ON THE ROAD 2008: Where the Homeless Are To Be Chased Out Like Garden Pests, One Always Finds All the Progressive Chic of Nazi Germany

People living in poverty have the least access to power to shape policies - to shape their future. But they have the right to a voice.

- Nelson Mandela

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- There he sits, this wretch of a rogue, this public menace so foul that the local city council was forced to ban sitting on public benches for periods longer than an hour, to pass anti-loitering laws.

The wily beast grunts to himself, his natural odor fills the air with an animal's stench. He's mumbling to some invisible friend named Danny, laughing about some ethereal joke.

And he's smoking - DEAR GOD! THE CHILDREN! - a half-charred butt, leaning against his army surplus knapsack, and strumming a guitar with four out of six strings unbroken. He's got a coffee cup full of those other smokers' leftovers, half-used menthols and lights.

Mothers pull their children nearer as they pass him. A few local frat boy types walk behind him, mock his muttering. One suit-clad automaton makes a point of walking a half-moon around the unwashed, whiskered creature as he babbles into his Bluetooth earpiece theories about how the local real estate bubble is crashing like a wet paper airplane.

And in San Luis Obispo Fucking California, they're debating another round of smoking bans, too - bans on smoking on sidewalks, on those same One-Hour-Or-Less park benches, even in parks. For the children, of course. Community health and well-being, too.

These things are IMPORTANT, you know - not only does it make the health nuts happy, it veils yet more excuses to chase the idle homeless from their benches, their parks, from their very sight.

Wouldn't want to pick up any bad habits from creatures like that wild beast of a man sitting on that park bench. I mean, his simple pleasure in the open air home the world has dealt him surely harms all...

* * * *

It's not like homeboy has anywhere else to go, really.

In a county of almost 250,000 people, there are 2,500-4,000 homeless residents (San Fransisco County, by comparison, has an estimated 4500-6,000 homeless amongst its 800,000 residents) spread out in communities like Paso Robles and Nipomo, in Morro Bay and Pismo Beach.

And there's only two volunteer-run shelters, providing about 125 beds to sleep in, for all of those folks throughout the county without anywhere else to sleep, one day center for thousands spread out across a county twice the size of Rhode Island.

Yessir, they sure have their priorities straight here in SLO.

* * * *

"You must miss living here," the old man said. "I can't imagine living anywhere else."

I sipped my coffee and tried to go back to reading my graphic novel in peace. But, well, he wouldn't let up. His gray ponytail probably too tight, his bong at home to full of fucking pixie dust. An armful of progressive magazines, the NO MORE WAR! and OBAMA/BIDEN 2008 pin on the jam band tee, the token sandals and socks and patchouli stench of your everyday, Overgrown California Baby Boomer Hippie variety.

Welcome to San Luis Obispo. Mother Jones meets Dot Com venture capitalist, Emma Goldman meets the corporate raider Democrat, New Deal meets the Soccer Moms and $1,000-a-month slumlords.

"It's sad, you know. We have all these vagrants and not one of them ever seems to get the idea to move to a more... accommodating place... like to San Diego."

"I dunno. Maybe they like it here, too. Or maybe they can't afford to move, maybe they're stuck here."

Silence. Thank you all that is fucking hol-

"Not to be rude, I know you're trying to read, but they could hitchhike."

"Yeah, well... maybe they're all too fucking tired because they can't catch a few FUCKING winks in this town!"

Silence. Again.

"Sir, you don't have to use such language. It's bad for your health, man. And there's children-"

I look out the bookstore's window. The homeless dude's still sitting there, mumbling to himself. Completely oblivious.

"You think words are worse than what ya'll let happen to guys like that? Yeah, fucking regular utopia here, sure. Regular Orwell-Meets-Jerry-Garcia."

The freest of animals, an honorable, innocent beast, while I sit trapped behind glass with his self-absorbed, blind shepherds.

- # # # -

CALIFORNIA CONFESSIONAL: EXTRA! Librarian Visits Magazine Photo Shoot, Kidnaps Model with Loaded Wine Bottle, Mocks Stupid Celebrity Worship!

When I die, my epitaph should read: 'She paid the bills.' That's the story of my private life.

- GLORIA SWANSON

SOMEWHERE IN CALIFORNIA (ZP) -- "Liza" (not her real name) brushes aside her rather over-the-top, every - negative - stereotype - imaginable, flaming queen of a make-up artist/stylist with a shrug of her shoulders and a quick hand gesture.

The stylist doesn't even look up. He stops momentarily, rolls his eyes. He tells his canvas that, well, he just needs to finish her eyes and he'll leave us alone.

I offer a handshake; he declines.

"Oh my gosh! I'm being rude!" Liza says. " ______, this is Jason, the guy from Ohio with the web site I was telling you about. Jason, this is ______, the one man on this planet who can make me look gorgeous in ten minutes or less."

The stylist's been buzzing about her like a starving mosquito for a good thirty minutes, ever since the guy who met me at the front gate - a BIG guy - escorted me first to the set to watch the end of the shoot, then past the lights, the diffusers, cords, the crew, through the house, and into the impromptu dressing room.

Liza and I have, up until this point, been making small-talk, catching up. And suddenly, it hits me like a two-by-four to the testicles.

* * * *

Ya know, Queen Skeeter here's sure been taking his sweet-ass time with the skin toner, I say to myself. And look at those eyes! He's trying to look like he's NOT paying attention to every word...

Like the parasitic insect he reminds me of, he's waiting for his bloody treat, some juicy morsel of free-flowing information.

And he's not looking to feast upon stories of my drunken debauchery at my sister's wedding last weekend, either.

* * * *

Information gleaned from eavesdropped conversations, you see, happens to be an important commodity in certain entertainment industries, the gray market sustenance of the set jockey and the shoot servant and other hangers-on, a veritable free lunch full of "a source close to..." payoffs.

Don't believe me? Well, run down to the goddamn grocery store and pick up a copy of whatever gutter-born literary syphilis the print infotainment rags are pushing to the Desperate Fucking Housewives demographic these days. Where do you think they get those juicy stories, the train wreck tales of drug abuse and break-ups and baby-mama matras, anyway?

And what's a nosy stylist, to me? He won't be getting anything of importance from me or my conversation, not one tabloid meal ticket. What good are the details of some boring ol' librarian's love life in Oxford Fucking Ohio to him? Who gives a shit about funny college town quotations, or thinks the terms Chachball, Snake Brother, or Fruitcake Sex have a price tag on the infotainment market?

