Still Here

I lost my kidney.
I won't go into great detail about it. In late March, I got sick. No appetite, weak, throwing up. The night of that great Kansas-Memphis NCAA final Karen dragged me to the emergency room. By the time I was in a bed in the ICU with a Foley catheter in me, I knew what was happening.
I spent two weeks in the hospital, including three nights in the ICU unit where they couldn't tell my girlfriend for sure if I'd make it out of there alive. My second night there was a hazy, nightmarish blur, where I thought I was being led through a door to Hell. By the third night, I was drifting in and out, almost not caring if I recovered. But by the time the Masters teed off on Thursday, I was upright, eating, back on dialysis and wondering just where the road led from here.
Where I've landed is here: 41, living with my girlfriend, growing herbs and flowers, working a new job that I really like. Back on dialysis, yes; back on that god damned diet, taking those pills, but alive. Alive and living. Hell, I'm even on a bowling team.
Everything isn't grand. Sometimes without warning the tears come; sick feelings of loss, desperation. Wondering where the years went. Knowing that 'someday' will probably never get here. What could have been.
I haven't tried as hard as I could. I've failed more than I've succeeded. I've disappointed more than I've inspired. But at this point in my life, I'm making the effort to do the right things. New challenges are ahead, and I'm looking forward to them. I'm very lucky to b alive, and I appreciate it, for the first time in a long time. So many are so much worse off than I, and I need to realize that. I need to dig for the strength that so many assure me that I have.
I could've died in April, but I didn't.
I need to be worthy of this life.

Waitng Tables, Buttsex Cuddling and Other Stories

Greetings, dumb asses! I can't believe it's been five months since I posted anything on here, yet today, here I am.. on a dial up computer, no less. The mood to post struck me for two reasons. Number one, my ex-wife has asked me to post for awhile; I always enjoy reading hers, which you can find at http://www.kissandtellall.blogspot.com/. Another was to answer a reader named June Cleaver, who apparently is concerned about my drinking habits in the face of my kidney transplant. And June, you're right; it is probably not a good health choice, but I've really ceased to give a shit. Something's gonna kill me sooner or later, and with my family track record, it's probably gonna be sooner. But thanks for caring!
On an up note, I think I've found my life's calling. Waiting tables. I am fucking Joe Montana, I am fucking Evel Knievel, I am fucking Elvis when it comes to waiting tables. My customers love my ass. I get their names, I get into their conversations, I find things in common and forget it, baby. They can't wait to tip me. Get out the traveler's checks, Maude, this guy is worth more than the eight bucks I got in my wallet. Some eye contact, a nice comment about a woman's shoes, Hey, how 'bout those Cubbies? and forget it. There is nothing finer than to leave work with cash in pocket.. and piss it away at the Cedar Room seven minutes later! Ooh Rah!
Being a guy, I like swapping sex stories as much as the next guy. Now, this didn't happened to me, so I'll avoid names, but damn..
A bartender buddy of mine who is a real man whore told me about this girl he met while working. Now, he's a bartender, she's a drunk chick.. you figger it out. Turns out this girl is a real pig. I know that's not politically correct, so before I hear a peep, Michi, shut the fuck up. I mean, fucking, sucking, ass eating, brown toungin'.. she did it all. And for a finale, my buddy went ass spelunking. You know, back forty plowing. Get it? Butt honing. He put it in her ass.
Ok, zip bam boom, he does his bidness, it's late or early, she's into her tramp suit and out the door.
Cut to several hours later.
She knocks on his door. Groggily, he opens it and squints to see who it is.
I'm back! she says cheerfully.
Why? he asks.
We didn't get the chance to cuddle she explains.
Now, I'm sure he couldn't have been more surprised if he opened the door and had The Rock kick him in the balls. So his reaction seems quite natural to me.
He burst out laughing. Great gales of laughter, like the first time you saw a Kinison video. And then he explains You don't cuddle after buttsex!
He probably should reconsider that policy. After he shut the door in her face, she keyed his truck. Me, I think the damage was worth the story and punchline.

And things are good. My meds and rent are paid for another month, the Packers are 4-0, and I've got half a tank of gas and $29 in my pocket. I'm sure right now at BevMo, there's a bottle of Tuaca with my name on it.

Leftovers and Pocket Change..

