“And I Wonder…When I Sing Along With You…”

“it’s better to burn out than to fade away,”

“They would’ve broken up eventually,” Angela says. Of the co-workers, Angela is the one I like most. It’s always been that way with me. I prefer the company of girls/women to the company of boys/men. At the moment, though, I can’t help but think she’s dead wrong.

“They’re music would’ve become corporate,” I say.

“He wouldn’t have allowed it to happen,” she states, and I wonder how much of it is true. Most likely all of it, but still, the band was already riding the torrential tsunami wave towards the mainstream. Had he not died when did, the whole concept of the band would’ve drowned with it.

“Without his death, though,” I say, throwing caution to the wind, “we would never have had the Foo Fighters.”

“Sure we would,” she says. “We just wouldn’t have the entire collection of awesome Foo Fighters songs.”


Angela lent me Love is a Mixtape by Rob Sheffield, and I can’t help but to shed a tear. Not because of the book’s subject. I’m sorry Rob Sheffield, I truly am, but my empathy level is low with strangers, no matter how beautifully they write. No, my tears come from the realization that Shaun will never receive or make a mixtape.

He will never hear Sublime’s “Santeria” following the melancholy cords of Pearl Jam‘s “Black.” Never hear Stabbing Westward jump over to Tears for Fears. Never have the opportunity to listen to Guided by Voices song play with The Donnas – classic The Donnas, anyway.

The mixtape was essential in my adolescence. I don’t think I would have survived high school without it. Hell, I don’t think I would have any friends. When cassette tapes were being replaced with the more convenient CD, I stood my ground until my cassette tape deck died. Mixtape on CDs just weren’t the same. CDs allowed you to jump around. All the hard work and efforts put into the mixtape were erased. When MP3 replaced CDs, well the concept was dead and gone. Sort of.

I don’t see eye to eye with Sheffield’s outlook on the technology. An iPod can hold so much potential for the idea of mixtapes, but it’s not the same. The closest thing these days is having a Pandora One account. Even then, you’re given permission to skip songs – six per hour, per radio.

My lunch buddy – a co-worker from another department – Rosie and I talked about this earlier today.

So now, I’ll make a vow. I will make Shaun a mixtape. I haven’t figured out how. And I sure as hell don’t know what he’ll listen to it on, but it’s going to happen. Mark my word.



There was a time, when I stared into the sun, and realized that I never existed


“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. FUCKING SHIT! It’s all internal monologue as I shake awake. What was in that bud? Never. NEVER. Have I ever had an experience like this. Shit. Shit. Shit. Never. EVER. Get stoned and fall asleep watching Once Upon a Time in the West. Great film. Not so great nightmares about Johnny Law breaking down your door and arresting you for giving your at-the-time underage girlfriend cannabis laced brownies.  And to piss gasoline into the flames, I’m pretty sure that I just shat myself.


M and I are writers. That is we’re writers who haven’t written anything in a while. Sure, he has the shows and I have the blogs, but nothing worthwhile. He says the job is what killed his ability to write. Me? I blame hours of boob tube. In truth, however, it’s because I stopped living. That’s a laugh, right? Even when I was, I wasn’t.

And this isn’t a post about me being a father too young – I’m at the cusp of my late twenties and early thirties. If anything, I’ve waited too long to become a father.

So where did it all go? I read just as much as I did in college. I experience the same things…well, not exactly. Gone are the nights at the taco stand. Of watching people kill possums with beer bottles. Of eating pot brownies while studying logic. Not that those things were constant in my life, but it was something. More than coming home from work and sitting down in front of the TV and catch up with whoever the fuck is on it.

Gone, too, is the social interaction that I loathed. Sure there are the kids at work, but they’re more interested in playing on computers than holding a conversation. And when they start going on about League of Legends, my mind sorta just drifts. Somehow, I’m back at the cubical talking to the RPGers, sans the pot.

An old friend told me to go out and have a drink with a friend. I don’t drink. I don’t even enjoy coffee. Especially not in the summer.

I see the smile on my son’s mouth and I want to cry each time. I’m away too much. I lie to my coworkers, giving them reports that I get. And that human feeling that I used to treasure so much? Well, that’s pretty much gone, too. It’s a war I’m too tired to continue to fight. Then again, I don’t see the point in fighting it anymore. Because give another three years and something else will appear. And another thing. It’ll continue. And it’ll keep pulling me down to levels of self-hatred. As long as I get to see him and be in his life, that’s all that matters to me now. Everything is just static.


I hear myself mouth the words, and even I know I’m not ever going to give up. That’s the problem with us junkies. No matter the junk floating in our veins, you never give up on what you love. And that’s the problem. No matter how much I can hate a person, I still love them.

Bathroom or Bust

There are several plans I’ve made in my head to get me to the bathroom without anyone knowing I just shat myself. Most of them have me crawling. Another just has me fessing up to my so-called crimes. Fuck it. Just run.

The story ends happily. To a point, anyway. At least there wasn’t any shit.