Not only is the Zenformation Professional a collection of tales full of vague true stories, anonymous protagonists and antagonists, but the site's author, in person, really lives up to his Man of Fucking Mystery reputation. It's part of the inside joke of it all, really - and a safety net of common courtesy for all parties involved.

And Liza knows this game better than I do, obviously - hell, it goes with the territory.

There's a time for discretion. And there's a time for open conversation.

* * * *

Queen Skeeter finally gets the idea and makes his way towards the door. He doesn't even acknowledge my existence as he leaves because he finally figured out that I'm not famous, I'm not part of the entourage of anybody famous, and, well, I'm too quiet and polite to be an agent or talent rep.

"I'm gonna get some Fiji and a bagel, girl. If you need anything, you just text me. I'll be RIGHT in the next room."

And with that, without so much as an acknowledgment that there was another honest-to-God human being in the tiny guest room, the Gayest Gnat sashayed his skinny-jeaned ass right out the door.

Who the fuck would ever want to waste time text-messaging somebody in the next room, a mere fifteen steps, crank of a door knob, and a holler away?

How can anyone enjoy what bit of success they have in an environment where the envious simply wait for a slip-up or faux-pas upon which to crucify that success for profit?

Jesus Fucking Christ.

* * * *

So here I am, a guest on a photo shoot, complete with closed-door, behind-the-scenes access to the photog's target, trapped between a very annoying stylist and a camera crew, with a very BIG dude right outside waiting to walk me back out to the Jeep.

And I'm just some guy, seriously, she knows only through a friend of a friend of an ex's former publicist (head hurt yet?), a few emails and online chats, a quick lunch in Pismo Beach last summer - and from a frigging blog.

She's the one who came up with the whole "Why don't you bring that Gonzo web self to the shoot and we'll grab lunch afterwards?" idea.

And I guess I should be filling this dispatch with all sorts of juicy details. Things like the magazine that was flipping the bill for the shoot, the rather brutal stylings of the rather brilliant photographer, even the uncensored name of Liza herself - after all, some of you on the other side of the Electronic Fourth Wall probably would recognize her instantly and the rest would simply use a search engine to fill in the void.

And I could tell you all about her break-ups and relationship mistakes, how she feels she has to force herself to eat in public, her newfound love of the Los Angeles Dodgers and loathing of the Boston Celtics. I could write all about those, too, in gory detail.

But do you know what was on my mind, the whole time, once the door was closed?

The same random-ass, unassuming things that go through my mind when I write about anybody else. You know, the sorts of batshit ideas that go through my mind when I'm helping aspiring schoolteachers write educational stories in the basement of an Ohio bar, or when I'm trying to sort out the remnants of a fling, or...

* * * *

"Chica, tell you what," I tell my somewhat well-known host once Queen Skeeter was gone, "Let's skip the fine dining shit, go grab some turkey sammiches at this market I know up in Templeton, drive down a dirt road and kill off a bottle of wine I got rolling around in the back of the Jeep."

Liza's eyes lit up. I remembered the important parts, you see - the paranoia at eating in public, the fact that last time we met for lunch she ended up being so afraid that she'd recognize somebody or get recognized. And she's, well, still a bit of a good ol' fashioned country tomboy at heart...

"Hmmm."

"Hmmm? As in yes?"

"I dunno. I read your blog, you know."

"Yeah, and so do people I know and work with in Oxford."

I wasn't thinking celebrity. I could give a shit, really - modeling's a job, just like any other job. I wasn't thinking about Queenie or about the BIG guy waiting to escort me back through the Gates of Tartarus for the Slovenly and Unfashionable.

And, no, I wasn't trying to get laid, either. Though, well, Christian Lazo's 2005 Petite Sirah is probably the closest thing to a goddamn aphrodisiac this side of a plate of raw oysters on the Central Coast.

I don't really plan ahead. I'm a live-in-the-moment kinda guy in my personal life, most of the time.

Wanna know what I really found to write about on a photo shoot, with no-holds-barred access to a, OMG, professional model?

You know, it must really suck to be stuck around gossipwhores and egomaniacs all fucking day. How can anybody grow in a world like this without some open sky, room to breathe...

...It's downright suffocating...

Wait! Heh, I've gots some good wine past the gates...

- EPILOGUE -

It's hard, you know, to type a draft of a blog post into a laptop - into somebody else's wireless-broadband enabled laptop, mind you - while lounging beneath a live oak, distracted by a stellar view of the Santa Lucia Range.

It's damned near impossible to write anything, too, with a third of a bottle of leftover wedding wine and a turkey pesto sandwich nuzzled in one's stomach, with a car radio whispering Tejano Top 40 music into a hot breeze...

Liza and another chick, this kid who she'd met at her hotel a few nights prior, were picking - poaching, actually - not-yet-ripe grapes from a vineyard nearby.

The world felt good. Fit like a warm glove on a snowy morning. And the soul, yep, was at peace but, alas, the brain was a goner.

I saved the draft, closed the laptop.

Dude, you're the only guy for miles. You've got two hot women - one, a professional model and the other, a clerk at some boutique - at play in fields of fruit and vine. You're buzzed, fed just right, and ya got a stressed-out chick to get out and be the Girl Next Door, not just play one at a casting call or in a head shot.

Enjoy it first. And then write about it. What'd that dude in Cincinnati call you last year? The "Chillebrity Librarian Blogger?"

Well then, chill, goddammit. Ya gotta be back at the folks' place for supper in a few hours.

Everybody needs a break from the everyday routine. And it usually helps to practice what one preaches, too.

- # # # -

CALIFORNIA CONFIDENTIAL: Ex-Cons and Killer Sea Creatures, Creeping Jeeper Moments, and Far Left Bourgeois of the American Fourth Estate

ALONG THE PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY, Calif. (ZP) -- He stared off into the immense waves as if he were studying something, as if waiting for one of the world's most vicious killers to end his life.

He'd been explaining how, exactly, he'd come to live in his rusted late 1970s Buick, how he'd lost his first two wives but gained a dog and a kid. He'd spent 15 years in places like Soledad, Folsom, and Chino - five for his crime outside and another decade for his mutilation of a black inmate in a prison riot.

He stopped, mid-sentence, and went back to staring off into the tidal surge.

At first, I thought the old man was simply observing the water's edge, had noticed the emergence of the elephant seal bull from the ocean and the movement within the bull's harem a few hundred yards away. An elephant seal bull, you see, is much more dangerous than a older ex-con, even one who once sliced up someone in a prison war. Unlike a human being, an elephant seal will kill a human being simply out of territorial instinct, without so much as a rational thought or emotional response.

