed towards the open cashier to pay. As I began placing the items on the counter, I received a phone call from work and had to answer it being that I could be getting called in to rub rich people. (I'm still waiting for the call to work on Jessica Alba)

As I answered the phone, the cashier asked me if I had a store card which I promptly began locating on my key chain when she just about took the keys from my hand, as if I were performing surgery and lacked sufficient concentration to delegate to her request. (mind you, there were no other customers behind me) As I answered a few questions from my manager, I heard the woman bark the total of my bill. I retrieved two twenty's and before I could even extend my arm to pass her the money, she spitefully snatched it from my hand as she exclaimed (loudly), "So rude!"

Dumbfounded, I drew a breath, looked around, and then placed the phone aside and said, "Excuse me?"

"It's so rude to talk on the phone while I'm trying to talk to you," she responded.

I drew another breath to simultaneously gather my thoughts and calm myself before responding. During the the nanoseconds of nerve synapses in my brain, I pondered whether I would give this woman an intelligent, well thought out, eloquent verbal assault, or get medieval on her ass. I decided that although she was wrong in execution, she was right in principal. Ultimately, I figured a mild retort to her inappropriate behavior towards a customer, coupled with an acknowledgement of her frustration, would be the best way to go.

"Ma'am, I apologize for talking on the phone; I realize that it was rude. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have answered, but it was an important call from work so I had no choice. However, snatching money from my hand was vehemently uncalled for and tactless."

I don't think she was expecting my reaction. In fact, she was probably expecting me to get ghetto on her or something. After she picked up her jaw, she said, "I'm sorry, it just happens all day."

I wanted to say, Well, perhaps you should look into some anger management classes, or get another job! But instead I said, "Sorry to hear that, hope your day gets better". And then I left.

Truth is, I totally agree with her. Talking on the phone while interacting with someone who is helping you, is rude. However, being in the customer service field and treating people like shit is egregiously imprudent and worthy of a reprimand. Believe it or not, I see this kind of stuff at my own work from time to time, but I can't let those people, or moments get to me. It's not fair to myself, or to the next guest. Its kind of like when women treat their current boyfriends in regards to how the one before him treated her. Look honey, I'm not your daddy or any of your other boyfriends. Learn to drop the extra baggage, or your going to be paying those extra fees on every flight you take.

Monday, June 29, 2009

A Thousand Splendid Suns

Okay, it's been almost 9 months since I did my last book review, so without further ado . . . . . (The books are in descending order, starting with the most recently read)

A Thousand Splendid Suns: Khaled Hosseini's second novel after Kite Runner, which was equally amazing. As with its predecessor, A Thousand Splendid Suns takes place in war-ridden Afghanistan. Hosseini manages to concoct another astounding chronicle of the lives of two women whose journey's intersect in the most unusual way. It is an unbelievable adventure that tugs at your heart strings and keeps you engrossed, holding on to hope well after its characters have conceded. I must prepare you, this book is fraught with sorrow, unbelievable strife, and seemingly endless depression. However, this saga is like a flower than manages to blossom in the desert. If you don't go out and read this, I will personally stab you repeatedly with a rusted blade covered in excrement.

The Host: This is more of sci-fi romance, but a great book nonetheless. Created with adults in mind and not pubescent female teens, it was written by Stephenie Meyer, who brought us the Twilight saga. It is about non-violent, parasitic life forms that invade earth and begin taking over human bodies through an insertion process. Interestingly, they subdue their hosts' consciousness, but continue normal human activities with the exception of the Seekers, whose sole purpose is to use their host's memories to seek out all humans. There is a small resistance of survivors who become at risk when one of their own, Melanie, becomes sequestered by the enemy. This amazing story is told through the eyes of one of the alien's named the Wanderer, who fails to completely subdue Melanie's consciousness. She becomes overwhelmed by this human's strong mind and ends up yearning for the same love interest as her host. A great story of betrayal, unlikely friendships, and even more unlikely love during a time where humanity is at stake. Sounds weird at first, but an excellent book. And the alien sex is really hot! Just kidding.

