SEX HOLE PART 8: Grab your hairspray Bon Jovi! /Meet my Gun Makers! Thor is my Grandpa x 18!
Sunday: Had breakfast on an airplane bound for Southern California, the place where I was born and breaded, deep-fried and burned. I was worried I was going to be late to meet up with my close friend Jon Bon Jovi and his hairdo. We were slated to talk about his band’s new album, “What About Now?” and his somewhat newly found humanitarian costume he has been parading about so pompously. In 1984 his band, Bon Jovi (such an egomaniac) released their first album entitled’ “Bon Jovi” (ego whore), since then the group and Mr. Jon Bon Jovi have made paper millions.
I have known Jon for over 20 years now and I am surprised he still shows up for our meetings in L.A. as I verbally and philosophically have been bashing his music and hairdo since meeting number one back in the 80s. Jon is what I call “a little feller”, he might be 5 foot 2 inches tall without his 80s mullet that stretched him up above 5’10. He loves his tight clothes and Crest white strips.
Sunday (noon): Jon Bon Jovi’s security pats me down before I enter his hotel room which infuriated me but was wise on behalf of the guard. In 2010, I hit Jon with a pipe wrench when I found out he was not only consorting with the President but had been appointed to the White House Council for Community Solutions where he would be helping “underprivileged” (I detest that word) young people find jobs. So we sit in the living room of his hotel and he rants a bit about the new album which was, unfortunately for me, buzzing in the background as we spoke of matters both big and small. I pulled out my notepad from the last meeting we had, “Any luck on getting ahold of Roberto?” I asked.
“My brother, you ask me that every time we get together, Roberto Duran does NOT want to come out of retirement and fight ANYONE ok?”
Needless to say I was a bit perturbed, I went on to goad him about his lack of clout and “juice” in the world. Why couldn’t he get my childhood hero to “lace em up again” he plainly did not possess my superfluous mouthpiece or salesmanship abilities.
We moved along to new business. I opened with a passage from the Bible, Matthew 6:4, “That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly”.
Jon sat in his oversized chair smiling “Right on” he said as his little feet swayed back and forth, not quite touching the carpet or her fibers. I knew he was confused and I would have to translate.
“This Humanitarian thing you are doing Jon, must you have cameras around whilst you are giving your alms/ doing your thing?”
I continued, “It is grandiose my amigo, not to mention that you are flying your flag of altruism in the face of God’s holy word”.
He stopped swinging his feet. “WHAT?” “Dude, I spend hours and hours of my time with these people…why do it if it can’t be recorded? I mean for posterity sake, you know what I am saying?” he said as he ran his fingers thru his hair and checked his IPhone.
“Yes… I do know what you are saying and that is why we meet up every so often Jon, you need constant counsel and I am your humble yet opinionated “consigliere”
“I am not saying stop helping these poor kids but let’s drop the vanity, leave it at the door along with the hair sprayed egotism”
Jon was nodding his tiny head in agreement, “You are right D, I need to do these things privately and like it says in the Bible…I will be rewarded openly!” his face changed from one of introspection into a face full of glee and overly whitened teeth.
It was amazing to me that this man would be on any kind of “Council”; it was shameful of him to accept the President’s offer back in 2010. A council on grooming, yes, I would accept, anything else is and was absolutely futile.
“Great Jon, hey listen I really have to go, I’m meeting up with Big Kev from USA Today on the other side of town and I do not want to be late”.
We shook hands, did the “guy hug” and I told him I was very proud of him; the security guard chuckled a bit sensing my sarcasm. I reminded him of my other requests; Gap Band for my birthday party this year and music lessons for our oldest daughter, her teachers could be Bonnie Raitt for voice lessons or Raul Midon for guitar lessons…Oh and don’t forget we are going to get the A-Team back together as soon as we find “Face”. I gave him a priority schedule and a Word document listing my favors. Persistence beats resistance.
And with that I left Jon to ponder his evil ways and headed to the Westside.
