Thursday, July 30, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Your best friend,
Carlos "Clint 'The Good' Eastwood" Alderete
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I hope not. This is someone trying to show their support but fucking it up.** It's bandwagon mentality gone awry. It's Rachel Maddow and Keith Olberman's smug fanaticism. It's Sean Hannity, Bill O'Reilly, and Rush Limbaugh making love in a Georgia roadside motel.***
I don't know why morons irritate me so. The person driving this car is obviously in relative agreement with my political beliefs, but I'd rather not have him on my side. To be fair, I did speed to 75mph, cautiously changed "shooting modes" on my camera, and greedily snapped several pictures with the intention of making fun of the owner on this blog, for you. But that was for you, and if you have an Obama vehicle alteration, tattoo, haircut, or if you now say "look" each time you're about to make a long-winded point, you're an asshole, but you're reading my blog, so you're my asshole, and I love you dearly.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
It's the beginning of the second half of summer, and the clock ticks closer and closer to my having to visit and speak to classrooms full of students about the tutoring center. I hate it. Public speaking, that is. Every semester, I visit 1, 2, 3, 4...10 classes, tremble for about two minutes and scurry out in flutter of papers. I don't want to be there; the students don't give two shits for my being there; and, the professor jealously regards me as an interrupting student-stealer, which I am. On the plus side, I enjoy the upward, cow-eyed stare of so many freshmen beauties and hope that I'll have the pleasure of sitting side-by-side with each of them, overwhelmed by their perfume, overwhelmed by their young bodies.
Pig! you may cry out. But, I am what I am, a man, I am. Am I? I am. I am just a man, a synonym for pig, so I guess you'd be right. I make no apologies.
It's still quiet in my half of the now divided center. A math tutor enters, and I perk with the opportunity for human interaction. She puts both hands over a chair and wheels it out of my room. Students have bottlenecked into the math side of the center's collective brain, and there aren't any more places to sit. The door opens from down the hall, and a momentary bubble of chaotic conversation swells and dies with its closing. I sigh like an uninvited geek and breathe hotly on my freezing fingertips. The inhospitable cold reminds me that flesh tingles and stiffens, and now would be a grand time to tutor a scantily clad Barbie. Pig! But they must know I'm here, and for that, I must insert myself at the front of their classes and look like a big pussy first.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Please note my shitty car.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
I’ve always considered myself a decent artist. When I was a kid, I could draw pictures of family members, superheroes, or just about anything I stared at long enough, and I’d flex my artistic ability by making Christmas portraits for grandmas or pet drawings for teachers. All was well until I hit puberty and decided to use my talent for degenerate purposes.
You see, I was in love with a supermodel named Kathy. Only, Ms. Ireland did not love me back. I know this because to my knowledge, she never posed nude for anything but my imaginative day dreams, despite all the stars I wished upon. Solution? Draw her likeness, sans bikini. So I did. It was lovely and quite realistic with the exception of the massive 70s bush I thought all women packed in their bloomers. Upon completion, I called a meeting of neighborhood boys, and like birds in arrow formation, rode our bikes to the corner video store to mass produce my masterpiece via copy machine. One of the boys’ older brothers was a clerk there, and after feeding several dimes into the copier, I ceremoniously presented the older boy with a warm duplicate. But instead of approving of my gift, he tensed and regarded the reproduction nervously, and through tight lips, he mumbled, “Yule effed thor engine alumass.” I leaned closer and turned my head to hear him. “You left the original, dumbass!” I turned desperately to the machine, not ten feet away, and already a woman was closing its hood and holding Kathy’s portrait before her raised eyebrows. She looked at me and delicately extended the paper as though it were a real piece of art, and she didn’t want it creased. “Here you go,” she said kindly. “I don’t need one.” For the first time in my life, my entire body heated with the most tragic of self-inflicted humiliation, and when I reach out, my chubby and hairless arms were painted red. The woman’s tiny daughter peeped around from behind her mother’s huge purse as I shamefully claimed the filthy illustration. My throat involuntarily gulped to relieve its dry condition, and I thanked her with a timid and prepubescent grunt.
I wasn’t in trouble, of course. She wasn’t my mother, but she was an adult, and she was a she. I had clumsily revealed a dark and deeply rooted male motivation to a female outsider. She saw my secrets on that paper as clearly as if she’d seen me step out of a shower, naked and shriveled. Had a man found the picture, I’d like to think he’d have patted me knowingly on the shoulder and said, “Son, be more careful next time.” Instead, I got a woman who was visibly disoriented, alarmed, and sobered in one expression. It was a significant moment in my young life, and I never drew a naked celebrity again.*
*Unless you count the Disney porn flip-book of ’94, in which Goofy smears peanut butter on his perineum, sets up an 8mm, and whistles for Pluto.