Every few years or so, some idiot gets too close, gets maimed or otherwise butchered along California's Central Coast...

No, he said, he was just staring at the Pacific, out into the Estero Bay, thinking about the past. The waves were hypnotic, rhythmic, beautiful - the perfect orchestral accompaniment. The killer elephant seals be damned! Three decades ago, he could've cared less about standing beside the sea again. A decade and a half's worth of jail time taught him to miss it.

"Man, life's too short to worry about which rich motherfucker's gonna be president. Fuck that political shit."

Typical rebellious San Diego kid, caught up in the world of 1960s counterculture hypocrisy. Spent the Peace, Love, and Happiness Decade selling dope to the rich hippie tourist wannabes. That beget selling junk and running coke to Golden State yuppies in the 1970s and 1980s.

Then, one day, he threw his old lady through a plate glass window during a fight. Cops showed up, found a few kilos of felony possession on the coffee table, and ended up choosing Aryan Brotherhood protection over being some Crip's vanilla bitch or some Norteno's turned-out chola.

Can't blame a guy for being nostalgic. Or for not being afraid of an elephant seal bull, either. Animals may kill, but they rarely do it because of race or out of obligation - even in zoos.

"But this country's fuckin' beautiful sometimes, that's for sure."

I stared out at the ocean, too, ignored the killer beasts along the shore.

"Yeah. Dangerous and beautiful."

I'd never met the old man before in my life. I'll probably never see him again.

But, hell, living on the beach, even out of an old Buick with a mangy old dog, sure sounds a whole hell of a lot better than life behind bars.

Murderous, blubber-filled wildlife and all.

- MORE -

NEAR POZO, Calif. (ZP) -- The jeep crawled up into the southern Santa Lucia Range, up towards the gap between Garcia and Hi mountains, at a retarded snail's pace.

One of the great automotive engineering travesties of the late 20th century?

The automatic-transmission, four-wheel drive vehicle. What a waste of power and skill, of fuel and time. The damned things virtually drive themselves.

As we drove through the trickle that, further downstream, evolves into the Salinas River, I suddenly realized how, well, boring off-roading can be in 21st Century America. Less than a century before, this particular pass had been only accessible by horse or mule, or by foot. And now the 23 mile trek down the back road takes less than three hours.

Sure, so few folks know how to actually drive an automobile anymore, beyond simply sitting in a seat, turning a wheel, stepping on a pedal. And sure, ease and comfort are more important than skill and knowledge in the Western World these days.

Why learn to drive stick? Manual transmissions are so... manual. Or why learn to read a map in the 2000s? Doesn't, like, everybody have some built-in GPS system now?

And speaking of GPS systems, those oh-so-wondrous little devices that can supposedly track a person anywhere on the planet and can supposedly make directional decisions better than most humans ...

The one we were using on our journey, well, sorta went haywire further on up the pass. For some reason, as we weaved our way, slowly, around the backside of a mountain, the device kept demanding left turns...

... Right off the side of the range, to a certain painful death.

Joys of fucking 21st century living. At least a pack mule never said things like Turn left... in ... one mile every five damned minutes.

- MORE -

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- The moment I voiced my support for a local resident's longtime fight to turn a pristine ranch into a drug rehabilitation work farm, I knew I'd hit a nerve.

"Quite frankly, we don't need that kind of service here, Jason. You know why, too."

Sure, I know why. It's called NIMBYism. In good ol' SLO, the important things in life are determined by one's neighbors, by their sense of aesthetics, decency, and righteousness. In one of the 10 most expensive cities to call home in North America, who really wants to, well, help the downtrodden, those from lower economic backgrounds? They may just move here with their poor, working class selves, right?

In San Luis Obispo, the image of a perfect community is more important than the smart and responsible development and care of a community. Preserving the investment value of overpriced real estate, preserving the supposed right to a nice view off the living room or to go jogging without worry while the rest of California burns, starves, and, yes, fights to survive, is more important than preserving people.

Period.

"It's not that simple."

Yes it is. It's also class warfare, too. I'm good at ending these sorts of arguments.

"So why don't you just shoot them?"

"Wha... What?"

"You know, shoot the addicts. Final solution. Like Hitler. That's what you really want, isn't it?"

"That's ... That's insane!"

Yes, it is. But so is ignoring certain cultural pandemics, like substance abuse.

"Why? Because they're still people? Because it makes you look fucking hypocritical? Stop bombing Iraq so you can get back to keeping my rich little ass safe from the poor people??"

The rich little ass thing was meant to hurt, to end a pointless debate. Amazing how so many folks from upper-class backgrounds, who've never owned a car older than three years old, who've never had to choose between rent or food, don't know how well off they really are.

Or that nobody really gives a shit, at the end of the day, what those rich little asses want to keep in or out of their own backyards. A community's wants and needs are rarely the same thing - tough shit, get over it.

"This conversation is over. You're still an arrogant self-righteous asshole, just so you know."

Aw shucks. Well, thanks, chica. And you're still the same ol' frigid, fake ass, Trustafarian Peacenik cuntbag I remember, too. Glad to see you can still afford to do nothing for a living, other than live off inheritance and jump behind just about every cause celebre on the Left.

Sure, let's end poverty, hunger, international crises, and the like - so long as it doesn't let the poor and hungry into the benefactor's kingdom.

Oh, I'm sorry. Queendom. She read a book or two, calls herself a womyn's activist these days. Goes to protests and rallies here on the Central Coast, in the Bay Area and Los Angeles. Wouldn't be caught dead, however, actually volunteering in one of the many local, impromptu homeless shelters - too many battered womyn who might, well, one day decide to settle in the area. Might drop the value of her home to under a million bucks.

And I'm not a supporter, really, of any one particular solution to drug rehabilitation. Just a former addict and former resident, who thinks that, yes, this service is needed.

While the city, county, and state wrangle over a government solution, one rancher invested his own time, money, and fortitude to help meet that need.

Some battles just need to be fought. And it's just as simple as realizing that battlefields sometimes look like quaint little cities, surrounded by wineries and mansions on rolling hills.

- # # # -

IF YOU'RE DOWN, YOU'RE DOWN: On being lo mas chingón

PASO ROBLES, Calif. (ZP) -- They were hard.

Hard, as in I'll fucking drop your joker ass in the Salinas River if you look at me wrong hard.