Sunday (early evening): I make it my practice to stay in touch with my schoolyard friend Kevin Johnson who is a journalist (term used loosely) for the USA Today Newspaper (which barely qualifies as a purveyor of journalism). I am secretly jealous of his title; as I myself have had dreams of being a journalist. These dreams may have been well served in their proper place for if they were manifested I’m sure I would have been fired…and frequently fired. Who wants an overcrowded resume’ filled with short-lived dreams?
Big Kev walked into the bar on Santa Monica Blvd. and I shook his hand and we exchanged normal boring conversation for a few minutes. I opened the February 27, 2013 front page of “USA Today” which read “MEET THE GUNMAKERS”. He looked at me circumspectly, “What you like it…or should I get ready for a sermon dude?”
“Yes I did enjoy the information and Big Kevin made the front page, congratulations Broham!” I said.
I continued, “I just have some questions and I know you are more than qualified to answer them Kevin”
He sensed my tone was indeed condescending,
“Come on D…can’t we just chill and have a few drinks without the constant questioning and never ending tirades about the quality of my newspaper?”
I waved over to the bartender, “I will have a Bohemia and my dread locked friend here will have a…?”
“Cosmo!” I laughed a bit and at his order and pulled out my notepad once again.
I have never seen a man order a Cosmo, I guess I haven’t been out in some time; apparently the metrosexuals have made their place in society, especially in the bars on the Westside of L.A.
“The article explains how Stag Arms has built and I quote “a thriving business” on the AR-15 semiautomatic rifles…is that correct?”
Big Kev sighed, “Please don’t start with the lawyer jargon…”
“What lawyer jargon?”
“Is that correct…and I quote?” “Like this is a deposition or something, we are just having drinks!”
“Yes…I (pause for effect) am having one of the finest lagers ever produced in Mexico, you (pause for effect) are having a girly cocktail…I am sorry about my tone Kevin, I tend to nerd out on these topics, please FORGIVE me I have elementary school children and don’t want them to DIE in an AR-15 rifle shoot out whilst they are playing hopscotch!” I raised my voice like the lion-hearted man that I am.
Kevin swallowed his sissy drink, “Ok OK!”
I continued, “Stag is making a mint on AR-15 rifles and they have a 2 year back up of over 70,000 orders!”
“Correct D”
“Are they selling directly to the Houston Police force?”
“Yes”
“Are the back orders all private buyers?”
“Yes”
Sidenote: Why do we need to be so heavily armed dear friends? I am afraid I am a pacifist deep down inside and will not subscribe to the NRA hoopla and the rapidly increasing fervor for weapons that were NOT meant for hunting game but for shooting humans.
I pushed on…
“He seems very proud that his Stag rifle was used to end a gun fight involving the Houston police department, he keeps a note taped to his wall proving that his Stag rifle was used to shoot 3 three armed suspects, right?”
“Yep”
“Did you ask him if he has any notes taped to his wall showing the Stag AR-15 helping cuckoos slaughter youngsters and teachers?”
“Of course not!” Kevin started laughing.
“Not the time for laughing…do most hunters use AR-15 rifles to hunt game?”
“I doubt it, I didn’t ask”, he was holding back his giggle.
“So it’s safe to say that AR-15 rifles are used to shoot holes in human beings”
“Sure…whatever man…damn check out that one over there in the short shorts!”
“Whatever my ass!” “I should have known your shit rag of a newspaper would NEVER ask the important questions!” “The owner, the guy you quote at the end of YOUR front page article says and I quote “I’m all for making stuff safer. I have two children. I want to make the safest (products) possible” “How do you keep a straight face when you scribble this crap down in your notebook?”
“Stuff?” “Products?” “Why can’t he just say rifles?”
The sun was setting and Santa Monica Blvd was shrouded in gold and orange lights as the buildings casted their shadows over the psychedelic, smog infused light show.
Kevin was stoned and he ordered another round, “I knew you were going bring that up…I knew it when I wrote it and I knew it would be worse if it made the front page”.
“You got a follow up with this jack ass?”
“Yep”
“Ask him a few more questions…for me and my little girls”
“Dude… you are one in a million, so dramatic!”
