Archive for the ‘The Things I Don’t Do’ Category
Glimmer of Love
Posted on: September 4, 2013
She is my muse, love. My life. My soul, which I never knew or believed existed until I felt her breath… my breath, filling my lungs. Lately words have been flowing from my heart that I never expected to hear, feel, or believe. It is as real and as drastic a transformation as I have ever experienced. Apparently, it is wholely possible to look forward to speaking to someone just moments after hanging up the phone – to miss someone mere seconds following farewells. It seems that, despite all doubt, in all appearances, potentially, probably, ipso. fucking. facto. that love not only exists, but that I find myself eyebrow deep in it. This is a first. Many firsts, in fact. But, certainly the first time I find myself deep in something that did not require legal, medical, or moral assistance to get out of.
I am writing this for the same reason I’ve ever written anything, because I have to. I have written, to date, a number of letters beyond my ability to count (which is to say, I’ve run out of fingers and toes) regarding the subject of love, the subject of my love, addressed to… well, you get the point. I have killed four pens, 2.5 notebooks, and three packs of evelopes in just a couple of months. So for anyone wondering if The Duke of Glimmer has been writing… he has, but only for one person as of recently. And although she prefers not to share my attention, I’m sure she’ll grant me reprieve in this case.
My love is music, for I found her through music. My love is friendship, for I found her through friendship. She is dance, and light, and laughter… gorgeous hot days, and long desert nights. She is drugs – I will not lie. The greatest (seriously, the greatest) drug I’ve ever known. I am convinced she is the path to my enlightenment – if that is a thing and it can truly be achieved. And if not, I’m just fucking happy. Really happy. Happy enough to write this sappy post that you will probably read, say “awww,” puke, then take an insulin shot. And that’s fine.
The point is that it’s real and it’s out there – love. It’s not something you’re expecting to find, or that you seek out on purpose. It just grows, organically – non GMO, always fair trade. I didn’t even know I wanted it until love found me, but now I’ll fight with the passion of a thousand souls to keep it, this fire that burns in my heart. There’s no formula, just live your life and let it find you. It will. Somehow it found me. Somehow there’s a beautiful woman in this world who is just like me, but better… so much better. Genuinely, just ask Tracy, she’s better… and she loves me, lucky fool that I am. So for anyone struggling or lonely out there – trust me, if you’re holding the glimmer, sooner or later the universe will send someone to share the burden.
Posted on: May 22, 2012
It’s been a rough one, glimmies. I’m sure all three of you were well aware of our absence (please just let me believe you were at least.. I need SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN right now….), but SHIT has gone DOWN in the last month and I haven’t had enough time to formulate words in to a post. Let me rephrase that- I’ve had MORE THAN ENOUGH TIME to write a post because I am officially unemployed.
Step in to My Office…
#Shit Duke Says…
Posted on: March 8, 2012
He awoke from the haze of a six month hangover on March the 8th, in this foul year of our lord 2012…
Shit. It’s Thursday. I’m stuck in a box with no windows. And somewhere outside this dim closet the sun is shining on people who’ve probably made far better life choices than myself – or yourselves, for that matter. Because if you had any brains you’d be out there enjoying the day too, instead of slaving away for time off you’ll never get to take.
Let’s stop right there before I take you to the dark place too early. Explanations will not be administered for where I’ve been and why I haven’t written. Those of you who know me understand that I tend to disappear for hours, days, months at a time. If you don’t know me… well, you’re starting to get the picture. Our inconsistent rapport will eventually lead you to the conclusion that I’m the trainwreck cousin who shows up at Thanksgiving with a different look and new trashy girlfriend every year, only to rail against an establishment I never quite challenged head-on, then leaves sloppy drunk and doesn’t call again until Christmas – to tell you things have changed and I’ll be doing missionary work in Liberia through spring.
