Monday, December 29, 2014

The day I shat myself... Rough draft

            My entire life my mother always told me that I was a 45 year old man since I was 5.  Anyone that has ever crossed paths with me could vouch for this.  I have always tried to take care of myself.  If I were allowed to I would probably have changed my own diaper.  As a kid, when guests were over, after a long meal I would offer them a cigarette.  It was the 80s.  It sounded less horrible then.

            It was in the 4th grade the first time I flew on an airplane.  I was 9, Boyz II Men were still boys, Queen Latifah still rapped and Madonna closer to the age of them boys in her music videos.  It was another time.  It was a little bit before we got dial-up.  If you don’t know what that means, look it up.  Anyway, our class spent most of the year raising money to go on a field trip to Sacramento.  After selling as many chocolate bars as our families could bare, our entire class went for just a day from our home base in San Diego to Sactown. 

            On this trip lots of parents came to chaperone their children on this trip to our state capital.  I was one of maybe 4 kids in our 30 person class who’s parent did not come on this trip.  At this time my mother worked 7 days a week and very hard to provide for me.  I packed up my walkman, fannypack, fruit by the foot candy and left for the trip.  I was assigned to hang out for the duration of the day with my friend Trey and his mother as my chaperone.

            The flight was 80 minutes long.  It was the longest of my life.  It seemed like eternity to little me, yet I only recently remembered this happened.  There was a point between landing and reaching the terminal where I lost it.  I don’t know why but I just lost bowel function.  Usually when I say this I am kidding.  In this situation I am not.  I was a cute, big-headed kid that shat his pants.  Even then I was a grown ass man because I took care of my shit most literally by myself.  I didn’t tell a soul that my pants were filled more than the bathing suits on “Bay Watch.”  I not only didn’t tell anyone, I also didn’t make a scene of any kind.  I spent the entire day walking around in my own shit, went panning for gold because that was what people did in Sacramento then, went to museums, took another flight back to San Diego and my lips were sealed.  No one knew.  Not even my mother.  The second I got home I scrubbed and washed my clothing so no one could be the wiser.  I figured that there was no reason to involve anyone else in my shit, a thought that I would echo later.  The interesting question is did the people on this trip have no sense of smell? 

Monday, December 15, 2014

When I was a homophobe

     There was a time recently when I was called a "homophobe."  When I heard this I thought that someone should immediately inform my boyfriend.  This was the was first time in my life I had ever been accused of this actually.  What happened was I responded to a picture I saw shared on Facebook. It was a photo of a little boy with the "No on 8" campaign design on his cheek while holding a sign which read "My name is" whatever his name is "I am not gay but get called'... then listed pejoratives variations of the word faggot.  The sign when on to explain how his parents complained about the bullying to the school district and they not only took no action but the bullied kid was reprimanded by the school. I saw this sign and was shocked.  I also felt horrible for the kid.  I commented on the photo saying that people should have supported the kid based on the fact that he was a child being bullied and that alone. His sexuality had no relevance.  Then lots of people commented getting upset.  I then went on to say that there was no reason to explain if this child was gay or not. People should support all bullied children and try to protect them for the reason that they are kids and that alone.  After hundreds of others commented on this post someone randomly commented that I was the H-word.  This was said out of context.  Then when I commented saying that whether this kid was gay or not all that mattered was he needed help  Then again I was attacked by people on this post.  One person even went on to talk about how he had met me and knew people like me even though we had never met nor did we have any mutual friends.  He also lived in a part of the country I had never been to.  Then one of people on this board took a photo of one of my comments without the context of the "No on 8" photo and then posted it onto a blog called Joemygod, because the more drama the merrier.  The next day I was tweeted by about 40 people calling me a hateful homophobe telling me about how homophobia still had existed, an argument I never made in the first place...  Interestingly enough what these twitter people hadn't realized was that attaching me in this way on my personal account was pretty homophobic in itself.  I did not ever say that homophobia didn't exist.  I also never said that this kid from the original conversation was not called homophobic slurs but that didn't make his cause a gay one.  By clearly mentioning that this kid is not gay while advertising a symbol of gay rights does not make this kid's cause a gay one.  It's about a child who needs defending. That's all.

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Vodka and Limelight donates to Margaret Cho's #BeRobin !

Come out to this event! On Wednesday 12/10 come out to a live reading and storytelling from my book "Vodka and Limelight!" For every book purchased on 12/10 I will donate $3 per book to Margaret Cho's charity #BeRobin ! There will be surprise guests and local celebrities! Please share, come and donate!

Come out 12/10! Buy "Vodka and Limelight" and I'll donate to #BeRobin !

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

"Run Forrest"

Intro rough draft for my next book....

            They say to write about what you know. Something you’re an authority on. I suppose writing about how to roll the perfect joint doesn’t make for a best seller. I do know how to drink responsibly and not be the guy who ever gets kicked out of a bar for any reason. That’s not a topic. Just called being an adult. I am though the biggest klutz who’s survived more odd injuries/impediments than Lindsay Lohan’s career. This is a topic that I am an authority on: surviving the lemons life throws and coming out a better person with lemonade and a funny story. At the end of the day that’s all we have. Our stories.

            I could start by telling you about one of the three black eyes I have survived in my life. None of which resulted from a fist. I could tell you about how during my 10 years bartending I accidentally cut my hands on glass more times than an old person cuts the cheese. I could tell you about my 19th birthday. When I broke my foot walking New York City. Yes. Walking. I could tell you about how I was hit by a car while crossing the street and not only survived but changed the world around me. I can tell you how I ended up with a few screws in my femur, a surgery that made me into the real life bionic man and left me with the uncanny ability to forecast the weather. We will circle back to that one later.

I suppose it’s best to start at the beginning. I was born with two left feet. That’s not a euphemism. I was the cutest pigeon-toed, flat-footed, bigheaded, shockingly pale-white little boy you ever did see.  You would have to be blind not to see me. I heard people needed sunglasses to look at baby me. I was so damn white. Back talking about my two literally left-feet. I was forced to sleep with these braces on my feet. Not exactly “Forrest Gump” style but similar. This is what the podiatrist assured my parents would help fix my feet. A pair of shoes with a metal bar connecting them and keeping the toes pointed as far out as possible. This was understood as the only way to help me have a normal life meaning able to walk like other people. It was also before I knew that I would never be like anyone else and that was actually okay.

Every night I would go to bed with those heavy braces on my little meatloaf looking feet. As a toddler I thought there wasn’t anything heavier than that bar holding my feet in place. As an adult I realize that bar couldn’t have been more than 3-5 pounds.  At bedtime my mom would tuck me into bed, which was a playpen because I was known for climbing out of the crib. I was the MacGyver of infants. What can I say? After mom hummed lullabies, setting me down in the pen and shut the light off, I was vehemently at work on an escape mission to find me real family, the rich one. I had lots of living to do.

I have never liked the word can’t or limitations others may put on one another. I also have never liked the word can’t. Many other kids in my situation would have thought, “I am in bed with heavy weight on my feet, maybe I should go to sleep.” Or feel bad about themselves for not being like everyone else. Not this guy. I took my legs, lied on my back rocking them back and forth in the middle of the night with my feet dangling over the side of the playpen.  After like 20 tries the momentum of the weight of the braces allowed my little body to fly across the room, and limp with the bar holding my feet together, pointed out the living room. Once there my mother would scream out of fear saying, “you could have killed yourself.” I would try to protest my bedtime and every time my father would carry me back to bed telling me to stay put. This would continue for another few years. Luckily I never stopped exploring and we eventually realized that the silly feet-braces didn’t work.

Monday, October 20, 2014


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