Friday, December 31, 2010

It's my birthday and I'll blog about myself if I want to

It’s nearing midnight and I am about to unceremoniously take my first step into my early thirties. Thirty-one to be exact.

People across the world have been cheering the new year for most of the day, putting another year behind them, resolving to change, to begin anew, to start afresh, to be young again. But I will have aged. Because I was born then, 31 years before, a full day of labor for my young mother, a full day of agony for my sense of shelter.

It is easy to keep track of my age though. How old was I in 1985? Five. The whole year. How old will I be in 2099, the year my favorite Spiderman, Miguel O’Hara, paradoxically “lived”? One hundred and nineteen. The whole year. I attribute my smokin’ decent memory to my birthday as well. Who did I vote for in the mock presidential election of 1988? Michael Dukakis. I liked his eyebrows. I was eight, seven for half the school year. What year did I notice my first armpit hair? 1990. I was 10. Ask my mother. She’ll tell you all about it, wrong, of course, and with embellished humiliation. When did the space shuttle Challenger blow up? Don’t know exactly but I remember the day. I was riding a yellow bus to Pillow Elementary School. Kindergarten. So I know it was between 1985 and 1986. The flag was half staffed enough for me to recognize it as strange so I’m going to say 1986. Haley’s Comet strolled by that year too. I remember it was ’86 because an Australian classmate named Zena had returned to the Outback and sent the class a picture of her awesome vantage. Out of jealousy, I teased her and Tyler Vandercolt for winning the privilege of sleeping in the classroom teepee together during naptime. She told me I wasn’t very nice. It still stings. In preschool, I remember getting into a fight with another boy over a police hat during play time. Totally kicked his ass. Some snotty blonde girl tried to kiss me all year during story time and a girl named Bridgette broke my heart by admitting that she wanted to marry some other asshole four year old over me. The year was 1984.* In ’83, I was sitting on my father’s shoulders, picking plantains to “surprise” my mother. That same year I repeatedly played doctor with my older sister’s friend from next door. Hot. I was three. 1982 imprinted still images in my head: a skateboard that I wasn’t allowed to stand on; a tennis racket in its wooden frame; Tom & Jerry wallpaper; a crying baby sister whom I was mean to until she was old enough to start hitting me back. In’79, the war half of me was tightly bundled in a single sperm within my father’s scrotum. The love side of me was waiting comfortably in parts of my mother that I will not mention here. I don’t remember any of that though. New Year’s wasn’t my birthday yet.

Fast forward 31 years later, and I’m thinking of people who have absolutely no memory of me and moments that are remembered by no one but me. It was nice reflecting though. Happy New Year.

Already retaining information

Bobby: “What are you doing?”
Carlos: “Writing a blog about myself.”
Bobby: “Am I in it?”
Carlos: “I thought I’d mention you in 1984 but I didn’t have the space.”
Bobby: “Whatever. You should put a little asterisk by 1984 and mention me.”

In 1984 I smashed my arm through the window of my home while mimicking TV’s hit program The Incredible Hulk. As I stood in my living room screaming at the sight of blood spraying from my right arm, my current roommate, Bobbles Almond, centered his face in the frame of the shattered window. He stood in the bushes outside and between his disproportionately large ears and cheeks, his eyes were scared. They were scared because a boy, 9 months Bobby’s elder, a boy that Bobby held and still holds as the pinnacle of manliness could bleed like any other mortal. It was an important year for young Bobby, 1984. I was four. The whole year.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Killing time before killing time

A street car rumbles behind me. Its ghost glides by as a reflection across my computer screen and my coffee trembles in its glass. A disruptively beautiful woman sits at a table beside me. She was making love eyes at me until my male roommate walked into the coffee shop on his way to work and, with a saboteur’s grin, made suggestively homosexual remarks about my day’s activities.

It’s better that way. I can focus on writing. Oh yeah, and job hunting.

Horrific money woes aside, being unemployed in San Francisco is pretty cool. At some point, I’m going to walk from east to west across the peninsula or whatever. Seven miles, so I’m told, so I tell you, making it truth. I’ve even grown accustomed to sleeping like murder on a hardwood floor, face down and calamitous. It’s quite comfortable, in fact. I toss and turn a lot but no more than I would on a king bed and my back feels great. I’ve never had back problems but apparently there was something out of order ‘cause I don’t need to arch out my slouch so much anymore and as testament, every morning I jump kick out of my nest in order to demonstrate my newfound dexterity to the phantoms of this Victorian place. But yeah, I need a bed, I guess. I really don’t want one. I’m only getting one because of you people and your judgmental nostrils and stinking expectations. Maybe I’ll make a tatami bed. Yeah. That’d be just fine.

What else.

It’s cold here. It’s cold and the hills make me want to puke but not for any aesthetic reason; it’s because the valves of my heart are actually miniature vaginas that constrict and flatulate when the rest of me is uncomfortable. They haven’t acclimated to the suddenly wide corridors of blood that the vertical hills of San Francisco have required of my arteries either and on more than one occasion, I’ve felt compelled to lay down and die at the top of a mountainous hill with the city landscape a beautiful death shroud. That’s not to suggest that vaginas should in any way be associated with weakness. Make no mistake: they’re disproportionately stronger then their counterparts. They’re so powerful in fact that I’ve done many . . . questionable things for them. I like vaginas and not even as friends. I love them. Whatever. All I’m saying is that a man shouldn’t have vaginas in his heart when he’s accidentally found himself on Taylor Street because salt-dried shrimp sounded like a really tasty additive to pasta and the only place he knew to get some was at a fly infested market in Chinatown. Happy Holidays.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Austin is dead to me.

So, I’ve moved to San Francisco and before you ask, no, I don’t have a job ready to scoop me up. Also, don’t suggest your San Franciscan friends to me unless they’re busty sex maniacs who think all Texans are lonely cowboys that have trouble expressing their emotions. I could somehow use that to my diabolical advantage.

Anyway, I’ve moved to San Francisco. Austin’s a cool scene but I’ve been meaning to explore the radically left sensibilities that have consumed a substantial amount of my political brain, and what better place to do so than the prototypical American city of liberal discontent?* I would have gone East Coast with equal speed and enthusiasm but the west presented itself to me and I’ve wanted to poke around out here for a solid decade.

If you’re a friend and didn’t know I was ditching town, I apologize, but rest assured that you are in the majority. Like most other things that shine a scrutinizing and embarrassing spotlight on my activity, I kept my plans a loosely controlled secret. Have you ever left your state? A lot of people you never socially interact with suddenly want to get to know you better. And vice versa. For all my grumpy introversion, I found myself prematurely missing people I hadn’t seen in years.

Oh well.

I’ll see them again. I still have to go back and pick up my machete, hunting bow, knives, and my pistolas for when the global economy collapses and it’s every man for himself. What, did you think just because I’ve drastically changed locations that I’m suddenly cured of my paranoid malcontent? Don’t be an asshole.

The Golden Gate Bridge (post Apocalypse)

*My lovingly conservative beau-père, Ronaldo, assured me that I will return to Austin a gay communist, a sentiment that represents, in full, my overwhelming desire to leave Texas.
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