The random stuff I'm thinking about today... Flip-flops and trucker caps have no place in restaurants where the busboys wear ties, and the napkins are linen... I love Jason Whitlock. Here's an African American columnist who doesn't toe the Jesse/Al line and his peeps in tha community are lining up to slam him for his views on hip-hop. I got your back, J... Yes, we get it; your car stereo is bangin'. But, the whole neighborhood does not wanna hear that shit...Hey, old man at the restuarant; would it fucking kill you to go the restroom and blow your nose?...Barry Bonds is an arrogant prick, and we all know he did steroids before, the the old man keeps swattin', and you KNOW he's gotta be on the straight and narrow now. Hmmm...Ben & Jerry's Coffee Heath Bar Crunch rocks the shit...I really tried to like Studio 60, but it tried to be too cute and clever, and it the end it just sucked... I need to get off my dead ass and take a walk or go swimming or something. Jesus!...I hope the guy who stole my car last time is now doing time in Pelican Bay, getting his salad tossed by an HIV positive Nazi gang leader affectionately known to the other prisoners as 'The Poison Skinhammer'...

Either I'm Getting Old, Or Civility Has Jumped In Front Of The Bus

Chances are, if you're taking in air right now, you've either A) worked in the service industry, B) know someone who has, or C) have been served through the service industry. If you meet none of these, you are either A) Joe DiMaggio in the last fifteen years of his life when the only time the stingy bastard left the house was to wash his car by pouring soap on it and driving it in the rain, or B) the fat fuck who was the gluttony victim in Se7en who apparently lived on cases of canned spaghetti and microwave burritos, and never left the house.
I've worked in some form of the service industry for more years than I care to admit, and in the last few years, I've seen samples of incivility and outright rudeness that would cause Emily Post to shamble out her grave Shaun Of The Dead style, just to stick a goddamed fork in her eye hole. To wit:
Well, She's Here To Serve Me
This stunner was uttered by the former Mrs. Rex. We had been dating a couple of months and were in the grocery store checkout line. The checker gave her a big, friendly greeting, and the future Mrs. Rex did not reply. About a minute later, TFMR asked for a pen. We left without TFMR returning the checker's 'have a great day!'
Once outside, I basically said something like What the eff is your problem? Would it have hurt you to be nice to her?
When TFMR informed me that this was a service person, not a friend of hers, I let her in on some of the truths of life she obviously had not picked up, being a 26 year old preschool teacher who had never worked in service.
This probably is that girl's whole gig. 8 hours a day at that fucking register, and probably 90% of customers treat her the way you did. A smile and a 'I'm great, how're YOU?' might have made her day. Treat anyone in that position like that again, and we're done.
The former Mrs. Rex will now chat a waiter's head off about how she like's their haircut, and usually tips 30%, even if the steak is too rare.
What's With Your Eye?
I'm only calm enough to talk about this now, but it only happened a few days ago, and I swear to Jesus and sweet Baby Jesus, I had a brief flash about picking up this customer's steak knife at the table and going all young-Vito-Corleone-on-Don-Ciccio-back-in-the-hometown on this guy's ass.
When I was a little kid, I had no peripheral vision in one of my eyes. Medicine in the early '70's being what it was, they fixed the vision problem, but the surgery left the muscle under my eye a little droopy, and the eye doesn't move quite in sync with the other. We're not talking Marty Feldman ("Damn your eyes!" "Too late!") here, but be a little kid who looks a little different, and see if you aren't a teensy-weensy bit sensitive at the ripe old age of 40.
So, I've got these two customers at my table, and right off I can tell these two are gonna be a challenge. They're both on phones with loud, obnoxious ringtones, they're dressed for a truck pull and are oblivious to the fact that there are other people around them. I take a deep breath and approach the table.
"Hey, how are you folks? My name is.."
"What's with your eye?"
Had my manager just pulled out his fatted man-steak and started working one out in the middle of the kitchen, I could not have been more taken aback.
"I'm sorry?"
"Your eye.. it looks kind of fucked up."
At this point, I can hear Carmine Coppola's strings coming up in the background, and the smell of olive trees in the air.
"Oh.. some minor surgery as a child..."
"You should get that shit fixed, man."
Now, should you think I'm embellishing this for the reader's entertainment, I'll admit; that's some pretty tasty dialogue. Make the guy an Al Qeida foot soldier while yer at it, baby!
Nope. This guy makes Amy's bitch customer in Waiting seem like a Mormon missionary. I felt like Clubber Lang in the second fight in Rocky III. Expect Balboa to come straight ahead swinging, and he's out there doing Sugar Ray Robinson. Totally thrown off my game. I excused myself and had another server take the table. When it came to my manager's attention, he wanted to throw them out. I said it was cool, but it really wasn't.
Why in holy hell would you ask that kind of question, to a total stranger yet, and then follow it up with insensitive comments that make what Don Imus said sound like a glowing eulogy at a state funeral? Jesus Tap Dancing Christ! Suffice to say, I'm now wearing a pair of eyeglasses with plain glass lenses, lest some clueless clod feel the need to blurt out his ignorant, uncivil tripe again.
If You Can't Afford To Tip Right, Eat At Home
I was working with a waitress who was pulling a double. She got this table that was a ton of work. A few kids, constant refills of whatever could be refilled, coupons, substitutions, you name it. So, at the end, she sees them put cash in the bill folder and leave. When she gets to the table, the bill is paid to the cent in the folder, and there is a handful of varied and scattered change.. strewn all over the table.
Well, she was a little frazzled at this point, so I scooped up the change. On top of that a handful of change is really insulting, it came to about 8 percent. Double turds!
Now, tipping is not a right. Yes, most waiters, bartenders and delivery drivers live on their tips. And I can tell you, I bust ass for customers and really appreciate my tips.
I don't know if these people were just unthoughtful, stupid, ignorant or just too busy with themselves to have a little consideration for someone who must've made 15 trips to their table. Either way, the next time? A little advice: If you're going to tip, average service 'merits' 10 percent, great service 15-20. In folding money, if you don't mind. If you can't tip at a bar, go to the liquor store. If you can't tip at a restaurant, eat at home.
There was a movie about a year ago in which all the Mexicans in SoCal disappeared, so no lawns were mowed, no lettuce picked, etc. The news was all over it. What would happen if all the Mexicans disappeared? Insert waiters, delivery drivers, gas station attendants, paperboys, busboys, or cashiers where it says 'Mexicans', and think about that next time you wanna ask a complete stranger about his eye.