Lone Survivor: Phenomenal story, concise, nail biting, raw storytelling at its best. This book is the recount of Operation Red Wing, a Navy Seal mission intended on assassinating the alleged mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks. As the title suggests, the story is told by the lone Navy Seal who lived to tell this riveting tale about fighting Al-Qaeda from behind enemy lines. A must read for civilians and soldiers alike.

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle: I was vehemently disappointed with this novel. It had received such great reviews and encomium that I decided to read it despite its intimidating size. The story is about a boy who, for all intents and purposes, was born mute, and lives with his parent's on a farm in Wisconsin who breed and train dogs. The boy's father is mysteriously murdered and he must try to prove it was at the hand of his uncle who always has some hidden agenda. I thought the idea behind Edgar's story was very clever and original, although its execution was slow to develop and ultimately anticlimactic. Although a good story teller, the author was overly descriptive to the point where it disrupted the flow of the book and made it difficult to press on a times. The book was okay, but not one I particularly endorse (although Oprah does).

Kite Runner: In Khaled Hosseini's debut novel Kite Runner, we follow the lives of two boys in Afghanistan who are best friends separated only by the positions their father's hold. Something happens in the boys' lives that sets them upon separate paths in life. It is an amazing tale of friendships, loyalty, facing one's fears, redemption, and many other themes, during a time of turmoil and uncertainty in the Middle East. This was an amazing book, an easy read, and I highly recommend it.

Twilight Series: Okay, so my sister practically made me read the first Twilight book, which I didn't give a great review here. However, after deciding to read the subsequent books in the series, I take back everything negative I said about the author. As a matter of fact, I owe Stephenie Meyer an apology. The story was brilliant! I do stand by my opinion about the first book that it was slow and so forth, but certainly necessary for creating the back story for the ones that follow. In my professional opinion, the books became progressively better and more absorbing with each chapter. This was a compelling series about vampires and werewolves and the way Myers intertwines the elements of this saga is truly genius. Another warning though, unless you can handle staying up into the wee hours of the morning, frantically turning pages, having to discover what happens next . . . . I suggest you stay as far away from these books as humanly possible. I'd hate for you to lose any sleep.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Ode to the King . . . .

Albeit sad, his passing seemed a little less shocking than the effect you would initially expect to elicit from a tragedy of this magnitude. In retrospect, I think it had so much to do with Michael Jackson's transformations and latest media woes.

Everyone was grossly aware of how significantly his appearance changed over the years and although he may have lost many fans with his celebrity antics and later during his legal trials, (allegations from which he never fully recovered) those of us that were such fans of his former self, seemed to acknowledge these faults but still stay loyal to the King of pop.

Regardless of how you felt about Michael, he leaves behind a legacy that changed music, dancing, and in many ways, the world forever. He revolutionized the music video, popularized MTV, brought people from around the world together, spoke out against racism both publicly and through his music, supported more charities than any other pop artist, and could dance like the dickens. Man could he dance. His musical accolades are astounding and he probably remains the most recognizable person on the entire planet. People in 3rd world countries devoid of televisions even know who he is, and that's pretty remarkable.

So many of us grew up imitating Michael and his timeless moves. We dressed like him, danced like him, and played his songs and videos until we were satisfied. In recognition of his departure, I went out with a friend last night for dinner and a movie, and everywhere we went I did the moonwalk or a conspicuous MJ leg kick. The cars that let us cross the street gave appreciative nods, some people laughed, and others gave a hoot or a holler. The hostess at the restaurant didn't find my moves very amusing, so I threw in a crotch grab and a few pelvic thrusts for good measure. No, I really didn't . . . . but I should have.