“You may be correct, just get tough, go off the record Kev!”
“Ok D, just remember this isn’t your script to write, I do what my editor tells me to do that way I keep my job and you can keep coming down here acting like you are in the movies asking me ridiculous questions”. Kevin shook my hand and headed for the door.
I put away my notepad, finished my drink and said goodbye to Kev. I thought to myself and it sounded like Samuel Jackson for some odd reason, “This IS…MY script, mutha fucka and MY story, mutha fucka and I… am the HERO in MY mutha fuckin stories…little dread lock mutha fuckin sissy BOY!”
So I mumbled for a few minutes went back to my hotel called the family, wrote some crap poetry and fell asleep.
Monday: Woke with a terrible thirst.
Ah! The chalice of the devil,
muddy …water, hops in the rusted mug…Alas!
A beer in the morning!
So wretched a man am I to indulge in the brew whilst the witches are still simmering in their slumber;
far from their crockery and yellowing grins.
The idea is planted in the brain
of a bender around 430am,
A seed,
watered with the foulest language and
then sprouted in the morning toilet.
Finally…
she comes to fruition in the mind around 9
30am whilst the hashed browns are snuggling with their eggs and sour toast,
waiting for coffee conversation.
The beer was so cold and I sipped her so slowly and perfectly that some would have thought me a madman.
Monday (afternoon): The afternoon beer buzz makes a person believe in dreams; the budding actress becomes Dunaway, the sophomore singer becomes Sinatra and the local fishmonger believes he is Valentino (wearing another man’s cologne).
I fell asleep on the Metro on my way to Downtown but awoke in time to hear a furious tail end of a strange conversation that must have been stretching from the Long Beach station to our current location.
I vaguely recall them speaking of the major motion picture, “The Wizard of Oz”. A name you cannot say without coaxing the darkest youth from his frowning.
The two ladies had been complaining about our beloved Oz flick because of one of the last scenes, where the Good Witch comes and tells Dorothy she could have went home all along if only she were to click her shoes 3 times and repeat the words “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home”.
“Oh hell no!” “That bitch coulda beeeeen told me that about the shoes an’ shit” one gal complained.
The other, like a tennis player with her retort perched upon the net’s line, “And she went through all that bullshit with the othah mutha fuckin witch and the mutha fuckin flying monkeys?”
“Oh hell no bitch!”
Their voices leaped thru the air with a strange grace, sliding up and down ghetto scales with all the proper changes in time signatures, moving through neck and hand gestures, they waltzed, skipped and sometimes spit.
The song of the two gals rose and fell as we clicked and clacked our way to downtown. They made pacts to never watch that movie ever again.
I got off on the downtown exit and handled my business, arranged a rental car for my drive home and fell asleep in the hotel bar, woke up, went to my room and went to sleep, again.
Tuesday: Dear Diary…I guess one could say this is a diary of sorts, but I wouldn’t be the one to say that. This isn’t a diary simply for the fact that diaries are non-fiction and these writings my dear sweet readers are most definitely bullshit.
The sweet people at Avis car rental lent me a 2013 Ford Focus to drive back to San Francisco from the smog filled, traffic laden plastic world of hipsters that is Los Angeles and I mean that in a good way. In order to cut through the thick wooly blanket of boredom that comes with any six-hour drive, I decided to riff on the Motown double CD by the Master Blaster that is and was Stevie Wonder.
The idea was to write in my head as each track would come and then go. No rules bro, just jamming!
I pulled the Focus onto the 5 freeway headed north and plated the first track on the album, it was Love’s in Need of Love Today. Stevie starts by saying that he is our friendly announcer and he has some serious news to share with us, when I say “us” I mean the Focus and I.
He recorded the album in Hollywood (1975-76) and in the Bay area, which was super dope as I was traveling in between these two areas of California. He also recorded some of the album in New York just in case anyone is back checking my research, which I am quite sure “they” are not.
So with the musical stars aligned per say, I began my ranting.
Love IS in need of love today as it was in 1975, 7 out of 10 Americans don’t like or hate their jobs and since we spend a large majority of our lives on earth working it’s a fair assumption to conclude that most of us Americans are NOT happy.
