SEX HOLE PART 7: “This was a tough week Charlie Brown”
Monday: “Woke up quick at about noon just thought that I had to be in Compton soon”
Well not really…. woke up around 730am, checked to make sure our kids didn’t get kidnapped while I was dreaming of fishing for Toro so I could trade the tasty fish with my friend Rakim for his Detective Comics #27. In the dream I had my hands on the comic book that introduced Batman to the world. Later in the dream I was on stage with Rakim aka “The R”, “The God Emcee”, I was playing bass whilst he was performing “Follow the Leader”. In the middle of the performance my grandmother showed up, walked on stage and started to yell at me about smoking pakalolo then she turned into my grade school teacher Mrs. Bersano and started doing windmills. After the show was over she gave me a “D” in handwriting and informed me that I had Herpes. I walked back to my cave with Oprah who was running from the law and needed a place to crash.
Just as I was feeding “Ops” her fourth key lime pie she bit my finger and I woke up. Dreams are so strange, aren’t they chickens?
After I woke up I did my normal paranoid walk to the bed, my brain racing terrible thoughts (too terrible to repeat, just think death and ultimate loss) through my head and I checked in on our children.
Bottom bunk contained the oldest one frocked, rugged and draped in stuffed animals, baby blankets and hair. She was breathing, “good sign”, I thought. Kids are so lovely whilst they are sleeping; the eyelashes and the soft faces melt your heart but if you get too close the breath will peel your skin. “Ok first daughter is alive,” I murmured. I climbed to the top of the deep chocolate brown bed bunk ladder and peered over the edge…no curly haired mini-me!!
I felt my head beginning to sweat; my hands and back were beading up as well. I walked quickly into the living room where Miilani (the little one) was sitting up on the tan couch holding a DVD of The Marx Bros. major motion picture “Horse Feathers”. Cinematically speaking my Miilani and I are very close with one another; I have mentioned her complete lack of taste in some of the animated movies she has chosen to enter into her little data bank. We have agreed to disagree.
She loves the Marx Bros. especially Harpo as they share the same “copete” or “hairdo” in English. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t get all the one-liners from Groucho and Chico but Harpo being mute has her holding her little white stomach laughing at his slapstick styleee.
She looked a little sad (for effect I’m sure) and asked me if we could watch the movie. It was 745am and the house was beginning to stir a bit, however it was a holiday so no school and no work. I smiled and put the DVD into the player and we had some laughs. During the movie the theme song “Everyone says I love you” is played and sung by all the Marx brothers respectfully.
Our favorite version is when Chico sings:
“Everyone says I love you
The great big mosquito when-a he sting you
The fly when he gets stuck on the flypaper too
Says I love you”
Everyone does say, “I love you”, what a trip.
So Mini-me and I had a bunch of good laughs before the familia woke up. After breakfast we both fell asleep.
Personal Note: Need to stop thinking so much it brings more pain than joy.
Tuesday: Got a call that I am to attend a “Father-Daughter” dance this week. I was worried as I have never been a daughter and have only been a father for a handful of years. Rewrote a few poems while I played some Donny Hathaway on the stereo. I felt better and resigned to the fact that the since kids were so young the event was in the gymnasium with a DJ named DJ Dax all would be kosher.
Wednesday: I had breakfast with myself, a bowl of oatmeal and Cannery Row by Mr. John Steinbeck. I do believe he is the king of written scenery and a huge humorist. The book, in my humble opinion, is one of the first simply written masterpieces ever. His use of simple language to describe the valley and the ocean’s tide pools are inimitable and impeccable.
Wednesday (Lunch time): I have to open the car door with the key from the passenger side when I get in or else the car alarm goes off. I think I got this unsolicited gift of inconvenience when I had my door/window lock assembly changed a few days earlier. I must confess that after 5 years of the same routine the alarm has honked more than requested. I haven’t cursed so much since the 90s.
So I open the Honda door on the “right” side and hop in, turn on the engine and the Ipod is blaring NAS from the prior night’s drive time. I lowered the Nasty Nas and left for lunch at the mall. I brought my 5-foot ruler to check the play spot near Target. I parked and strolled into the play area and measured a few suspiciously long kids who were sliding and landing on one another. Everyone was in compliance under the rule of 48 inches and under rule so I headed north bound to the Mall’s Food Palace. I wondered how many different names have been scripted into mall eateries.
• Food court (definitely the most used)
• Mall Bistro
• The Eatery
• The Palm Court
• The Palm Court Food Court
• The Market Place
• The Market Place Court
• The Stanford Shopping Center Courtyard
• The Courtyard
• And so on…
All these food courts have a Panda Express, which I am, strangely enough, a proponent. The Corporation pays its employees 2-3 dollars more per hour than it’s Fast Food counterparts. Panda Express is owned by Chinese people, which pleases me very much yet I will not indulge in their greasy foodstuffs.