As should be respectful and customary when reflecting upon the lives of those we lose, perhaps we can remember him for his greatness and not his idiosyncrasies or shortcomings. Perhaps we can remember the time how Michael thrilled us, encouraged us to look in the mirror, told us to beat it, scream, or heal the world. It seems that he spent his whole life giving, but we were never quite able to give anything back. We are a society that is pitiably infatuated with the celebrity phenomenon and we show our fickle adoration by smothering the lives of those we idolize. Stardom carries a hefty price, and it seems that being the King requires even a greater one. Michael Jackson was a brilliant entertainer, but before that, he was a person. A person like any other, with fears, dreams, passions, and thoughts. He possessed an infectious smile, a huge heart, and the uncanny ability to make you want to groove. And that, my friends, is worth a crotch grab any day of the week. Hee-hee . . . Schamone!

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Super Troopers

Enough of the philosophical, self reflective, transcendentalist, rhetorical, girly-man shit . . . let's get our hands dirty people. It's time for the Dumbass of the Week Award.

Last month a 72 year old woman was pulled over for a traffic violation in Texas. The video footage from the trooper's dashcam was recently released, and it shows the majority of what went down.

I was listening to the radio last night, where I discovered this tantalizing tale, and was amused by the banter between 3 radio personalities, two men and one woman. They argued extensively about whether the police officer's actions were justified, or whether he used excessive force in subduing the woman. The female in the group thought that excessive force was used and much of her argument was, "What if that had been your grandmother?"

Brown's professional assessment? [cue drumroll] I see no problem with how the officer acted, old woman or not. He followed protocol, was provoked, and reacted accordingly. The woman, regardless of her age, was a lucid, cognizant, seemingly mature adult, who possessed the full capacity to understand the possible ramifications of her actions. She vehemently denied to sign the speeding ticket, (an action which can result in your arrest) and when the cop said that he was going to arrest her, she dared him.

The officer instructed the woman to exit the vehicle and then stood between her and inches from on-coming traffic. She continued to use profanity while insisting that she was going to get back into her car, and had to be shoved back away from the dangerous stretch of highway twice, to deny her escape and secure both of their safety. The police officer went to apply handcuffs on the woman and she blatantly resisted arrest. At that point, the non compliant citizen was warned that she was going to be tasered, and believe it or not, she dared the constable to do that as well. After 4 additional warnings about being subdued by electricity for resisting arrest, the woman attempted to flee around to the other side of her vehicle, and was ultimately administered a shock of electricity which sent her to the ground.

What followed, were the woman's hilarious bellows of dramatized agony as she ate a foot long sub of "I told you this was going to happen dumbass." Personally, I think too many hot-headed cops jump the gun in similar situations, allowing their egos to preside over logic and problem solving skills. They tend to over react to profanity and use excessive force when unnecessary.

However, in this case, the woman could have avoided the entire escalation of events by simply signing the ticket. By doing so, you are not admitting fault, but waiving immediate arrest and confirming that you will either appear in court to fight the ticket, or pay your fine. She dared the cop, used profanity, put lives in danger by acting belligerent near passing vehicles, resisted arrest, and even attempted to flee. If that's not asking for it, I don't know what is.

I've included the clip for your scrutiny and entertainment. You tell me. If you were the judge presiding over this case, in who's favor would you rule?

People should know by now, Don't mess with Texas!

Monday, June 8, 2009

The Zodiac

It's infinitely amazing to me how our souls are like prisms that filter the light of the world and project powerful tapestries of colors that do more than just describe who we are through a revelation of intricate hues. Our colors, indicative of our true identities, also harness unfathomable quantities of potential energy that can propel planets or even ignite entire galaxies into existence.

My father used to always say that every person you meet potentially carries various nuggets of knowledge and/or experience from which you can draw to dramatically improve your life. Sort of like if you were a jigsaw puzzle, and as time passed you continued to add pieces to your puzzle. You would also collect pieces that maybe wouldn't fit your current puzzle's configuration, but might be the right pieces for people whom you come across in life, (arguably by design) and who could conversely possess pieces to which would fit yours.

