Monthly Archives: June 2009

Yard Work

I was doing yard work at my girlfriend’s mothers. In the next yard a couple of guys from a lawn service were working. We’d crossed paths but they’ve been keeping a safe distance from me. Smart fellows.

I caught them looking at me askew from time to time. During one of our passes by each other one of them asked if I lived there. I told them no, I was just the grunt. They accepted that as we went back to our jobs. After that they were downright helpful.

One of them would come over and implore me to take a break and have some of their water. A couple of times they picked up the leaves I was collecting and put it in their truck saving me a couple of backbreaking walks to the leaf disposal area.

Then we cemented our friendship. One came over, got my attention, pointed at his watch and said,

“Cerveza, por favor?”

“If that means you’re going to pour a beer for me as a favor I’m gonna have to say damn straight.”

He laughs and we go and sit on the back of his truck. We exchanged pleasantries while one of the guys served as translator between me and his friend.

It went pretty smoothly and we all had some laughs. During the conversation he had to ask why I was doing this. He said in his four years in this area he didn’t see many of my kind doing the type of work I was doing. Oh sure, he went on to say, my kind wasn’t afraid of mowing the lawn, but the crap we’d been doing, let’s just say, they are much less likely to tackle.

“I always say the only reason my girlfriend stays with me is because she’s thinks I’m a Mexican.”

There’s much laughter during the translation and even more when his friend responds,

“He says you much be from the FAR north Mexico.”

I laughed and said,

“I am. L.A.”

A while later we parted ways. I said I hoped I’d see them again but was told they never knew where they’d be sent but they also looked forward to it.

“Don’t worry, if we come back, we’ll keep an eye on things for you.”

See? Not everything about yard work sucks.

No, This Is Funny.

I did something for a guy in a wheelchair. I’d been told he could be prickly so I went through the transaction as smoothly as possible. I handed him his stuff, he took it, and placed it in a bag (this is important to remember).

He started to thank me so I held out my hand to shake his. He looked at me as if I were quite mad.

“What’s that? Funny?”

At this moment most people would be waving the Holy Shit flag. Sphincters may tighten. Hearts may flutter. Imaginations may put you front and center on the evening news. You know, rational reactions.

Which, as we’ve seen, I lack.

I look at him, there is no ‘gotcha!’ in his eyes and say,

“No. Two blind lesbians walk into a Parkinson’s bar and say, “Hey, everybody! What’s shaking?”

I lean in,

“That’s funny.”

Oh, oh! What was that I heard? The resounding click of the non-animal tested, child-proofed, PC handcuffs manufactured by a co-op run by black diabetic women in a gluten free, non-threatening work environment?

In my defense, I say, fuck you!

A good friend of mine is a wheelchair-bound fuck whose hand I often shake. Then, to round out my multi-cultural resume, there’s the black guy (two actually!), a Mexican, three (!) Jews, a Palestinian, a vegan lesbian folk singing juggler, two New Zealanders, AND a lactose intolerant Canadian curler.

So, back away from the bully pulpit, spunky, before I sic them all on you.

But act fast. The white devil minority friend trading deadline is coming up and I’m thinking of trading the whole kit and caboodle for a Ukrainian supermodel.

Michael Jackson Dead


I’m not much of a conspiracy theorist. Sure, I’m positive Sasquatch raped Marilyn Monroe and that’s how we got Robin Williams but, other than that, shit sucks enough to consider the evils men in secluded bunkers are planning or hiding or planning on hiding after they get funding.

But that may have all changed today.

You’ve witnessed the many witlesses I encounter in a day. I do so with, if I don’t mind saying myself, a modicum of aplomb. I don’t get flustered, bullied, or otherwise effected by this endless series of questionable uses of shoe leather.

But I must now admit something is amiss.

The only conclusion I’ve come up with is that a cabal of cabalians has an underground bunker directly under where I spend most of my hours and they have been releasing, slowly at first, but now much more steadily, a cadre of morons, psychopaths, and mental defectives directly into my daily path.

And I think I found door they use for their attack.

I was walking towards a strip mall, grocery store, drug store, empty store type, when I heard someone beeping their car horn vigorously. Now we all know I don’t respond to such activities and think less of the honking bastard.

Sensing that, the beeping beeper called my name.

I turned around and, lamely, I’ll admit, offered a smirk and condescending wave. While doing this I heard a barking. Dog barking specifically. It was emitting from the little covered area between the grocery and drug stores. I think it odd there would be a dog there.

Even odder when the barker turned out to be a man.

Yes, human. I’m not saying one of the better specimens but, still, humanoid in appearance. Not Sasquatch/Monroe offspring hairy. Not even as hirsute as your average pizza parlor owner. I would have thought him your run of the mill denizen of this conurbation.

If it weren’t for the damn barking.

Even his movements were vaguely dog-like. Jutting, lurching, bobbing his way directly in front of me. This is when it occurred to me that conspiracy theorists must be on to something.

This shit just doesn’t happen naturally.