The record sales of anti-depressants and opiates are the wet cement cooling in the wind of my one-man debate.
The government has not changed and we are all in debt in the same way that a man drowns in a storm in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
There are no love songs. Yes, sweet reader, there are a mountain of songs about mounting each other like beasts in an unknown club somewhere whilst sipping champagne with women with over-sized bubble butts, BUT there are no love songs according to the Daniel Dicktionary (emphasis on Dick).
Oh Stevie… Love is lost my friend and in need of GPS and of course in need of more love.
The next track was “Have a Talk with God” and it is filled with wisdom, however, when it comes to Stevie’s spiritual and lyrical references its hard to tell what the hell he is referring to.
The songs on the album are so infectious that I spent more of my time singing than riffing on their respective topics. I skipped a few tracks; “Pastime Paradise”, as we all know, Koolio has forever tainted Stevie’s track with his version and I refuse to play that song as an informal boycott to “Gangstas Paradise”.
I also skipped “Saturn”, the lyrics are so awful I can’t bring myself to sit through them. I mean I can’t even give you an example, as his writing would then become my writing and I can’t have that my dear sweet readers. Just Google the lyrics and you will be not only laughing but in agreement with your humble literary manservant.
Ok… here is one way I can let you smell the lyrical dung heap with out staining my silver page pan. He talks about living on Saturn; people live to 205 years old, there are rainbows and orange snowflakes, people can fly and are constantly smiling on Saturn. He makes a comment regarding the air quality claiming it is much better than here on Earth as well. He keeps reiterating the fact that there is no violence or hatred on Saturn, everyone is happy in complete opposition to the “unhappy” people on Earth!
Someone should have spoke with Steve before he released this turd; I will only spend a small amount of time on this topic. Each year on Earth it takes 365 days to revolve on it’s axis around the Sun, when this happens we all get cake and cards.
It takes Saturn 29 and a half years to make one rotation around the sun, so if you can miraculously live on Saturn for one year(29.5 years) you will celebrating your birthday song once every 29.5 years and they don’t have the Cheesecake Factory there to help you and your friends welcome another year of life.
I must say if you lasted (which scientifically speaking is impossible Stevie) for 29.5 years on a planet where the normal temperature is 306 degrees Fahrenheit and winds clocking 1100 miles per hour you would be as my L.A. friends would say “ super stoked”.
Not to mention there is no television, pornography or “smart” phones, most of you bastards won’t even read up until this point of this writing, what in the Saturn makes you think you could last on any planet without modern conveniences? The only point I can agree upon is that we here on Earth are unhappy.
But I digress.
Back to the road trip my sweet reader.
There were so many giant freeway signs up and down the 5 Freeway and none of them offered a tiny slice of comfort. One in particular caught my eye; it was a sign for a mortgage lender. Mortgage is French word meaning “dead pledge”, strange etymology on that one…anyways. The sign read: “Give us a call and we will inform you of our plans to own your home!”
Talk about a Freudian slip.
We need more encouraging freeway signs, something that will lift the spirits of the weary traveler not signs that remind him of the hole he is in.
I will volunteer to write the text if someone will put up the cash for the sign and running time. “If you are alive then celebrate life, you beat all the other sperm to the egg some time ago, meditate on that victory, out of thousands of sperm you swam the fastest…forget about your troubles and live”. We could be easier on our selves and just put up Jack Johnson lyrics and let it go.
I was on the northbound 280 around 5pm when the “signs” idea left me and was replaced with the manic feelings of incompletion. I needed to finish my book and my script but I have/had no formula to my psychosis and I can’t afford an editor until I make some bread first.
I walked into the house around 530 p.m. it was so quiet that I tarried awhile in the living room and resumed the reading of my new “used” copy of Villa Incognito by Mr. Tom Robbins of Seattle and New York Times bestseller fame. I swear nine dollars was well spent, plenty of pleasure, laughs and inspiration (if that word still exists).