And they knew it. Nobody accidentally becomes lo mas chingón. Personal image is just as much a manufactured good as a box of donuts.

Listening to their conversation, half in English, half in Spanish, all Pachuco, I realized instantly why the white salesclerk kept asking if she could help them find anything, why just about every other customer in the place was either staring, making their way to the door, or hanging onto wallets and purses for dear life.

The ink was straight-up hardcore, jail time raw with black and blue lettering. Teardrops and Catholic saints, portraits of Pancho Villa and barrio-friendly iconography. XXXL black Dickies work shirts, raven-dyed hoodies, and baggy jeans covered tiny frames in yards of unnecessary fabric.

They wandered through that tiny clothing store, white hot rivets of la raza firme. Everything about them - their demeanor, speech, and dress - conveyed pure, unadulterated danger, a burlesque freedom built upon street life and gang fights, built upon turf wars and confrontations with authority and a certain ambivalence towards anybody else's version of "current events."

And the group of Chicana women just kept shopping away, pretending to be oblivious to the sheer terror they generated.

They knew they were scaring the living shit out of a store full of normal, decent people. And, yep, they enjoyed every moment as old ladies squirmed like worms in the sun.

* * * *

"They should go back to where they come from. We don't need them here."

A strange statement. The Japanese-American woman shopping beside me, old enough to have had a parent locked away in an internment camp during the Second World War, didn't have to specify who they were or where they supposedly came from. After all, nobody ever looks at an almond-colored woman with Asian features and thinks the same thing...

"When I was a little girl in San Jose, you locked those people up."

Sure, lady, sure.

Don't you have letters to the goddamn editor to write? Maybe family to pester? And aren't you just a tad too old to be pretending that everybody just swears you're 38?

* * * *

I walked out, back into the precious winter sunlight, back towards the borrowed Ford Mustang. Just as I reached the car door, two of the hoodied hynas sprinted down the sidewalk, laughing. Within seconds, the rest of their group sped past.

One of the girls stopped right in front of the car, out of breath, panting and grinning. She looked up from behind thick eyeshadow and purple lipstick. Her eyebrows, in traditional homegirl fashion, were plucked to down to razor-thin lines.

"I useta run back in the day...but...damn... lil mi'ja made me fat, ay ... heyizzatyour..."

She leaned back against a storefront and slid down to the pavement. She pointed at the Ford convertible. I laughed and explained that, well, it was a loner.

"Oh yeah...you...white boy from... holdon..."

She reached behind her back and pulled out a wallet.

My wallet.

"You...Ohio...was gonna... like... dropped it."

- # # # -

A CHRISTMAS STORY, SORTA: Standing at the Electronics Superstore, Watching All the Girls Go Buy...

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- He said he was shopping for his girlfriend, that she'd given him a list of acceptable gifts to buy for her, as well as for her family.

A lapsed Jew, but, well, still Jewish - and he's out Christmas shopping a week after Hanukkah.

He added, with some bitterness, that his girlfriend didn't seem to get that, traditionally, Christmas Day for most Jewish families involves no rituals beyond catching a movie matinée or a trip out to a Chinese restaurant. Hell, his family never really celebrated Hanukkah or the other minor holidays; they did Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, called it good.

But she was his girlfriend. And it was her holiday. Never mind that she'd just given him a list, told him to go buy shit for a holiday he'd never celebrated. He'd accepted the invitation to have dinner with her parents on December 25. He thought it sounded cool - until she'd given him the mandatory list.

Poor dumb bastard.

He really believed that dating a woman for less than three months somehow obligated him to buy five people he'd yet to meet acceptable holiday gifts.

* * * *

Acceptable?

Acceptable.

Acceptable, as in self-help books written by evangelical megachurch witchdoctors and crap about the New World Order being the product of the supposedly diabolical United Nations.

I asked him if her family knew, well, that he was Jewish.

Probably not. His girlfriend forgot half of the time herself, said even discussing religion made her uncomfortable. Hell, she'd told him that he'd just love Mom's Christmas ham and the prayer service with Brother ____ Christmas Eve...

He said he'd been thinking about that ever since she'd given him the list. He hadn't bought a single thing. He hadn't even known that she came from such a religious family.

I suggested that he give himself an acceptable Christmas gift: a new girlfriend.

He laughed nervously.

Poor dumb bastard.

* * * *

He took a drag off of the cigarette I'd bummed him. He'd seen me exit the electronics chain superstore, pull out my pack, and figured that a cigarette break beat the alternative.

"Man, did you see that Latin chick?"

"The one in the white pants with the - ?"

"- OH MY GOD! THAT THONG! Dude! Have you seen Superbad?"

"Dude. I rarely miss a nice ass."

Seriously. Nice ass. Not a single heterosexual man or lesbian could've resisted at least, well, looking. The black widow tattoo across her lower back seemed to be tangled up between purple elastic and very transparent low-rise white cotton.

Acceptable conversation?

Sure. Just as acceptable as giving a Jewish boyfriend a Christmas list, or insisting that he buy total strangers gifts simply out of courtesy.

I suggested that, well, if he'd been staring through those transparent slacks long enough to memorize the color of the Latina's underwear, his relationship was as good as over.

He laughed again, this time with more confidence. Bailing after three months, right before the holidays, sure beats having to suffer through living room showings of The Passion or the subsequent proselytization speeches.

* * * *

The Latina in question walked out just as we were finishing our shopping break. Maybe 5'7 or 5'8, plum-tinted shoulder length hair, bangs covering one eye and the bridge of her nose. She was probably in her mid 30s, one of those women who looked ridiculously, wickedly young for her age. Her platform shoes clicked against the pavement as she carried her two tiny bags towards the parking lot.

The Jewish cat crumpled the Gentile girlfriend's approved Christmas list as he eye-fucked that poor woman all the way to her car. Honestly, I've seen middle school boys with more subtlety.

And sure enough, she dropped one of her bags just as she opened the trunk, bent over, with that purple thong strangling the life out of that black widow tat ...

"Yeah. Fuck it, dude."

Silence.

"You know, she's probably Catholic, right?"

"Really?"

Poor dumb bastard.

- # # # -

WINE COUNTRY CONFIDENTIAL: Bizarre Cocktails and Nostalgia, Not So Classic Beauty, and the Ohio Library Veterans Association

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- The bartender looked at me as if I were crazy, downright fucking nuts, bonkers, completely off my rocker.