There I go rambling again. The point I was trying to make is that Whitney Houston was a terrific singer, and it’s a fucking tragedy what happened. Whitney, and Amy Whinehouse, and Lindsay Lohan… what? Oh Lindsay’s still alive? She can’t sing, either? Sigh… where have all the talented drug addicts gone? I wonder if heaven’s got a coke dealer…
Alright let’s reel this thing in, because I haven’t even started yet, I don’t think. So let’s focus on the substance. The real reason I haven’t written, besides the lack of motivation, time, or thoughts worthy of wasting paper/webspace – is that nobody reads anymore. Sure, you read the headlines that NPR posts on facebook. But when was the last time you finished the article? No, you’re into the internet memes about what your parents think you do and what you really do (spoiler: your parents think you do nothing that matters, you actually do nothing that matters). You’re checking out the gif of some kitty falling off a table, or the latest youtube video about Shit Douchebags Say (something something something FAG! something something let’s get some PUSSY!). And if you feel the itch to make a difference in the world, update your status to what color bra you’re wearing to fight against breast cancer, or grow out your chest hair to show solidarity with Greek austerity. But you’re certainly too busy being interesting to care about what anyone really has to say, or what’s actually going on around you. You’re too fucking busy being an armchair activist. Maybe you’re sitting there saying “well what the hell have you ever done to make a difference?” “Not a mother flippin’ thing,” I reply. And even if I had (which I have), I wouldn’t tell you – because I’d rather entertain you with my sins, and hedge them privately with good deeds, like putting strippers through college.
All you have to do, to change the fucking world, is watch this goddamn video, and share it with 13 people, or else Kony is going to steal your grandmother in the night and make her a Ugandan prostitute. Isn’t this just a sophisticated version of the old chain emails from myspace? Facefuck has become an amazing place, where information is shared and movements have taken shape. But I hate to burst your bubble, awareness is not a movement. Cures, solutions, revolutions, they don’t come about because you’re aware of the problem. If people sat around at work and sent each other videos of kids dying from Staph infection – we’d still be waiting for someone to invent penicillin. Hitler didn’t burn in a bunker because of viral internet memes making fun of his Michael Jordan mustache and love for killing Jews. And, as powerful as twitter is, it still couldn’t stop Ahmadinejad from stealing another election and throwing anyone who protested in jail. So keep updating your statuses to complain about gas prices – just don’t forget who’s slapping economic sanctions on who next time you’re at the pump. Hashtag just sayin…
Hold the Metta
Posted on: July 12, 2011
I can’t say with any degree of accuracy where or who I’ve been since I last disgraced the interwebs with my complaint-laden gibberish. Hazy snapshots come to mind, but much like a conversation with my parents – I can never divulge anything more than generalities and insignificant details. I’d like to say that I’ve grown as a person, learned about myself and the world, gained culture and wisdom and understanding; but the reality is I’ve burned off too many brain cells to have possibly gained anything more than an early onset of alzheimer’s and a lifetime ban from… well, it’s not important.
Lately I’ve been wondering how much is too much? How far is too far? At what point do we stop pushing the limits of public intoxication and weekend warriorhood? When do we make the jump from running-into-the-stands Ron Artest to sweet charitable goofball Metta World Peace? What the fuck does Metta even mean, anyway? (Editors note: I’ve decided that Metta is my new favorite word and officially a new glimmer game. See how many times you can use that word in a day; via email, casual conversation with your boss, to the girl crying in the bathroom stall next door…you get the picture. Game on!)
Maybe I was supposed to cut the shit after college, but it has only gotten worse – or better, depending on your perspective. These days I have money to party in ways I always wanted when I was a broke student living on spaghetti and Italian dressing. Now, every year feels like a competition to outdo last year, and the result is always the same – I’m the big winner. The best is yet to come, which is both exciting and frightening, because as I keep surpassing myself – I’m almost positive that my body is losing. It has to be. Something has to give at some point. It’s only a matter of time…
Normal people chalk up their hazy years to youthful rebellion and move onto the long boring phase of domesticity as a result of their ensuing maturity. They get real jobs, settle down, have kids, and everything else takes a backseat to “life.” I’ve started a career, not a star-studded one, but a career to be proud of nonetheless. One that requires me to be a responsible upstanding adult, which I appear to be during work hours. I’m surrounded by nice people – friendly grown folks who work hard even on their days off, pick up their kids from school, pay their mortgages, remodel their homes, and occasionally play golf or poker if they have a couple of hours free. Nice people – fucking squares. Did they start off that way? God forbid. Was it a gradual breaking of the exuberance and spirit that once had them preaching free love and Tuesday night skinny dipping? It seems that even the ex-hipsters and night owls eventually sold out in the name of practicality and parenthood – two concepts with which I’m entirely unfamiliar.