I’m thinking of all the conspiracy theories I’ll have to research for the rest of my days while this guy stood in front of me barking. I looked at him for a moment. I mean, what would you do? This isn’t something you get to see every day. I also did something else you don’t get to do every day. I got to look another man directly in the face and scream,


Now you’d think that would be as odd as it could get. But then you don’t live at the end of the acerebral assembly line. At my command he backed away and began whimpering. He reared back on his haunches (I never contemplated that was a human possibility but now that I live in conspiracyville, everything’s possible!), growled half-heartedly and bolted past me.

Where he commenced barking while running through the parking lot.

I continued into the grocery store and saw this woman standing at the automatic door staring in utter disbelief. I know that’s what she was staring in because that’s what she said as I smiled and walked past.

“You won’t say that much longer if you keep hanging around here.”


TB, MTAE and I have been talking some gross shit lately.

I think I’ll keep that going for just a little while later. Not that I want to, it was thrust upon me.

On the front door of my building this morning, bright and early, there was blood splatter. Splatter is such a gentile word. It was a blood drenching.

I had to walk over it just to get to where I could repair the situation. It reminded me of the time someone shit on the building. Oh, I know what you’re saying,

“Come on, Chris! It was probably just a dog.”

To which I say,

“Sorry, gentle wanderer, I’ve never seen a dog splatter shit three feet off the ground in a two foot diameter.”

I have to assume the pressure of bending over and the strain of having to shit quickly helped the spray along.

I put on the old rubber gloves, get out the pressure hose and attempt to clean up our newly painted building.

No joke. The building was painted just this week. Ain’t it always the way? You wear a new shirt for the first time and someone has to stab you fifteen or twenty times.

I turn to grab the bleach when I see an amazing sight. People getting off the bus. Not just any people. It was like a reverse nesting doll getting out of a clown car.

A smallish one, then bigger and bigger and bigger until, hot damn how’s he going to get out of that bus?

I watched for a moment as they congregated on the sidewalk. Damn, humans are getting too large. I shrug and get back to my crime scene cleaning.

Suddenly, the cloudy day got darker. I turn around and there is a scenery eclipse behind me. The larges surround me, a little to close to blood for someone who doesn’t have to deal with it to me.

“Hey, do you know where the bar-b-que place around here is?”

You know, I’ve seen many accident scenes, very few I’ve thought,

“Hey, see that guy with the jaws of life? Let’s ask him how to get to the carnival.”

I put down the bleach, toss away some of the rags I’m using, take off my gloves, point toward my left and say,

“Walk straight down that street, around the rotary and you can’t miss it.”

I start to put my gloves on to complete cleaning up blood I doubt I’ll ever know the who or whys about when one of them says,

“About how far is that?”

“Quarter, half mile.”

You would have thought I’d said,

“Quarter, half mile and when you get there you’re going to have to clean entrails off the windows.”

by their reactions.

They grumble, I splash bleach on the doorknob to make the business presentable to non-serial killers.

So, how was your morning?


I love cats, let me rephrase, I love my cats. What that means is, as mean as it sounds to some of you, I don’t want to hear how cute, funny, brilliant your cat is. They’re not special. Mine are.

I bet you totally disagree. And therein lies the rub. Cat love, as is all love, is love specific. It reminds me of a story I wrote some time ago about babies that got me fired from one job and lost me two others.

I still say the story is funny, just not to those who’ve just pushed out pumpkins of their own to love.

I’m sure I speak for most when I say,

“Sure, if your cat gets his face stuck in your blender while you were making smoothies this morning, we’d love to see the video.”

But, unless it’s a visual, it’s only of interest to you.

I bore people enough on my own. I don’t need my cats help.

I know cats can be cute and funny and all those things but when telling the story people tend to wander into tedious mode.

“He played with a string? And it got tangled up in his paws? And then he ate it! What a scamp!”

Not that people will ever stop. A woman was telling me story after story about her cats that ended with it snuggling with her at night. She asked if our cats do that and I said yes. She waits for the never coming story before continuing.

“I wonder why they do that?”

“I can’t speak for anyone else, but, in my case, it’s because, before I go to bed, I rub cat food on my balls.”

I’ll stop them if I have to do it one person at a time.


bi-og-ra-phy [bahy-og-ruh-fee]
1. a written account of another person’s life.

I just wanted to start with everyone on the same page.

If you’ve passed here before you’re aware that I’m a whore. I’m usually clothed when I whore but I often feel just as dirty when it’s over.

Being a whore I take many calls about my endeavor. Some are pleasant and pass quickly (“Chris, I need jokes about [fill in topical event].”). Others are ugly and never get a groove on (“Chris, what I’m looking for is a singing/dancing sword and scorcerer script with a time travel hook.”). Then there are some who shouldn’t have pulled up to the curb.

And here is just one of those conversations.

“So, ah, Chris, if I hire you to write my biography, would I have to tell you about myself?”

“That’s the proceedure.”

“I’m not comfortable with that. Wouldn’t it be just as good if you followed me around and wrote what you saw?”

“Yeah, if I started from the moment you fell out of your mother’s pussy.”