"Yeah, it's called a Napa Valley Handjob. I learned to drink 'em from older Poly alums back in the day."

It's one of the most insane undergraduate cocktails of all time, a perfect mixture of the often unrealistic perception of life in California Wine Country, of 1980s Falcon Crest pipe dreams, and the typical American college kid's very real need to get completely shitfaced.

Basically, the cocktail is merely a high octane version of a wine spritzer, the kind of pussy cocktail served at teetotaler weddings, Rich White People (RWP) parties in places like the Hamptons and Connecticut, and artsy-fartsy gallery openings along the East Coast.

Instead of the stereotypical white-and-club mixture, however, one adds a shot of vodka and a dash of black pepper to cheap Cabernet, gently mixes with ice, pours the whole thing into a highball glass.

In college, the wine was, well, usually a jug of Carlo Rossi, and vodka usually referred to any cheap, clear liquor, usually with that cheap-booze rubbing alcohol flavor.

Even better with Everclear.

"The drink's a Myra without the vermouth, dude. Calling it a Napa Valley Handjob used to make the Aggie girls laugh, think you were high class and crude simultaneously.

"Much more appropriate name. And sometimes, guys did actually get handjobs from girls from Napa, especially the sorority chicks..."

The doubting barkeep laughed, saying he had no idea how to ring up a Napa Valley Handjob. But, well, a Poly student himself, he made a point of writing down the drink recipe.

Older alumni know best, after all.

An older couple at the bar, yuppie tourist types, probably from wherever Land's End actually ends, some plane of hell reserved for old men in penny loafers and tennis shorts, got up and left.

They didn't even finish their bottle of Zinfandel.

Oh well. Can't blame 'em. They chose a shitty vintage. Horrible bouquet. One of those fly-by-night retiree wineries. Smelled like rancid goat semen.

Like Carlo Rossi, except for the $40, tourist-ready price tag and $20 corking fee.

Would've been perfect Napa Valley Handjob wine.

* * * *

ATASCADERO, Calif. (ZP) -- Busted lip and all, the young girl picked herself up and brushed the dust off her baggy shorts.

Even from 20 feet away, along El Camino Real, I could make out the road rash from her failed feeble grind, the ground-in concrete from the sidewalk buried in her shins. She'd landed almost face first; if her knees and palms hadn't absorbed the brunt of the impact, her bloody lip probably would've been a busted nose or worse.

The skater shoved a finger into her mouth, checking for missing teeth or loosened fillings. Satisfied, she kicked her board back up to her side and sat down on a bench, right in the heart of Sunken Gardens park.

She peered from side to side, watching cars as they passed, looking out for the dreaded Po-Po, the ones who, sadly, are now responsible for citing those who refuse to practice the California State Sport within the sanitized confines of the local skate park.

The young fugitive from city-ordinance justice gingerly picked stone from her knees, spitting on her hands to wipe away the blood.

Another kid, a raven-haired Lancelot on his own banned wooden horse, pulled up beside her. He whipped off his shirt, stripped down to his own over-sized Dickies and his Vans and his broad, studded leather belt and his wallet chain. He tossed it at the young skater's lean, bloody shins, striking his best teenage, cock-sure skatepunk pose as the wifebeater fell into the girl's waiting hands.

And then he sat down beside her, put his arm around her, wiped the blood away from her busted lip. He kissed her gently on the cheek, and she put her head on his shoulder, pink liquid dripping onto his chest, their sweat and blood and teenage love perfect.

And to think - a woman recently told me, back in Oxford Fucking Ohio, that I wouldn't know true beauty if it stared me in the face.

* * * *

PASO ROBLES, Calif. (ZP) -- War stories.

That's the best way to describe conversations with "El Guapo," my former Oxford Fucking Ohio colleague.

We bellied up to the bar at the Crooked Kilt, right off the town square, less than a hundred yards away from one of the old Carnegie Library, the one the 2003 San Simeon earthquake didn't have the heart to bring down with many of the other historic downtown structures.

Eight drinks into our Association of Badass Fucking Librarians Conference, I realized something.

One does not simply leave Oxford Fucking Ohio.

One escapes.

Looking around the crowded bar, I also noticed something else, something that I've been missing for going on three full years.

Diversity. Real, organic diversity.

And we're not talking the complete horseshit, let's - substitute - Affirmative - Action - with - politically - correct - statistical - quota- building, either.

Blonde Barbie-doll looking women, hanging off the arms of tattooed Latino bikers. Goth girl waitresses getting hit on by middle-aged golfers. Bodybuilder bouncers discussing ska concerts with skinny dudes, popped-collars mingling with plaid pants and straw fedoras. Old alkies at the bar, too, ogling the Asian girl in the micro-mini, the probably fifth - generation Japanese - American woman whispering to friends.

And two gay guys on a date, out in the open, holding hands, next to the old rancher-looking guy. I know gay men and women in Ohio who can't get a date, who can't go anywhere, even when attached, in the NeoCon Disneyland that is the Greater Cincinnati Area, without worrying about some Bible-thumping zealot or some homophobic idiot ruining their evening.

"El Guapo" just bought a house, moved his family here, into the heart of Wine Country.

And I'm so jealous I could scream, downright envious.

"You know, California is really full of a lot of cool people," El Guapo said, as he returned from the pisser. "A lot of arrogant assholes, but, yeah, cool people."

After I dropped El Guapo off back at his house, I returned to downtown Paso Robles, a town I once called home, a hick town I once despised, back when all the old buildings were still standing and before the wrecked Carnegie was closed to visitors.

I wanted to cry.

Instead, I pissed through the safety fence, right into the manicured landscape surrounding the busted ol' Carnegie Library.

A young woman who I'd seen at the Crooked Kilt earlier in the evening, a woman El Guapo thought I was talking up every time he got up to hit the head, walked past, said hi, and asked if I had an extra cigarette - while I'm taking a piss.

"I heard you talking at the bar. You guys were cracking me up."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was born in Cincinnati. I thought it was so funny, because I probably know people that go to [Local U.]."

We spent two hours talking in that downtown park.

And her advice?

"Run."

- # # # -

MORE DISPATCHES FROM THE ROAD: On the Central Coast, The Shit Always Hits The Fan After the Wine...

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- It started out as a hug, innocent and casual, two friends greeting each other outside of an upscale cafe.

And then I felt my arms around her close a bit tighter, felt her hands run up my spine. My left cheek slid down her right, my lips down to the nape of her neck as she buried her face into shoulder.