The other night I tried something completely outrageous and out-of-character. It was despicable, unforgivable; my parents would be proud. I stayed home, and did nothing. Actually, I stayed in my hotel room. I’m living at the Marina Del Rey Marriott right now, not that it matters or that you care – it’s just a detail to flesh out the story. So, on a weekend night (it was Thursday, but I had Friday off), I sat in my hotel room, ordered room service, and watched my view of the pacific ocean with its sandy beaches and docked sailboats. It was quiet, serene; just lovely. I remember thinking, which is already a big deal for me… “Maybe I can do this – mellow out and step back from the edge.” I’ve always been attracted to the locomotive lifestyle of monsters and rockstars. All my heroes had the grit to push their limits, and as a result cranked out some incredibly profound bodies of work. But, then again, all my heroes are either dead or in rehab. Perhaps there’s something to this simple life of sobriety. It seems a moment can be enjoyed without slurring obscenities over loud music, or offending patrons at late night diners. Of course by 10pm I was absolutely bored with the view, the television, the room, the book I brought, and myself. I hit the 8th floor for some free concierge Chivas, and the rest of the weekend was a blur from that point on…
This is my life
Regretfully Yours,
Posted on: May 18, 2011
- I didn’t get to escape from prison. Why would I want to go to prison? Come on, didn’t you ever watch OZ? It’s awesome. Rick Fox was on it. And yes, I realize one has to be arrested, tried, and convicted before such a possibility can arise – and I certainly have no regret in failing to participate in these endeavors (although in all honestly, I’ve come closer than I’d like to admit). I just always wanted to start a riot in the mess hall to create a diversion, dig through a concrete wall with a rock hammer, crawl through grinding turbines of power generators, sneak up on guards and stealthily break their necks with my bare hands, climb on the roof of a compound with flood lights searching as the helicopter flies in through darkness just in time for me to grab its dangling ladder, and pull myself to safety with machine gun bullets whizzing past my head. It might be the claustrophobia caused by my crackerjack box of a cubicle that has me jonesing for an epic jailbreak, or perhaps I’ve seen Shawshank Redemption one too many times. But for once, I would have liked to be the one who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side…
- I regret not building that kick ass fort every kid dreams of. I’m talking about a fort built of pillows and plywood, forged out of blankets and brawn. Three stories of no-girls-allowed-big-boys-only fortliness, with a secret stash of playboys under a loose floorboard, a system of string-and-tin-can telephones connecting all the other forts in the neighborhood, trip wires surrounding the premises to warn us of approaching adults, a bar, pool table, jacuzzi, fly maids, a butler, a tricked out stage setup with automated light shows, huge plasma television, a kitchen with a chef, stripper p… What? Too much? Hey, ask any guy – we all wanted one (as kids, and still today as adults), and if you were one of the lucky few who actually had it – I hope Jesus condemns you first. You don’t deserve heaven, because you’ve already been there.
- I wish I had performed stand-up. I think of comedians as class clowns who were never forced to grow up and get real jobs like the rest of us. They live the dream, drunkenly offending and badgering their audience while occasionally sharing a gem or two about life – kind of like what we do here at HTG, but on stage… for money. I’m not trying to say I’d be particularly good at it, because in truth I stumble over my words when struggling to make awkward conversation with the cashier at Vons (she’s only known me 20 years). I guess for starters (is it late for starters?) I wish I had the nerve and comedic prowess to do it, but that’s neither here nor there. It would have validated my existence on this Earth to be one of the few people to ever command a microphone and make people laugh, on purpose.
- I really wanted to hold a public office. Even the city councilman from Bumfuck, AR gets his own parking spot and his name immortalized in some registry log for having voted to remove the stop light next to Art’s Barbershop on 6th Street. It’s history, man, and I wanted to be a part of it – even a small one. Getting elected to a public office validates your existence because lesser beings agree you’re more qualified to lead than they are (seriously, that’s what you’re saying by voting instead of running – if you think you can do better, you should). Anyway, just like comedy, I’m not saying I’d be any good at it – but there’s just something appealing about wearing a power suit, and accepting briefcases full of money and free weekends in Laughlin as payment for allowing untreated waste from the local power plant to be rerouted through the city’s drinking water facility.