The name puzzles me though as there is nothing in a Panda that implies “express”. Panda bears are very slow, they move about 6mph at their fastest pace. 99 percent of a Panda’s diet is bamboo shoots, which I can assure you are not tasty. Pandas have been known to defecate up to 40 times per day, which does NOT make me want to belly up to the P.E. with my tray. Pandas; slow, cute, chubby bears who eat bamboo shoots and crap every 15 minutes, maybe they should have thought about that before they started their company. (Please understand sweet readers I am not “player-hating” on Panda Express I want us all to get money baby…these are only observations and modest opinions)
The Food Court is the melting pot of the mall. They are all there: the moms and the grandmothers, the nannies and the caretakers.
The babies, toddlers and youngsters are all at the mall food court waiting to send their collective “Yawp” up to the heavens.
I bought my lunch from this Korean lady tending an Ichi-ban noodles spot also know as the Japanese Bistro. I don’t know why but I have this strange form of bigotry when it comes to the proprietors of Asian/Polynesian eateries. I will not tolerate Koreans running Hawaiian restaurants, Chinese running Japanese sushi spots, I want to eat Chinese food with the Chinese, Hawaiian food with the Kanakas and so on. This ideology never plays out and never will. Almost every restaurant in every major metropolis in this fine country (hahahaha) has a crew of Mexicans cooking in the kitchen; it’s unavoidable and doesn’t seem to bother me at all which is quite hypocritical of me.
Anywaaaaays the lunch was passable but not impressive. I told the Korean woman who served me that she would be better suited at the liquor store with her kinfolk. She smiled and said “Thank you sir”, I confessed my bigotry in the simplest terms possible but it only confused her. She came out from behind the counter smiling with a plate of teriyaki chicken pieces with toothpicks and I walked back to Target.
I stopped once again to measure a large Samoan boy who found his way to the plastic playground in the mall, he was over 5 foot tall and staunch. I informed his father, who was an impressive man indeed, that his son was too big to play in this particular playground as the husky boy might injure some poor unsuspecting toddler.
He stared at me for some time, yelled something in his native tongue to his child and the boy came out of the playground and sat next to his father.
The boy was crying and the father looked up at me angrily and said, “ You happy now bruh?”
I informed him of the importance of safety in the playground and thanks to yours truly there has not been an accident in the confines of said playground for over 100 days.
My words, as usual, fell upon deaf ears and the father lifted me up off the ground with one of his enormous paws and I began to pen my last will and testament in my head. The entirety of my black tee shirt was in his hand as he held me over his head making us look like the two guys who didn’t make the cheerleading squad but were instead practicing for next year.
Then I could see he noticed my chest, shoulders and back were covered in Polynesian tattoos and he started to slowly smile and then he finally set me back on the ground. “Where you from brah?” he asked me.
I told him about my mother’s side of the family who were all natives to Hawaii, born and bred and that my grandfather’s side of the family had been in the islands since they came from Portugal in he 1860s. We spoke a little Pigeon English and “talked story” for a little while, turned out his family was from Nanakuli, which is where my grandfather grew up.
Thank God (Makua) for my golden mouthpiece, the Hawaiian Islands and it’s Aloha spirit as I have made it my practice to never wrestle gorillas. All joking aside, my Samoan bruddahs and sistahs are some of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Standing behind them in a buffet line however is indeed an exercise in futility.
On the way home I played some old timey gospel music, which soothed my anxious mind and body.
Social Note: It’s always best to count the costs of social altruism BEFORE you end up face to face with angry 400-pound men.
Personal Note: Mind your own fucking business!
Thursday (early a.m.): A childhood friend of mine sent me a YouTube snippet of the major motion picture “Harvey” starring Jimmy Stewart as a man who has an imaginary 6 or 7 foot tall rabbit as his best friend and confidante. The snippet included a line that was very powerful, it goes, “Years ago my mother used to say to me, she’d say, “In this world, Elwood, you must be,” – she always called me Elwood – “In this world, you must be oh so smart, or oh so pleasant.” Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.”
My pal, who shall remain nameless, was sending me a passive aggressive message regarding my candor and ruthless indictments against society and Her inhabitants. My pal and Elwood may be right; maybe smart and pleasant don’t share the same bedclothes. I must confess that I have found more pleasure in being a pleasant man, but I can’t seem to quiet my noodles from boiling. How do you go from smart to pleasant without your brain exploding from contradiction? That Elwood must have been some kind of white shaman.
I say all that to say that I was refining my attitude for the Father-Daughter dance where I would no doubt be tested in this matter of pleasantness, pleasantries and all the sarcastic wires in my minds nest.
Thursday evening (NIGHT OF THE BIG DANCE):
Our eldest child, Julia Kailani, was wearing a lovely dress and her hair looked great it was pulled away from her pretty face so I could see her eyeballs. We were both excited to get out on the dance floor and shake our respective tail feathers as we waited in line outside the gymnasium. There were a few fathers who went all out and did the whole tuxedo thing with the limo and all the works, flowers and so on. My mind said that it was a bit creepy but I was determined to be pleasant.
Unfortunately for Julia she was walking into the dance with two fathers…well three if you count the Lord, one terribly cynical father and one father struggling to be pleasant in the face of foolishness. I had to remember that this was Julia’s night, not mine. This was the mind state that I needed to be licensed and insured in whilst I braced myself for a wild ride.