It was the sheer black sundress that did me in, that allowed old passions to flare back up, cinders for the forest fire. I'd seen her in skater garb, in stereotypical punker gear, even completely nude on top of me. But I'd never seen her in a dress.

Ravishing. Simply ravishing.

She mumbled into my shirt collar, mumbled in that innocent, almost childlike voice so many women are able to harness during times of heightened emotion.

"I hope you don't hate me. I didn't know if I could do this. I know you don't drink wine, but I wanted a place we could, like, just talk in private."

"Chica, I didn't know if you'd show up. I lied to my dad, told him I was going to Pismo Beach."

"Tonya" laughed.

She'd lied to her parents, too. Her father's still planning on putting me six feet in the ground, still blames me for ruining his daughter and granddaughter's financial security. Never mind that his daughter wasn't happy with her ex-husband, or that the ex-husband was really in love with someone else...

* * * *

By the time she looked up, my hand was on the back of her neck, fingers electric and fluid along the back of her skull.

"It's been hella evil, dude. Everybody knows. I so fucking sorry."

"S'okay, hon. It took two to tango, and we tangoed ourselves into a fucking mess."

Though "Tonya" and her ex-husband are on decent terms following their divorce, the upheaval - the failure of a supposedly perfect marriage - has led certain gossipy elements to conclude that, well, Tonya really is the trailer trash her ex mother-in-law always said she was, behind her back, and that I really was the cold, manipulating, womanizing bastard many of my former radio listeners thought I was.

Fucking each other's brains out back in December, back when she was still married, probably didn't help much. Cost me quite a few California friends, including almost all of the college friends I'd made while a student at Cal Poly back in the late 1990s. Cost her a whole hell of a lot more.

The last thing in the world either of us needed - she needed - was a very public kiss on a very public street, in broad daylight.

A peck on the cheek would have to do.

No need to give anybody anything else to gossip about.

* * * *

There would be no trip to a cheap motel this time. No six male orgasms, 12 female orgasms, no torn clothes, no dislocated shoulders or wedding bands on the nightstand.

The kid stuff was over. Fun, but reckless. Things could've gone much worse. Reality, sadly, creates its own rules, dictating things like maturity and decency like overpaid company presidents dictate cold memos to underpaid secretaries.

Six months removed from our fling, the time had come for the two of us to behave, at least for an afternoon, like stereotypical Central Coast 20-somethings - to take in a late lunch at a trendy bistro and split bottles of good Edna Valley chardonnay, cell phones laid out on the white tablecloth like gunslingers at a card game.

We racked up a $136 tab in just under two hours. I winced as I signed the credit card receipt, winced as I realized that I'm no longer in a position, as a librarian, to blow such fundage on a simple lunch. "Tonya" offered to go dutch, but I wouldn't go for it.

She'd bought the sheer, overpriced sundress - the second one she's ever owned, the other being her wedding dress - simply to hang out before she flew back to her home in the American Southwest. It was also an excuse to spend a bit of money, to go all girlie-girl and relieve stress through shopping.

When she again protested, I reminded her that, no, this wasn't a date, and, well, she'd invited me out for lunch - the guest always gets to choose who pays. Besides...

Wow.

That dress.

She just looked so, well, damned perfect in that damned Vera Wang getup (correction: I guess it's called a Mini Tank Dress, not a true sundress), and I looked so schmuckish in the first wrinkled polo I could dig out of my travel bag...

* * * *

"Goddamn it, dude. I'm walking in the water. Quit being such a fucking pussy. Cops don't care."

You know, women wearing $500 dresses tend to go diva after stereotypical Central Coast lunches, especially after sucking down $60 worth of chardonnay.

"Tonya" slipped off her heels and, as nimbly as a former skateboarding goddess can be, slid her feet beneath the bronze, grizzly-shaped fountain.

She once told me she used to rack up citations for riding her board through the park, that one of her old boyfriends had been nailed for meth back in 2002, right beside the fountain. For me, Mission Plaza brings back nothing but drunken undergrad memories - of puking on Higuera Street and pissing in the long-gone parking lot across from Woodstock's Pizza, of sleeping off Irish Car Bombs and Kamikazes and Gin and Tonics.

For both of us, the plaza represents a lot of juvenile things, California war stories. A beautiful city park, beneath a gorgeous Spanish Mission, in a quiet little town full of hypocrites and secrets.

"Ya know, I thought you were gonna kiss me back there."

"Back where, chica?"

"Before we ate, outside of ______. You had that look. That squinty thing."

"Squinty thing?"

"Like, you squint your left eye when you're, like, thinking of trying to get away with something."

"So... could I have gotten away with it?"

"I dunno. Christ. But _____'s mom has a lot of pull in SLO, a lot of nosey fucking friends, shrivelled old cuntbags."

"Do you care? I mean, you're not married anymore."

"____ is my ex-husband. His mom knows about the motel room, everything. And we just finalized custody. I have to care. I don't want to give the bitch any more ammo. Ya know?"

"Tonya" stared at her ankles, tip-toeing across the tiled bottom of the fountain.

"Yeah, I know."

Being an adult fucking sucks.

* * * *

Walking "Tonya" back to her rental car, we chatted away about all sorts of completely batshit random things - her unhealthy crush on Nomar Garciaparra, my weird food allergies, her famous customers, and my sorta famous adult performer exes.

She still had four hours until her flight back home, back to her world full of purchase orders and sales reports and payroll issues. We sat in the parking garage for at least an hour talking, perched up on the hood of the compact rental, like we had all the time in the world.

At one point, she had her head in my lap, feet propped up on the windshield, twisted in ways that would make a yoga instructor envious. I put one hand on her shoulder and one on her hip, just in case she started to fall.

I guess she thought my hand placement meant something more.

"Jason."

"Yeah, chica?"

"You can get away with whatever."

"Whatever what?"

You know, I'm dense. Really dense.

"Yeah, but we're just friends. Friendly."

"If that. You're a dangerous fucking guy, dude."

"Tell me about it. Ya ever have mono?"

"Tonya" laughed and sat up, sharp elbows digging into my thigh, eye sockets pierced by that flirty stare thing she does.

* * * *

One hand slid from shoulder to breast, the other from hip to stomach.

Things went downhill from there.

I felt every corner of her tongue as we kissed, felt that tongue barbell of hers clicking against my teeth, felt every goosebump on the back of her neck.

It's amazing how easy it is to get lost in a moment, for me at least, to forget that one is actually in a crowded parking garage, that a true stereotypical San Luis Obispan rarely runs his hand up a $500 dress in public or slides her hand down the front of jeans...