Personally, one of the most fascinating things I find in life are the unique experiences we share with other people. These interactions can be as short as an exchange on a train, or a manifestation of an eternal bond. In either case, these experiences imprint an indelible mark in our memories that serve a multitude of possibilities, the greatest two of which is learning and providing. Whether we learn about ourselves, other people, a song, a book, or the meaning of a word, with every encounter with another person lies the possibility of discovery, or contribution.

Being as gregarious as I am, I've always enjoyed meeting new people. However, in my youth, too much emphasis was placed on embracing these experiences and not enough was placed on cultivating existing ones. With the passing of time and the expansion of family, I have a greater appreciation for the things that truly matter in life and am trying to put more effort into developing current relationships. However, I've never quite lost the fascination with meeting new people and discovering what they might have to offer. I truly believe that the people we meet represent an important facet of our lives and although they may not always provide necessary puzzle pieces, it doesn't mean they can't influence the colors of your puzzle, or even change the very image your canvas portrays.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Painted Black

More poetic dribble . . . .


A glance, a tilt, no softer wish.
I watch you paint it black,
I yearn to be that mystic fish,
Swimming -in your sea of black.

No idle stares nor summer cloth,
Deserve your heart’s attack.
Like sultry flames that seduce the moth,
You stare at mine, I stare right back.

A thousand skies of wasted hue,
Where rainbows never lack.
Your beauty ignites the phoenix new,
Our worlds collide, we fade to black

Lips of velvet kiss the door,
Where once there laid a crack.
Desire melts us to midnight’s floor,
Where I watch you paint me black.

by Brown

Monday, June 1, 2009

I Lost a World Today

Thought I'd share a poem I wrote a few days ago. . . for those of you still reading this dribble anyway. . . .

I Lost A World Today

I lost a world just today,
Has anybody seen?
It shone before -but no more,
No longer bright and sheen.

Upon its lips one winter kiss,
And one from shifting sands.
Upon its heart an Atlas weight,
Too bearing for my hands.

I lost a world just today,
Or perhaps I didn’t know.
Dreams do not belong to men,
Nor warmth for falling snow.

by Brown

Saturday, April 25, 2009


As many of you now know I have a plethora of women in my family and although they went to great lengths to teach me the ways of the samurai, they went to even greater ones to hide the fact that women poop. As a matter of fact, although privy to every other female secret, I had been brainwashed to believe that they also never ever fart. Ever. I didn't discover that women pass gas until well into my adult years.

However, when I reflect back upon all those years that I had been deceived, I cannot for the life of me figure out exactly how they managed to keep this fact so expertly hidden. That is, of course, until now. Sorry ladies. . . . .

Saturday, April 18, 2009

The Punisher

So, a third movie was made about the Marvel Comic book character, the Punisher, and let me tell you . . . .testicle pulling torture more adequately describes having to watch this cinematic pile of cow dung than anything else. This movie instantly became one of the top 3 worst movies of all time. It had every action movie cliche' and made movies like DareDevil and Electra look like Academy Award Winners.

I knew this movie was going to be bad during the first action sequence (okay, well before that even). The Punisher enters a mansion where a mob family is meeting and a blood bath ensues. After killing every mobster in the room, he climbs atop a chandelier, drapes his legs over, and while hanging upside down (and spinning), draws two weapons and proceeds to terminate all the mindless bodyguards who subsequently enter the room. How he even got the thing to spin in the first place is a mystery, but not nearly as enigmatic as how accurately he shot every bad guy while upside down, whilst performing a trapeze stunt. Circ de soleil apparently has nothing on the Punisher.

The movie just got progressively worse with facially deformed mobsters giving themselves sobriquets such as Jigsaw and springing relatives from local mental institutions to assist in creating mayhem and ultimately bringing down the mob killing protagonist. Seinfeld's nemesis Norm, (ever wonder what happened to him?) played the weapons supplier to this unbelievable vigilante and seemed to be his only friend. (if you can call him that) The movie was devoid of any real characterization, and attempts to insert comic relief would have been more successful had they used mimes and banana peels. Everyone from the writer to the editor should be cryogenically frozen and sent into outer space for creating this film making masterpiece of vomit inducing excrement.