- I never got published! I know it’s a pipe dream, but all I ever wanted was for someone to stumble across my facebook page, read my status and say, “give that man a book deal!” I guess Shit Duke Says wasn’t as big a draw as I’d hoped. And cocktail napkin musings aren’t taken too seriously, regardless of how nicely they’re bound together when shipped to Random House. So, instead, I’ve kept my day job – sneaking over to our blog whenever nobody is looking (like right now, for instance) to put together wild gibberish with the intention of entertaining my fellow working men and women – who want, just as much as I, to creep out the window of reality and puff on the magical dragon of procrastination. The intention was always to use this as a stepping stone – a practice ground to develop my skill (or lack, thereof) until it was worthy of sharing on a professional level; at which time I could execute my blogger-in-crime’s method of quitting with a bang, and move on with my rockstar writer lifestyle…
Camp Kill
Posted on: March 9, 2011
If one defines the word “survive” as “still breathing”; then yes, I survived boot camp. Barely. Let’s dig a little deeper, shall we?
On that fateful Wednesday afternoon, I saw a shadowy grey cloud loom over the San Fernando Valley and thought to myself, “Self. It’s going to rain. You are in the clear.” To further support my notion that an exercise class would never force its poor, fat students to stand out in the cold rain as they threw medicine balls to each other, I gave the boot camp a call.
The phone rings, and a burley sounding man answers, with (I shit you not) patriotic band music in the backround. I cringe.
“Hi……..(long, awkward pause), is this Feel the Burn Boot camp?” –me
“Why yes it is! Are you registered for our class tonight?” –burley man
“Well, yes. But it’s my first class and I was just curious if you still hold classes in the rain? I mean, it’s very cold outside and with the rain, I’m afraid I’ll catch some kind of pneumonia!” –me
“Rain or shine sweetie; just like the coupon says.” –burley man
“Oh. Ok. Well, but what if it starts raining really hard?” –me
“Rain or shine lady.” –burley man
“Right. Hmm… well…What about snow?” –me
“Lady, were you even alive the last time it snowed in Los Angeles?” –burley man
“Do you mean last weekend in the foothills, or in 1989? And my answer is yes to both.” – me
“What’s your name?” –burley man
“Tracy? Why?”-me
“Well, I will see you in two hours, Tracy.” –burley man
(fuck.)
*sigh*
(super fuck.)
And thank God for that rain.
Remember my pretty sweat issue? Well, when you’re covered in mud and grass, tree branches and leaves hitting your head, heavy rainfall and surrounded by beached whales, my now fairly reasonably attractive sweat wasn’t even noticeable. In fact, at one point I mentioned to one of the whales that I couldn’t tell if I was sweating, crying, or if all this “wet” was my soul escaping my body, which resulted in a few laughs. At that point, Sgt Burley Man picked up on my comedy routine, called me out by name and promptly asked yelled at me to do jumping jack/push up combos. I rolled my eyes, of course, and fell flat into the mud and in push up position. You better believe I was getting every single penny out of this horrible “work out”.
As I watched a few of the whales wander off from the “too brutal” work out (it was fucking ridiculous and I have no idea how I even mustered the idea or energy to get out of my car, let alone complete the class), my integrity kicked in…or something like that. I told myself: “Self, you are not allowed to leave. If you leave, you will become a beached whale. Nobody likes a beached whale.” So I stayed. And my body still hurts. A week later. Maybe it was from the medicine ball sprint throw? Maybe it was from leap frog with your hands tied together with weights? We’ll probably never know seeing as I’d rather push needles into my own eyes instead of attending that god awful class again.
And I now see nothing wrong with beached whales. People help beached whales, right? Maybe they just wanted to lay in the sun for a bit? What’s wrong with that??
PS- What ever happened to Missy Elliot?
Editor’s note: I cannot emphasize how mad I was at myself for even blogging about this, which then forced me to actually attend the class, in complete fear that my 4 readers would verbally and then physically attack me for fabricating such an exquisite piece of writing. But, I showed up. And, well, as we can see, it took a mere 7 days to compile my thoughts, let alone have the actual ability to type one post. You win again, Groupon.
The Things I Don’t Do
Posted on: February 25, 2011
I’m a person of interests, as my therapist would say. I’m rational. I enjoy having an assumption of how my day will begin and end. I love knowing at 8am what I will be eating for dinner (duh..I’ll sacrifice a breakfast burrito for taco night ANY DAY.) I get excited picking out my outfit for the next day, selfishly knowing I will receive an additional 9 minutes of crucial sleep in the morning. I’ve been fascinated by recent current events and have compiled a list for all 4 of you, my wonderful readers. Grab a chair, maybe some vodka, and enjoy the things I do not do.
1. Charter a boat anywhere near East Africa.
Listen. God speaks to me too. I am friends with God. God tells me all kinds of things every day- “Maybe you really don’t need another cup of coffee”, “Try and not flip off every driver you’ve deemed a horrible freeway merger”, “That cheese dip for your soft pretzel isn’t necessarily intended as a shooter. Yes, I understand the design of the cheese cup fits perfectly to your lips, but have some restraint and maybe a little class.”