As we slid into the back seat, adulthood - that stupid, goddamn reason-outweighs-lust part of it - kicked back into gear.

Something, well, just didn't seem right.

My brakes ground to a halt first; I was working my way south, down past her navel, my tongue an inch above her tan line. The c-section scar, barely noticeable, jumped out at me.

Hadn't noticed it back in December, and it didn't really turn me off. It did, however, remind me that if any one of her ex's family members walked by...

I looked back up at "Tonya." She was still into everything, physically (some poor shmoe at the rental place had one hell of a stain on his hands), but she seemed distant, her eyes filled not with any sort of pleasure but with what looked like... guilt.

"Hey, um, maybe we should..."

I couldn't get the STOP word out. Just wasn't happening.

"No, dude, it's cool. I want to..."

"Want? No. But maybe we need to..."

Again, unable to simply say STOP. Feeling just a tad uncomfortable, I came up for air, slid right beside her, between her back and the fabric.

"Tonya," I guess, figured I was just positioning myself; she reached back and guided me inside, pushing hard, to the point of causing her to wince.

Now I was more than just a little freaked out. "Tonya" was thrusting back, hard and deep, almost as if she was intentionally trying to cause herself pain, to use my flesh as a torture device.

I pulled out.

"Nah. I think this violates the whole 'Let's just be friends' thing, chica."

She couldn't make eye-contact.

I heard that childish voice again, too. She said that she, yep, needed to stop, that she wanted to just fuck away an afternoon in a car, but fear paralyzed her, fear that I wanted something more, fear that she wanted more...

And then she started to tear up, her face flushed, almost angry.

She said she wanted to throw up, felt as if she was on the verge of ruining my life, of dragging me back down into the pit with her... Even just being friends wasn't going to work, it was hurting both of us... we were being immature and only one of us could afford it...

A complete, screeching halt.

I just held her for about an hour, until her cell phone started to ring, until her mother called to ask why, exactly, her daughter used the word fuck so often.

* * * *

No long, dramatic goodbyes. The whole thing ended as it began back when she was just a high school kid with a skateboard, and I was a 21-year-old reporter: awkward silences and strange glances, a quick catch ya later, as if being 2,000 miles apart was somehow the same as living a few cities away from one another.

C'est la vie.

* * * *

I kept looking into the rear view mirror as my borrowed convertible crawled up the Cuesta Grade.

I'm not sure what I was looking for, exactly, but I saw something I hadn't seen before, something buried in the ever growing lines in my face, beneath the increasing numbers of gray hairs.

I saw an old man, a terrified old bastard, staring back at me.

Whoa.

Where the fuck did he come from?

- END -

BLOGS DON'T BET ON PEOPLE & NEITHER DO I: Playing the Odds, Early Morning Phone Calls, and Other Lustful Things

MOOD MUSIC:

Halloween (Cousin Cole v. Flufftronix Remix 2007) [MP3]
- The Misfits
[Original Artist, 1981 Plan 9 Records]

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- It took me a few minutes to figure out who was on the other end of the phone call. Not many folks call me so early in the morning, not unless the caller just happens to know that I'm usually up by five Eastern.

The sound of the cell vibrating across the kitchen table scared the shit out of me. I was barely through my first cup of coffee, barely finished eating my first Lean Pocket.

Though I'm sure the caller knew I answered, the other end fell silent, a disconnect. I wrote it off as a dropped call or, probably, a wrong number. I looked at the caller ID - didn't even recognize the area code.

Two minutes later, the phone went off again, and this time I caught it on the first ring.

"This is Jason."

"Hey, Fucknut."

"Uh, hey yourself."

"It's just me. _______ gave me your new number."

* * * *

Given the fact that, well, I'd never expected to hear "Tonya's" voice ever again, I sank to the floor, cigarette and cup o' joe in hand. I don't know if I was excited or shocked or upset or merely caught up in some early morning daydream. The room was spinning.

The only thing I could muster after an awkward pause was an exaggerated Oh, hey chica!, as if I were talking to some colleague about space planning or some female friend locally about plans for the weekend.

Deep down, I guess I knew that the phone call wasn't exactly one of those simple, friendly calls.

* * * *

It was clear, within five minutes of talking, that "Tonya" was drunk as a skunk. She slurred her words and apologized numerous times for being a little wasted.

Upon realizing that she'd miscalculated the time difference, she abruptly hung up, called back, hung up again, and finally, after one more call, believed me when I told her that I was already awake and that I was, indeed, alone and woman-free.

She was calling from a motel room somewhere out in Vegas and had just gotten in from a night on the town. Two of her friends had talked her into finally using up her Frequent Flier Miles on a Girls' Only vacation- they were still out on the Strip, enjoying the trip. And drunk "Tonya" was alone in the hotel room, talking on the phone to yours truly.

Her husband had moved out of the house back in January. The divorce was to be finalized as soon as the attorneys negotiated a fair division of assets.

Tonya's daughter was staying with her brother and his wife. Apparently, the split had gotten so bad that the only thing she and her soon-to-be ex could agree on without attorneys present was the importance of keeping the kid out of it...

As Tonya explained her situation, I couldn't help but feel guilty. But I didn't feel guilty because of what happened back in December. I felt guilty because I didn't feel one ounce of sincere remorse.

I felt guilty because, well, when one plays a part in another's train wreck of a life, that's how one should feel.

But, at the end of the day, passion, to me, is passion. People lose control when sexual attraction is combined with the momentary alignment of body, soul, and a deep-rooted past - happens all the time.

Of course, being single, I have the luxury of believing such things.

* * * *

"Tonya" started to nod off midway through the conversation. She did explain that her guilt, too, was more akin to mine; she'd called not because she was looking for some scapegoat but because she just thought I'd like to know that it wasn't my fault, just in case I heard it from someone else.

We finished our conversation as the sun rose and my tiny apartment filled with gray light. She asked if she could ever call me again, if I hated her, and if I thought she was somehow an evil person for giving up on her "perfect" marriage in order to finally live life again.

I told her that she was always welcome to call.

But I couldn't answer her other questions. I just couldn't find the words. I wasn't sure if she was looking for affirmation, for strength, or for condemnation. So I chose the straight and narrow path instead.

"Fuck it, chica. What are ya gonna do?"

* * * *

That was four weeks ago.