Everything in this movie was predictable, from the plot to the script. One of the most offensive things about this film was the painfully exaggerated gore. The Punisher literally punched a guy's face in and nearly everyone he shot either lost a limb or half of his face. At one point in the movie, he even resets his broken nose with a pencil. That's right, not the old fashion, "Let me wiggle this thing back into place" move; oh no, that would be too easy. I need to shove a pencil halfway to my brain and perform a violent, caveman rhinoplasty without so much as a grimace or a drop of blood.

Save yourselves the punishment and skip over this piece of shit when you're perusing the shelves of your local video store. I sure would have, had the movie I originally wanted had been in stock. Oh well, another one of life's little ironies I suppose. Where the hell is Dolph Lundgren when you need him? I'm just sayin'.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Field of Dreams

Oftentimes, the best lessons in life we learn without even knowing it. Mr. Miyagi began teaching Daniel Karate by making him wax his cars, paint his house and fence, and sand the floors. Similarly, my Father taught me some of life's most valuable lessons by teaching me how to play baseball.
My Dad taught me how to properly oil and shape a new baseball glove; carefully and meticulously working the oil into the new leather, forming a perfect pocket for the ball. Many hours were devoted to punching my fist into the cradles of new gloves to ensure the perfect feel and wear. Life is eerily similar. If you work hard enough at something, life can bend to your will. I learned that the most rewarding things in life need to time to be cultivated.
He showed me how to wait for the perfect pitch, how to hit curveballs, throw a sinker, and 3 different types of fastballs. He showed me how to cut off a throw from the outfield, cover a base, sacrifice bunt, and steal bases. He also stressed that you don't always have to try and smash the ball, just make contact. You'd be surprised how far it goes when you just make contact with the sweet spot of a bat.

Timing is everything. Sometimes showing restraint in the present will produce the perfect set of circumstances in the future. Life inevitably throws you curveballs, I know how to wait them out. Life comes with its hitting slumps, I know how to keep swinging through them. When one strategy isn't working, have two other fastballs you can throw. There are moments when you have to step in and take over a situation, cover your buddy's back, sacrifice yourself for others, or take a risk. When I'm trying too hard to make something work, I know that sometimes just the right amount of effort or finesse, will garner the desired results, often exceeding expectations.
I remember my Dad liked to say that there will ALWAYS be somebody faster, stronger, and better than you. You have to work harder, work smarter, and although you might not always beat him, eventually you will. I learned that I didn't like losing, but that it's very much a part of life, and the smart ones learn from it.

He instilled discipline, work ethic, commitment, and courage. Being the coach's son, I was the first to arrive and the last to leave. I learned the value and responsibility of working hard to hone skills. It takes courage to stand in front of an 85 mph fastball. I learned that occasionally you get hit, and although it's painful, you can capitalize on misfortune. Life too can sting, but you have to dust yourself off and get back in the batter's box no matter what. And sometimes, you have to take one for the team.
From watching my Dad trek across the baseball diamond to argue a call with an umpire, I learned that you have to stand up for justice, fairness, and equality. I learned that there are times you have to question authority/government and that you have a voice. If nothing else, every time he got in an umpire's face, it demonstrated the quintessential example of commitment and loyalty. In life you have to be fully committed to your cause, your family, and what you believe in, others will loyally follow.
He conditioned me to be coachable. I remember he would also say that everyone you come in contact with in your life, potentially has knowledge or insight that could be useful and applicable to your situation. Different people have different vantage points, experiences, skill sets, and knowledge. Stay open minded, listen to what they have to say, consider their experiences and learn from them.