“Don’t fret precious I’m here, step away from the window…go back to sleep…”

Some types of anglerfish can’t live on their own. The male attaches himself to a female by biting her. In time, his body becomes part of hers. His eyes, teeth , and organs disappear!

Are we any different?

The pills on the counter were placebos. Another Hermanos Brusco rip-off special. Never deal with a family who’d kill their own in order to take control, right? Then again, his parasitic behavior had caused him to leech on another unsuspecting victim. Her money, her food, her life. They were his now. He would be apart of her and she would never be the wiser. Because that’s what love does to you. Blinds you from all else.

Sonny Diego, they called him. SD, he called himself. “What is that like some sort of memory chip?” his friend asked him. “Dude, you’re memory’s shot to to hell. Just like me.”

Don’t skimp on the goddamn E, Sonny. The world isn’t happy enough. But when you’re getting on your own product, it’s only a matter of time before you’re in deep. Ain’t that right, Sonny?

Sexual Suicide

Sexual dimorphism, really. It makes it easy for the little suckers to attach themselves onto a the female. Their sole purpose in life is to find a mate. The triplewart seadevil male latches onto the female by biting her. Once doing so, it releases an enzyme that fuses his blood vessels to hers by dissolving parts of both parties. In the end, the only thing that survives from the male anglerfish are his reproductive organs – in short, she literally keeps his “balls.” When the female spills out her eggs, the gonads are triggered and release the spermatozoa.

It is not uncommon for several male triplewart seadevils to attach themselves to a single female.

quote from Underwater (That’s Gross!: A Look at Science), a children’s book.


“…in the shoes of so great a man.”

Suppressing the smile

I purchased the Samsung Galaxy S III Friday, and I have to say I’m in love with this little sucker. Better pictures than my old BlackBerry Curve, and isn’t that what fatherhood is all about? Taking pictures of your spawn? And I’ve tapped into my hipster-dom and created an Instagram account to boot. Prepare yourself friends and family, I’m going to shove images of my son down your throats.

I’m thinking of revamping this blog, again. The last time I said that, it never happened. I’m not motivated enough to keep up with a niche. (See: just about every blog I ever had.) Perhaps I’ll come to terms and just drop the Tumblr blog – have we agreed on calling it a Tumblog yet? – and start from zero. If I could, I just shove all the blogs into one. But then that would be super chaotic.

Ugh, why do I feel the need to keep my life on display like I’m someone important? Why do I feel like leaving a set of letters to my son where just anyone can read them? Am I trying to exist? I don’t know.

Anyway, as for the Samsung Galaxy S III, if you’re thinking about it, you should just get it. It’s worth every penny. Now, if only I can figure out how to do all the cool stuff with it. Any help will be greatly appreciated.


Selective Memory

“It’s a motherfucker being here without you.”

The cathedral stands as a fallen empire over the ruins of what once a place I called home. She waits at the top step wearing that white bridal shower dress that ten years ago would’ve aroused my attention, fluttered my heart. She’s older, then again, so am I. Older. Grayer. A misanthrope drunken by the feel of the crowd.

I see her and think that if things had gone a bit different. If only, right? That’s the problem with looking back while walking forward. You always wonder what might have played out, while missing out the images the reel is playing.

At nineteen, I set off to make something of myself. A failed relationship. A few journals. A romance with do-not-resuscitate tattooed on its chest. Ten years later, I’m making meager wages. And I haven’t left any evidence that I existed. That I lived. There will be no section dedicated to me in the history books. I’m lucky if I become a footnote in someone’s autobiography.

“You’re haunted by ghosts,” she told me ten years ago. We were sitting on the hood of her car, staring at the little stars that push through the deafening city lights.

“Sometimes I think that I died,” I admit. “And that all this is just those visions we’re told about. Instead, it’s not my life flashing before my eyes. It’s more of the life that I could’ve lived.”

It occurred to me that I hate people because they always leave. In kindergarten, I made friends a Carlos Perez. I considered him my first best friend. He moved away before the year was out. Even before him, Javier moved on. Then there was my grandfathers who died while I was still young. The friends I made in kinder, well, some of them transferred to other schools. And in third grade, we were all split up. Juan and Daniel were friends I made to replace the others. I imagine Juan is either dead or in prison or dead in prison. Daniel, he could’ve become anything he wanted to. His heart was good, but I imagine his world was torn asunder. That he was used up and left on the streets. I imagine Roberto, who moved to Michigan in the ninth grade, as some pencil pusher whose wife hates him, whose children loathe and disrespect him.

And then I remember Teddy and wonder what he would’ve been like had he not died.

It’s selective memory that has me writing and rewriting and revising all the same details. I remember the parts that meant something, the scenes where they left me and not the other way. Because it’s easier to hate them that way.

“What if I was not your only friend in this world?” I asked. “Would you take me where you’re going if you’re never coming back?”

She smiled and turned away from me. “It’s nice out here,” she said. “Maybe someday.”