Since that morning, I've talked to "Tonya" a few more times on the phone and a couple of times online. She even sent me a picture, courtesy of her nifty camera phone.

Honestly, in hindsight, it's not too difficult to figure out why I was so damned willing to simply ignore the fact that, well, she was married at the time of our romp in a cheap motel.

Looking at the pic, I can actually remember the taste of her skin, can smell what she calls her "Born on the Rez" scent floating through my apartment.

[NOTE - That's about the only hint towards "Tonya's" actual ethnicity that I'm going to post online. I guess I need to clarify that only about a third of the women I've posted about on this damn thing would fit the WASPish stereotype associated with this region. Many Ohio readers naturally assume I'm discussing affluent "white" women, based on Oxford Fucking Ohio being known, nationwide, as being one of the least diverse campus communities in the America. ]

Online, we spent more time swapping mp3s (we share a favorite Misfits song [Mp3] and she recently discovered that, yes, GWAR makes great Soccer Mom Repellent at the gym) and arguing about how much growing up sucks than discussing her divorce or my "settling" for being a "pussy-ass librarian" instead of going back into media and image consulting.

And, well, it's been a while since I've had a conversation with a woman who's just as comfortable using words like cunt, twat, and hella in casual conversation as she is discussing her militant political libertarianism or her newfound love for Glock collecting / shooting (her Glock 20 weighs almost as much as she does; she could probably get by with a much lighter G26 - a great lil sidearm).

Nothing in the world like a woman who rides a skateboard to work, packs heat, and who, like yours truly, loves munching on soy chips while watching the original Dawn of the Dead.

* * * *

Faced with that kind of attraction, well, hell...

Give a shit about the whole adultery thing? Please. If I'd known how truly fucked up her marriage was, well, I would've suggested that we videotape the whole thing and send it to Sally Suckyfucky and her soon-to-be ex.

If you're gonna sleep with someone's spouse, it better be a goddamned marathon, especially if you're friends with the spouse in question.

Dislocated shoulders. Destroyed hotel room. Bottle of peroxide to clean the fingernail and teeth marks. Hell, I had finger imprints on my lower back for two weeks, a bruised pelvic bone, and...

Not that I'm bragging or anything.

Err...yeah.

I'm bragging. Who am I kidding?

* * * *

The last phone conversation lasted close to five hours.

It really is amazing what two people can find to talk about when, thanks to unlimited mobile-to-mobile minutes, even the cost of a transcontinental phone call becomes a non-issue.

It's equally amazing what two people can manage to not talk about in five hours, too.

For weeks, we'd both been skirting certain issues, certain Where is this going? and What the hell are we doing? discussions.

We spent more time discussing her Warped Tour plans (her daughter earns the honor of being Most Badass Preschool Kid, since she's excited that her mother will, against Stepdad's wishes, take her to see her favorite band, Bad Religion, this summer) and my work problems than anything involving our continued interaction.

* * * *

I flinched first.

At one point, we were discussing her having to fire one of her store managers - this metrosexual kid who was spending more time trying to get women's phone numbers than actually doing his job.

It started as a joke. I suggested that she make me an offer - I'd love a chance to actually get back into the private sector, where taking a user-centered approach to day-to-day client relations is given more than the often silly lip-service found in public sector librarianship.

She made me an offer, all right. Six grand more than my current salary, with benefits - including some other, more intimate perks. We talked about how cool it'd be to work together. That became a discussion about me possibly moving in with her, dumping everything I own and moving back west to be her partner.

I thought we were still having a lighthearted, in-a-perfect-world type discussion. "Tonya," however, was completely serious.

Whoa, chica.

I stopped her mid-sentence and indicated that I was uncomfortable planning out some imaginary future based on our past together and one quick - but meaningful - fling.

I also pointed out that, well, in the real world, it'd look absolutely horrible for the two of us to, well, jump right back into bed together at the same time her marriage was ending - public image aside, the impact such an act would have on her daughter could be devastating long term.

And how would her friends react? She has people in her life who think she's crazy for leaving her perfect, upwardly-mobile overgrown fratboy of a husband - I doubt they would exactly welcome me into her social circle.

And what about our families? My parents barely survived my engagement to a stripper and were devastated when they learned that, well, I've been involved with several women who work in the hardcore adult industry. I don't know what kind of reaction I'd get if I showed up for family get-togethers with a girlfriend who a)I used to tutor when she was 16, b) who I'd slept with before she'd even decided to leave her husband, and c) who also used to be a fellow coke addict.

Her family? It'd take a miracle for her father not to put a bullet between my eyes.

And I'm sure her ex-hubby would just love the idea of his ex-wife shacking with the guy she'd had an affair with - talk about a juicy piece of information for any potential custody battle.

Besides, I reminded her, what are the odds that this would work, anyway? We'd probably break up or kill each other in a year, tops.

* * * *

Silence.

She didn't say anything for more than two minutes, just made these oh-so-cute sounding noises she makes when she's thinking - or when she's seriously pissed - about something.

Yup. Pissed. She hung up without saying a word - no goodbye, no nothing.

* * * *

I didn't hear from her for more than a week after that. She calmed down and, well, finally came to the same conclusion I did.

Some things are not worth the gamble. And she'd be gambling a lot more than I would. I don't have a daughter, a soon-to-be ex who may or may not end up owning half of my business interests, a house that may end up being sold off as part of a divorce agreement, or friends I'm worried about losing.

Quitting my job and moving across country? Hell, wouldn't be the first time for me. But doing so for someone else, just because I could potentially, one day, fall in love enough to - Gasp! - move beyond being the Ex-Other Man wouldn't be the wisest move on my part.

There's no such thing as a movie ending in the real world. Maybe for some annoying suburbanite emo kid or Trustafarian, but not for anybody whose ever spent any amount of time studying at the esteemed School of Hard Fucking Knocks.

* * * *

We agreed to take some time away from communicating for a bit, to let whatever this lustful silliness is just die. The potential danger is, indeed, greater than either of us can really afford in our lives, at this point.

We do, however, have an agreement. A Fruitcake Sex Agreement, similar to this one.

If both of us are single next December, and if both of us just happen to be back in California after Christmas...

We're getting a room in the same motel. And we're not leaving until we're good and ready to leave. I'm thinking it could take days, maybe even a week.

* * * *

Goddamnit, dude. Wouldn't it be nice to just get involved with women who're single and uncomplicated?

You know, just once, to do the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing, without having to worry about getting a motel room or husbands or ex-husbands or potential stepchildren or ... ?

# # #