We played catch, pepper, hit batting practice, caught fly balls, and threw countless pitches. It still baffles me to this day, how after all of that, he was simultaneously molding my character and preparing me for life. I had to work hard at some things, while others just came naturally. As I get older and reflect upon these memories with greater frequency, I begin to understand the importance of the bond between Father and Son, and more importantly, how monumentally significant even the most trivial of activities spent with your Father can influence and shape your life.
I'll leave you with lyrics from a Kenny Rogers song that my Dad sent me one day. I think they sum things up rather well. You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em, Know when to walk away and know when to run. You never count your money when you're sittin at the table. There'll be time enough for countin when the dealins done.

Monday, March 30, 2009

The Reader

I have discovered the Holy Grail! Okay, well, not like the actual cup of Christ with life saving capabilities and all, but more like the next best thing. For those of us that like to read or watch movies anyway. And I didn't exactly discover it really, my sister Cris more or less sat me in front of her computer and showed me the awesome amazingness that is I'm sure for all of you reading this, because we're related, is probably old news. However, for the remote possibility that someone I'm not related to should happen upon this blog and doesn't know about this gem of euphoric reading fantasticness (it's a word a swear), I shall give you the 411 as they say. (I'm not sure who says this shit anymore, but it seemed fitting.)

So, this website, as I was saying, is fantastical awesomeness. It allows you to swap Books, CD's, DVD's, video games, and babies (I had a cute little African baby I wanted, but Madonna beat me to it). When you are finished with books or movies you don't want anymore, you can put them in a queue as stuff to be traded, in exchange for things you want. Both your wish list, and tradeables can be comprised of all the aforementioned things, except for babies (but I think stem cells are okay). The website, powered by magic and scientifically enhanced hummingbirds, matches and pairs you up with other random people who have books you want, and vice-versa. All you need to do, is either accept or decline offers from these gate keepers of stupendousness, that have nothing better else to do than hoard all the shit you've ever wanted. Sometimes, you can be involved in a 3 or 4 person trade . . . . like an orgy! See? I told you it was awesome.

Friday, March 27, 2009

What Women Want

I often think that I possess extraordinary knowledge when it comes to women. After all, I have five sisters who made it their personal endeavor to "groom" me into a man that had all of the characteristics they deemed necessary for the perfect gentleman. Having been exposed to this kind of torture environment during my impressionable years has also provided me with invaluable insight into the female psyche. Harboring this knowledge has granted me countless advantages and there is very little that a woman can do that will leave me entirely perplexed. One of those things, however, I witness everyday, and it's beginning to drive me to the point where I'm experiencing overwhelming desires to extract my eyeballs with rusty utensils.

Why do women who are driving with the windows down, find it necessary to fluff, fiddle, manipulate, and incessantly adjust their hair when as soon as they accelerate, its only going to return into disheveled mess again anyway? Makes no sense. Wear a hat, tie it up, or roll your freakn' windows up. I happened to be in a little bit of traffic the other day, and I had the comical fortune of being behind the same lady through 4 traffic lights and a good stretch of highway. Never failed, at every single stop their was excessive primping and poking of bangs. You would have thought she was preparing a poodle for Best In Show.

I've seen some retarded acts of humanity in my day, (many of them my own) and even though it shouldn't boggle my mind as much as it does, I find it absolutely incomprehensible that so many of these things I see while driving. For instance, reading. Why people think this is any smarter than swimming amongst sharks with a bludgeoned sea lion around their neck, I will never know. And I'm not talking about the casual glance at printed directions either, I mean the full on I didn't finish reading this chapter last night for my presentation, or the I will sacrifice my life to find out how this article on cross-pollination of orchids ends. Generally, I'm all about encouraging a strong reading regiment. Personally, I don't think people do enough of it. But seriously, put down the literature while you drive. I doubt anyone is reading anything on the highway that's worth dying for.