Let The Third Time Be A Charm

Hey to the six people who read this! Yes, yes I know you're saying Who the hell is he again? Oh, yeah, that foul mouthed guy who drinks a lot of Tuaca and is gay for Stallone. Well, you'd be right on one count.

I've been having a lot of e chats with my first ex-wife, Michele, and it's been kinda cool. First some background: Back in 1991, I took a solo road trip to Medford, OR (Go Black Tornado) to see my buddy Ron. Meeting me in Medford was his girlfriend, and her roommate. The roommate had thick, dark hair, a great smile and was wearing a ladies fedora and sunglasses. She asked, "You wanna drop off your stuff or come with us to get a beer?"

Needless to say, I had been kicked in the butt by love. I mean, full on, intense, I-can't-leave-in-two-days-I-just met-THIS-GIRL love. Lucky for me, the lady seemed kinda into me, too and six months later, the captain of the Tahoe Queen was leading us through the I do's.

Fifteen months later, I left and in November, 1995, a judge stamped his 'that's that' on some forms, and The Great Love Of My Life was gone. (Insert overwrought Love Story music here.)

Twelve years later, the lady has been though another marriage, as have I. The difference here is SHE'S GONNA DO IT AGAIN! AH HAH HAH HAH HAH! (Can you picture Sam Kinison right here? I sure can!)

Which brings me to my point.

In Bachelor Party (still Hanks' best movie; he can take the Oscars for Forrest Gump and Philadelphia and put them in his ass, for all I care), when Rick tells his boys he's getting married, Rudy extends his hand and says Look, Rick; I'd rather be dead, but if this is what you want.. That's how I feel about marriage. But Michele, boy.. this girl has always wanted that happy-ever-after thing. And, god love her, no one's rooting harder than me. See, I've had some downers, made some mistakes. Both parents died, divorces, organ transpant, they cancelled The White Shadow. We're talking some tragic shit. But no regret in my life has ever come close to not making it work with Michele. She is the greatest person I've ever known. If I believed in God, and the jury is still out on that one, she would be my evidence. He put her here for me. And, brother, I fucked that up as hard as I possibly could. I strapped on Captain Cock's Caveman Clobbercock dildo and screwed it like a 17 year old kid on prom nite.

And she never told me she hated me. Never threatened to call the cops for the late night drunken calls that woke up finacee number two. (In fact, fiancee number two and I were friends. Ah, the incentous world of early 90's Medford radio!) Sent me a plant in the hospital when they told me my kidneys had failed. Just sent me some old photos she thought I'd like to have. (see above) And now, finally, she's gonna get that tacky wedding in Vegas she's always wanted. I'll be rooting like hell for you, baby.