See? God and I get down. He’s a good guy really, just drastically misunderstood with all those tsunamis and earthquakes and such. Here’s where I get confused. I have yet to recall a time where God told me he really needed my help in Somalia. God’s got a lot on his plate and I am positive Somalia isn’t even on this year’s menu. Maybe our relationship isn’t one of pointing fingers on whom and how to fix things, but I think God and I are both very aware of two things: do NOT build a house near any kind of levee and do NOT go to Somalia. You will die.
I have compassion- I swear I do (hello, GOD AND I SPEAK), but I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would willingly go near a country known for maritime warfare. Scratch that. Maritime warfare is (slightly) dignified. These are pirates. PIRATES. Have you recently researched the actual term “pirate”? Well good god, do NOT google it yourself because there are far too many sites related to AWESOME pirate names and costumes. But because I care, I found this for all of you:
pi·rate n.
1.
a. One who robs at sea or plunders the land from the sea without commission from a sovereign nation.
b. A ship used for this purpose.
2. One who preys on others; a plunderer.
HELLO WORLD- ONE WHO ROBS at SEA, One who PREYS on others, a PLUNDERER?!?!? Next.
Now, if Johnny Depp were an actual pirate who trolled the seas, you bet your ass I would be on the first red-flagged “catch me pirates” dingy out. Alas, only a Disney movie….like most of my dreams.
2. Travel to and report from a protest in a country where women are treated worse than dogs
Sounds simple, right? Well, apparently I am wrong. Anyone who willingly goes to a country known for STONING PEOPLE TO DEATH AFTER THEY ARE RAPED should have some idea what they are getting in to. Any blonde haired, blue eyed beauty reporting (hahahah…reporting) from a country of above mentioned civil unrest should have a slight notion that she will be tousled around a bit in my book. Again, there is compassion. There is always compassion for…self inflicted victims. Kinda. My bosses make me do all kinds of crazy shit, which I happily lazily agree to do solely because of that meager paycheck. That paycheck makes my frivolous world go round. Here’s the difference-
“Hey, you’re gorgeous and we need you to cover the protest in Egypt, so that the American viewers back home have something to look at as they watch those crazy Ay-rabs.” – bossman.
“No” –me.
That’s all.
That is all it takes.
“NO”.
Did she truly believe this was HER story and couldn’t say no to this wonderful opportunity? Did this woman honestly expect to get out of that country unscathed? Did she really believe that waltzing in to Egypt with her new faboosh Hermes scarf draped around that pretty little head would deter MANimals from ripping her dignity (and possibly/likely loins) to shreds?
3. Go to rural Mexico; hell- MEXICO in its entirety
First things first- Can we all agree that Texas is just the “richer, whiter, slightly more economically and fiscally stable” north mexico? Ok, good. Moving On.
Mexico is good for three things: Food, cheap alcohol, and prescription drugs. I’m almost positive I’ve been in a pharmacy that offered all three, and I’m confident that’s ok. That was 10 years ago in the tiny resort town off the tip of the Baja Peninsula, Cabo; this is today, where cartels use acid to get rid of your body, which is after they’ve cut off your head while you’re still breathing….and then force feed it to your dismembered, but still slightly breathing friend.
Do you know why your email is aflutter with “OFFER OF A LIFETIME!!!!!” discounts on flight, room, food, booze cruise, banana boat rides, donkey shows (it’s worse than it sounds- if that’s even possible), and all around fabricated merriment in Mexico? It’s not the economy. It’s definitely not the exchange rate or the general cheery disposition of their sorely corrupted population. It’s to help those 16 year old, machine gun touting mercenaries snatch up as many gringos as possible, in hopes of accruing enough of a ransom to benefit their new flourishing import/export business. Hell, even the federales and paid Mexican journalists disappear in to that same desert where they’re looking for you and your donkey interested friends. SOUNDS. AWESOME. Sign me up, and here’s my home address for fun.
Honorable mentions-
peel oranges, eat onions, filing for my boss, and reading articles on being “20-something”(I’m experiencing it. I live it. Daily. I don’t need to constantly re-live my day to day existence in actual words on New York Times, because it’s SOOOO relevant to my life.)
….but those are far less interesting topics.
Hold the Glimmer 