Which leads me to my next observation of feet in the windshield. I've witnessed many accidents during my motor vehicle conducting career, and let me tell you, people that like to stick their feet out the window or think it's cute to display them on the dashboard, are playing with fire. It's one thing to survive a horrible accident. It's quite another for paramedics to have to search for your foot to reattach it, or for doctors to surgically remove your kneecaps from your face. Not so cute anymore is it? Well, if you're going to continue to defy the traffic gods, tempt fate, and subject me to the sight of your crusty-ass feet, for heaven's sake, (and mine) at least put some damn lotion on.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

A League of Their Own

Pssssssssssst! Hey . . . . you. Are they gone? You know, all those relentless poopie fanatics. I was hoping to shake the majority of those thoughtless, uncultured minions off my trail with an extended hiatus. All the e-mails, letters, and comments were becoming too overwhelming. I mean really, who has time to respond to all that shit?

Well, now that it appears to be just us select few again , let me say the majority of the reason behind Mr. Poopie's glorious return is due to my Dad, and of course the Amazing Cheasty Pants, who by the way, was the only person who begged me to come back. And by beg, I mean she sent me endless e-mails pleading for me to once again grace blog-land with my all-knowing voice of reason. As part of her elaborate plans of coercion, she sent pictures of herself in mid air, pictures of her friends in mid air, pictures of random Central American foliage, food, and even poetry. Yes, poetry. She begged, pleaded, implored, and groveled. After witnessing enough of her rueful antics, I figured I would bestow her some clemency. Although, I think I would have never tired of all the Nicaraguan beer I received.

The truth is, I've been reading voraciously, writing a book, and doing lots of homework for school. Yeah, you heard me . . . . . . . school. I suppose it's time for me to finish school and secure my Masters so that I can join the elite 9.4% of the populace to have accomplished the same. Let's face it, as much as I'd like to, I can't rub people for ever.

To say that things have slowed down in the massage business would be an understatement. Although, the industry leading, luxury resort conglomerate I work for caters to the affluent, we have begun to feel the effects of our ever weakening economy. Consequently, Mr. Poopie has had a lot more time to do other things like reading and pondering why certain people are allowed to procreate. Also, to be even more forthcoming, there wasn't a whole lot I felt impelled to talk about that wasn't already being shoved down our throats by mass media. Economy, blah blah, Obama, blah blah blah, Iran and nuclear-blah blah, bad peanut butter-blah.

One thing I do feel relatively inspired to discuss, besides boobies of course, is all this ubiquitous discussion about steroids and baseball. Helloooooooo, am I the only person on the planet that knew these fools were juicing? The commissioner of baseball has the cojones to act like he didn't know what was going on, and worse yet, the gall to say he's going to consider distributing punishment. I have a couple of problems with this entire A-Rod steroid saga. For those of you who live in a shell, or Cambodia for that matter, there were some random, supposedly anonymous, drug testing done back in 2003 to get an idea of how many baseball players were taking steroids. We won't address why an "anonymous" test involved actual "names" to begin with, but some how, the list of those positive tests has leaked, and of course A-Roid (as he's been so appropriately named) was at the top of that list. Keep in mind that performance enhancing drugs were not illegal in baseball at the time. (reason number one, the results should be thrown away and this entire fiasco forgotten)

The second problem I have with all this, is that congress has been involved with the witch hunt to find out who has been taking PED's, which inevitably has led to some athletes to lie under oath, which in turn has put their freedom in jeopardy. By no means am I siding with the players, or condoning the use of banned substances, I just feel that all this is a huge waste of time and money. Implement better testing and move forward. No need to drudge up a bunch of meaningless tests, dirty syringes, (who keeps this shit?) and DNA samples that ultimately aren't going to solve the problem, but only confirm what we already suspected in the first place.

Congress? Why are my tax paying dollars being used to out athletes who we already know used steroids, when there is a 1100 page stimulus package that I know the majority of them haven't dedicated the time to read? I'm sorry, but Congress needs to stay out of baseball. I think the sport is completely capable of cleaning things up without the help of a large bureaucratic counsel of geriatric law makers. Figure out how to balance the budget, save Michael Jackson's face from falling off, then worry about sports. It's only a matter of time before the spot light turns to football. Which, by the way, is where they should have been looking all along. Hee-hee, Schamone!