My lady came home from her workhouse in a heap of nerves, she was lapping the room and lapping the table before she sat down and pulled out her research on the wild turkeys that somehow infiltrated her dear sweet Antioch, California. “Hey Angelitas, where is my sugar? Da me un beso!”
I have stated previously that I have been gainfully employed as a tiger trainer for the last 5 years…SHE is said tiger. My motto is “Tread lightly and carry a thick whip!” Imagine a female tiger that speaks English, drinks vodka and is handy with a blade, if it weren’t for my god-like dexterity I may be missing a limb. Needless to say, it’s impossible to find a Hallmark card that can encapsulate the comings and goings in our strange universe of love. Back to La Tigra…
She stopped pacing (get the whip) stared at me for awhile (get the fucking whip) then out of character, gave me that smile that always kills me dead in my sneakers. I put the whip away. Her lips are the softest I have ever kissed and I used to work the kissing booth at the San Francisco Zoo. Her lips are like small baby goose feather pillows that some nut would make for the ultimate dollhouse bedroom set and her breath is definitely, at least, two notches above the Orangutan.
So we kiss and start to plan the strategies for the rest of the night. We ended up playing Monopoly, and she beat me handily, we ate some leftover pasta brushed our teeth and waddled off to bed.
Wednesday: Woke up with thoughts of debt dangling in my head but I was determined to be stress free and pleasant. Three days until Marvel Comics releases their new book about the end times called “The Age of Ultron”. That idea calmed me a bit and sent me into my reading socks and cup of coffee. I believe the writer should read far more than he/she writes. So I crack one of the three books I am reading now days, it’s a history book dealing with the genetic makeup and location of the “Mexican” from the 1500s on the Iberian Peninsula (modern day Spain) clear to the year 2000 in the United States it’s called
“Mexicanos ” by Manuel G. Gonzales.
Wednesday (Lunchtime): Had lunch with my good pal Chucho a homeless man I have befriended over the years. We go to lunch once a month, if he shows and we speak on all topics from world economics and politics to literature and religion. Chucho was an All-State champion wrestler and earned his bachelors’ of science degree, he was very intelligent and engaging. We met on the boycott line at Walgreens on Van Ness Ave 5 years ago and have been friends since.
He was in a bad mood because he didn’t get a job he had applied for at SFSU as a janitor. Usually we philosophize our way out of the doldrums but this day was different than the others and we could not quell his sorrow. So I bought him and I a grape soda and we ate our lunch in silence. I was sad for Chucho, he managed to get clean and sober on the streets without the convenience of a home to get his act together not to mention he was using public transportation to get to meetings and meet with his sponsor.
I know plenty of people that can’t get 3 years clean with all the modern luxuries of life and a bank account that doesn’t resemble the eyes of an owl. Bravo Chucho! We need more human beings like Chucho in this world.
Thursday: Barely made it, no comment.
Friday: Same shit
Saturday (Noonish): Watched the major motion picture “The Avengers” as I was prepping myself for the comic book release of the Age of Ultron. Not too many people know this but I am related to Thor. My great-grandmother was 1/16 Norwegian, which makes me 1/128th Norwegian and blood related to a god (small kine).
For this tale we need to go back to 12th century Norway, Bergen, Norway, and a fishing town.
Christianity had taken hold only 100 years earlier and folks were beginning to unglue themselves from the oily residue of paganism and were collectively learning to “walk in the light”. My 18th generation (or if you prefer Grandma18)
Grandma Ethel was a barmaid in a local tavern near the fish market. The town was buzzing over the shortage of fish and they tumbled into Ethel’s barroom yelling and screaming for steins of beer.
The bar was dimly lit with candles as the sun had made her way to meet the moon for that one last goodbye wink leaving the Earth dark and lively. The smell in the bar was earthy; the odor of the fishmonger’s dry sweat and the gambler’s lucky paw, the fingernails of the working man and the faint perfume of the working girl.
Ethel and her barmaids went to work straight away serving up sudsy conversation and smiling at the drunkard’s pinch. No one complained about working conditions in those days, as there were no other conditions to compare them to. The folks, back in those days, were indeed a tougher, more calloused breed of humans.