From the edge of the door I heard Motown music playing which calmed my racy thoughts. By the time we got in DJ DAX was playing “You wanna be starting something” by the King of Pop, Michael Jackson. Julia and I headed straight for the dance floor and man were we cutting the proverbial rug!
The gym where we were dancing was very poorly lit and the music was way too loud giving it that club vibe. This dance was for 7 and 8 year olds on a school night, what were these Philistines thinking? Maybe I am too old but this seemed way too advanced for these young girls.
Cynic dad was creating a checklist in his giant baldhead that would be visited on another occasion. Pleasant dad was smiling and dancing with Julia, twirling her and laughing it up.
After 4 or 5 songs we took a break and went over to the refreshment tables. Once again my mind started rambling and taking inventory. Do these kids need 30 feet of tables filled with nothing but sugar? Isn’t the school open tomorrow?
There was a 3 story chocolate fountain in the middle of a mountain of rice crispies treats, snicker bars, strawberries and marshmallows all ready to take a plunge into the chocolate fountain. There were cookies galore, cheesecakes, fudge brownies and boxes of candy all along the tables not to mention the sugar-laden punch bowl at the end of the table to “wash it all down”.
DJ DAX was stinking it up at this point of the dance playing inappropriate music for the young girls. Cynical dad was fueling up.
Julia asked me if she could go dance with her friends and the pleasant dad smiled and said, “Fine baby just stay away from that sugar, there is water on the other end if you are thirsty”. “Ok daddy, I will”, cynic dad knew it was horse shit and sneaky Julia knew it was too dark in there for her old pop to see what she was doing.
While Julia was engaged in a mile long conga line I spoke with another one of the fathers asking him what he thought of all this.
“I think it’s great these girls git a nice night to spend with their daddies”, he twanged.
He was obviously a far more pleasant dad than I was or ever could be. The lighting situation was really weighing on my mind, as I could not see Julia and it appeared all the collective sugar was kicking in and the dance was in full swing so to speak. I found her at the chocolate fountain with chocolate smeared on her chin and a glazed look in her eye.
One thing all you parents out there must know if you don’t already know is that you didn’t have to teach your child to lie, it comes naturally. Little kids rely on their looks to make it in life as they are all unemployed and must be efficient “nags” to get what they want.
Julia looked up at me and said this was the first chocolate dipped strawberry she had. It was plain to me that she was either fibbing or there was a chocolate fountain fight that went unnoticed thusly tainting her chin with chocolate mist.
Cynical dad was quite furious at this point but pleasant dad smoothed things over reminding himself of the mantra “This is Julia’s night…not yours”
“Ok baby, I just don’t want you to get sick from too much sugar”, then I whispered in her ear, “ I know you’re lying Kai Kai…we will talk later, have a good time baby”. Then I kissed her cheek on both sides. It reminded me of the scene in Godfather Part 2 when Michael grabs Fredo and says, “I know it was you Fredo, you broke my heart, you broke my heart”.
Cynical dad is a jerk sometimes but I will not have lying kids in my life and I don’t care if I have to use a bit of psychology to frighten them.
Turns out by cynical dad’s definition DJ DAX was not a DJ at all he should change his name to “DAX the CD player”
DJs should know how to beat match with vinyl records and a mixer that is what I call a DJ. Taste was definitely missing from his stack of CDs as he continued to play Rhianna and a myriad of pop songs with sexually charged themes which were all inappropriate for 7 and 8 year old girls.
One of the young girls on the dance floor was dancing so crudely that cynical dad almost poured punch over her head to cool her down. To make matters worst Julia and a number of her friends were watching her wiggle and writhe about.
Dax the CD player announced that this next song would be the last song and that it would be a slow song for the all the fathers and daughters. Julia was wasted on sugar; she later confessed to eating 5 chocolate covered strawberries, a cheesecake, two cookies and a cup of punch. The slow song began; it was a country tune that I had never heard before. I picked up my sweet love and held her in my arms for the final dance. She was crashing hard off of the sugar rush and was quivering in my arms as the lyrics of the song began to enter my brain. “ I remember when you was a little girl…” Pleasant dad was smiling and getting quite emotional. The song continued, “You are my pride girl, the joy of my life”. I was beginning to tear up. “So today when I walk you down to the altar to marry your own true love…”
I put her down I shock, I was definitely NOT ready to hear that and pleasant dad couldn’t rebound from that one. We stuck it out and finished the dancing to the last tune, as I was mind yelping DJ DAX the CD player ripping him to shreds.
We hopped in the car and both of us were a little tired from the wild night. Julia seemed happy and I was relieved it was all over. On the way home I told her about Elwood and how we all must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant. She looked at me, smiled and said I was the best Daddy ever. The cynical dad thought it was the sugar talking but the pleasant dad just smiled and kissed her cheek, “I love you so much Julia and I am proud to be your daddy”. I don’t know if Elwood was right or wrong but being “oh so pleasant” feels oh so grand at times.