You've got my address if you wanna send an invite.

Me and Rocky Balboa

The other day, I learned the difference between me and Rocky Balboa. In his mid 50's he can give the champ hell for ten rounds and make a very nice, well crafted, thoughtful film for a built in crowd. At 40, I can barely work in a moderately busy restaurant for five hours without back spasms, leg cramps and praying to St. Augustus of Busch for his blessed relief.

A lot of people have wondered over the years about my fascination with Rocky, it's sequels and the whole mythos. Now, pop culture pundits will give you the whole after-Watergate-and Vietnam-America-needed-a-hero spiel, and I'm sure that's accurate. But as a pretty perceptive 9 year old when I saw Rocky at the late, lamented Starlite Drive-In in Sactown, I had my own ideas. The son of a blue collar AFB civilian who enjoyed his job and seemed to dig his family, I was a product of the working class '70's. Although Rocky worked for a loan shark, you know he didn't break thumbs. A good guy, needing a break. Just like my old man, and a lot of kids' dads.

It was realistic. Rocky knows he can't win; he just wants to go 15 rounds. And in doing so, he shook the hell out of the HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD. Even at 9, I knew it wasn't whether he won or lost. He did his best. All you can ask for.

And when Rocky II came out, there we were, at the Starlite, watching that horseshit, who-gets-up-first ending. And crying at "Yo, Adrian! I did it!"

First day in line for III. Conning a dj for sneak preview passes for IV. Embarrassed that I took my friends to V.

And not being ashamed to cry in front of my girlfriend for Rocky Balboa.

Rocky Balboa was a film, not a sequel, not Cobra or the other shit films Stallone did through the 80's and 90's. This is how Robert 'Rocky' Balboa should go out, with Mason Dixon telling him respectfully, "You a crazy old man, you know that?" With Rocky walking out of the arena before the decision, because winning or losing doesn't matter. As someone in the midst of a crippling depression at the time, I had counted down the days til this film was here. (Thanks, Totalrocky.com) It didn't pull me out, but it gave me an emotional release I hadn't felt in quite some time. I felt a quiet, spiritual high for days. Like Rocky, back in 1976. 1976. I was nine, and 30 years later, I was nine again.

So, to my friends who ask, What the hell is it about Rocky? I say, 'Wouldn't it be cool to be 9 again.. for just two hours?'

Absolutely.

A Pirate Looks At Forty (and hates it)

Last week, I turned forty. I know this, because the age on my profile went from 39 on Tuesday to 40 on Wednesday. I had a good time. On the previous Saturday, my friends took me to dinner. On the actual day of my birthday, we hooked up at a local pub to drink beers, shoot Tuaca, sing karaoke and toast to this, my fortieth year. I drank many beers, I shot mucho Tuacas, and ripped through a version of 'Mack The Knife' the world has not seen since Mr. Bobby Darin himself. It was good enough to get me into the finals, and a shot at one thousand clams. All in all, a most successful night, and a memorable birthday.

The next day, reality set in.

The absolute last remaining vestige of my youth had past. I was now 40. Forty. FORTY? Great Mensruating Christ, FORTY! AAAAAHHHHHHGGGGHHHHHRRRRR( insert man crying, drooling and shitting himself here.)

In The 40 Year Old Virgin, Paul Rudd said "Forty is the new 20." This spoken like the man who has never had the Ghost Of Forty's Here stick his reptilian cock right up the ass for a round of How'd Ya Like THAT One, Cocksuckah?

I don't LIKE forty, and I've been here seven days. (And is all this spelling of numerals okay with the AP Stylebook? Journalism students, please comment.) I'd ask my first wife about turning forty, but she's probably still not too happy I bailed a month before she turned 30.

I had to answer the age question from my insurance provider today, and that's what really set me off. Actually answering the question, ".. and your age?" Hey, my age is Fuck You. My age is kiss my slighty bent, still packs the bidness over 30 peckerstick, that's my age, Eunice.

I said '40', and it tasted like Jagermeister in my mouth.

Don't really know how to deal. Never thought I'd get here. Never thought I'd get to 27, 30, 33 or 35, either. And now this.

Like Mickey Mantle said, "If I'd known I was gonna live this long, I'd've taken better care o' myself."

Barkeep, another Tuaca.. with the senior discount.