Now it was true that the city was facing famine if something didn’t change and all those present in the bar knew it, some spoke boldly about other propositions while others looked for the answer in the bottom of their steins, still others looked to their new found faith to deliver them from famine.
“If Thor and Odin would come back they would settle this matter for us” cried one of the fishermen. “Do not speak that name, we are Christians now and we must petition our God for help in times of need” answered the local deputy sheriff.
There ensued a fistfight of epic proportions, which gave Ethel some time to imbibe in the spirits herself.
Around midnight the fighting cooled and all the countrymen made peace, hugging and kissing one another as they guzzled beer and sang Old Norse folksongs.
It was just past one in the morning when Leif came in with his herbal tea bottle. Leif had found psychedelic mushroom patches in the valley near the barnyard and commenced to develop his tinctures a few years ago.
Ethel was feeling the effects of four or five (she couldn’t remember) steins of beer and she welcomed Leif with open arms and a quivering clitoris. “Welcome Leif, will you care for a beer?” Leif smiled precariously as Ethel had beaten him with an empty beer stein last week when he could not pay his tab.
“Yes Ethel that would be nice” Ethel brought him the beer and asked him about his teas. “What do ya feel when you drink these teas you make Leif?”
“Oh my dear sweet Ethel, I cannot describe the feeling just as neither you nor I can describe love or hate or bewilderment” “You must try some with me one day!”
Ethel looked at him circumspectly. “Yes maybe one day” her sex drive began to rustle.
Leif went back to the outhouse to do his business, as he was walking out he saw Helga the barmaid tapping another keg of beer. When she put the keg down on the wagon Leif snuck around the back and poured his entire bottle of mushroom tea into the tapped keg, Helga came back and plugged the keg before rolling it into the barroom. “Now she will know, now they will all know how it feels to be free!” Leif thought to himself.
The party continued in the barroom well into the night after the “special” keg was tapped the party changed drastically.
Ethel was feeling strange, more than strange, her barroom became fuzzy, the Vikings in the oil paintings began to scream and the rain fell as the ship breeched the stormy sea. She started singing an old folksong and the “baked” crowd began to sing along… that was when Ethel first started to laugh. She laughed hysterically no other Norwegian barmaid has ever laughed so impetuously in the all of ages before her. Ethel was only 22 years old at the time but her sexual appetites were that of a large man and her clitoris was like a swollen cherry especially with the “special” beer.
The fishermen, the hunters and the gamblers laughed. The working men laughed as they mounted the working girls who were also indulging in never ending orgasmic laughter.
Never did a Norwegian seaport saloon see so much foolishness as it did that night. One of the politicians proposed the townspeople “take a break from Christianity for the night” and get back to their pagan roots. He stood on the bar, “Here now listen town folk, let us caste aside the ever tightening restraints of the Trinity and call upon Thor and Odin to help us in our time of need!”
“Yeah!” they all screamed.
Leif produced the key to the room that held the special horn that was needed to call said gods.
They all went outside the bar near the dock laughing and drinking. They sounded the alarm; they blew the horn ad infinity they woke the gods from their slumber.
At once Odin and Thor appeared in the bar demanding beer and explanations.
Ethel brought them two steins of beer, Thor’s mighty paw touched Ethel’s hand and sent spasm though her back and in between her legs. The mushroom tea had her in its clutches swaying her like a wild demonic babysitter swinging her back and forth.
The townspeople explained the situation to Thor and he threw down two more pitchers of beer and ran out and dove into the freezing waters. He worked out things fairly quickly with Neptune and was out of the water looking for dry clothes when he saw Ethel coming out of the outhouse. She saw him there bare-chested and wet under the moon glow and her clitoris almost jumped out of her granny panties.
The moon and the tea had her and so did Thor. He came to know her in the biblical sense of the word and they had twins; one boy and one girl. The girl was my great, great, great etc. 17th generation grandmother.
That is how I am related to Thor. The blood of a god runs through my veins and I feel the Norse power in my bones especially when confronted by evil powers.
Stay tuned Sex Hole addicts…more to come.
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