I have posted the latest collection of my serial-via-Facebook, The Ballad Of Harry Guakomoli. I changed the title a bit (am I allowed to do that?). I invite you all to let me know what you think, but if it's harsh or mean please tell me in private. Thank you.
The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli Part V
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
51 Hours in Flushing, Queens
Last Friday I left Portland to go to Queens. It was a trip I had been looking forward to for some time: not just because it was to be the first time I got to see my parents and sisters in months (which was great), but also Portland has been wearing on me a bit. Not in a particularly overwhelming way and nothing even close to the extend around the holidays. I just needed to get the fuck out of Dodge for a few days.
I got myself a super phone, one of them Droid jobbies. A belated Christmas present from my sisters. I decided to name her guakbot, jr. after my beloved laptop, guakbot (yes, sans caps). She's juniorbot for short, though it isn't shorter at all. I had been using a prepaid phone, a "burner" as Stringer Bell would call it, that I had snapped a SIM card into so I could be on my sisters' plan. That was about four years ago I think. It came with no bells and whistles, unless you count a calculator and an alarm clock as extravagant, and that was just fine with me. But the thing was getting old and not working as it should some of the time: taking several attempts to make a phone call or not being able to send or receive texts. And then the battery started to go. It was time to replace the gadget. Enter juniorbot. This girl is pretty awesome. I never had a phone with a camera and the internets and that could play music and videos and music videos. When I upgrade I fucking upgrade!
I spent a lot of the time walking around Flushing, a big reason was that my family spent a good chunk of time watching NCAA basketball. Yawn. Flushing is predominantly a Chinese neighborhood, with lots of Indians as well. Caucasians certainly are in the minority, which for a white boy who has spent most of his existence in Maine, a place that dukes it out with Vermont as the whitest state in The Union, took some getting used to. But it's pretty cool. I like having about 6-8" of height on almost everyone else. The signage is interesting, the Chinese alphabet I've always liked. It also helps that I most certainly have a "thing" for Asian women ("yellow fever" if you will). I saw so many Chinese ladies. It was great.
So I did a lot of walking around taking in the sights. It gave me an opportunity to try out juniorbot's camera capabilities. Some of those photos I will post on Facebook in the next day or two.
Sunday I woke up at 7:30 in the morning. This, as many of you might suspect, was pure agony for yours truly. But my parents wanted to hit the road back to South Carolina by nine or so and wanted to take their spawn out to breakfast before they left. We at some diner that billed itself as "the original pancake house." Our waitress wasn't particularly friendly, which my family bitched about, but I appreciated. I enjoy Flo-like "kiss my grits" sass from my servers, especially when I'm at a diner. I ordered a plate of silver dollar pancakes, advertised as ten in number. What I got was a mound of fluffy delight, definitely more than ten. So I counted them. Sixteen! Sixteen motherfucking silver dollar pancakes! Bushwa! Damn, that place rocked!
Later on in the day I was strolling through Chinatown and on two different occasions I was propositioned by women offering "special" massages. I politely declined, though one of the ladies I had to reject three times before she finally left me alone. But then I got thinking: while I may not want to pay for a handjob, a legitimate massage might actually be nice. I've never had one before, but I hear they're fantastic. There must be legitimate masseuses in Chinatown, right? So I was approached by an older Asian man. This was our conversation:
Older Asian Man: You want massage?
Guak: From you?
OAM: No, from Chinese girl.
G: Is this one of those special massages?
OAM: No, not special.
G: How much?
OAM: $30
G: Yeah, okay. Let's go check it out.
Older Asian Man grabbed my arm and led me down a side street and into a business with a sign just in Chinese. I paid my $30 and was led into a tiny room. Two of its "walls" were just curtains. A sign of the wall stated "no eroticism of any kind." a super cute Chinese lady (OAM wasn't lying!) came in and asked if I wanted it medium or harder. I decided fuck it, let's do harder. So she did. Driving her elbows, knees, and heels into my back. Pinching the hell out of my neck. Pulling my arms back and karate chopping them. Pulling my fingers until they pop. All the hype I had heard about massages was true. I felt euphoric.It is the best sensation I have felt in a long time. It was pure bliss.
I walked back to my sisters' place and had just enough time to pack and scarf down some Chinese food before Ashley drove me to the airport. I bought a pop and boarded the plane. We left at 9pm.
The pop's carbonation made me burp like crazy. The smell of Diet Dr. Pepper and Chinese food made me gag a little.I hope the guy beside me smelled them too. Mini-Bible-reading jerkface.
I got myself a super phone, one of them Droid jobbies. A belated Christmas present from my sisters. I decided to name her guakbot, jr. after my beloved laptop, guakbot (yes, sans caps). She's juniorbot for short, though it isn't shorter at all. I had been using a prepaid phone, a "burner" as Stringer Bell would call it, that I had snapped a SIM card into so I could be on my sisters' plan. That was about four years ago I think. It came with no bells and whistles, unless you count a calculator and an alarm clock as extravagant, and that was just fine with me. But the thing was getting old and not working as it should some of the time: taking several attempts to make a phone call or not being able to send or receive texts. And then the battery started to go. It was time to replace the gadget. Enter juniorbot. This girl is pretty awesome. I never had a phone with a camera and the internets and that could play music and videos and music videos. When I upgrade I fucking upgrade!
I spent a lot of the time walking around Flushing, a big reason was that my family spent a good chunk of time watching NCAA basketball. Yawn. Flushing is predominantly a Chinese neighborhood, with lots of Indians as well. Caucasians certainly are in the minority, which for a white boy who has spent most of his existence in Maine, a place that dukes it out with Vermont as the whitest state in The Union, took some getting used to. But it's pretty cool. I like having about 6-8" of height on almost everyone else. The signage is interesting, the Chinese alphabet I've always liked. It also helps that I most certainly have a "thing" for Asian women ("yellow fever" if you will). I saw so many Chinese ladies. It was great.
So I did a lot of walking around taking in the sights. It gave me an opportunity to try out juniorbot's camera capabilities. Some of those photos I will post on Facebook in the next day or two.
Sunday I woke up at 7:30 in the morning. This, as many of you might suspect, was pure agony for yours truly. But my parents wanted to hit the road back to South Carolina by nine or so and wanted to take their spawn out to breakfast before they left. We at some diner that billed itself as "the original pancake house." Our waitress wasn't particularly friendly, which my family bitched about, but I appreciated. I enjoy Flo-like "kiss my grits" sass from my servers, especially when I'm at a diner. I ordered a plate of silver dollar pancakes, advertised as ten in number. What I got was a mound of fluffy delight, definitely more than ten. So I counted them. Sixteen! Sixteen motherfucking silver dollar pancakes! Bushwa! Damn, that place rocked!
Later on in the day I was strolling through Chinatown and on two different occasions I was propositioned by women offering "special" massages. I politely declined, though one of the ladies I had to reject three times before she finally left me alone. But then I got thinking: while I may not want to pay for a handjob, a legitimate massage might actually be nice. I've never had one before, but I hear they're fantastic. There must be legitimate masseuses in Chinatown, right? So I was approached by an older Asian man. This was our conversation:
Older Asian Man: You want massage?
Guak: From you?
OAM: No, from Chinese girl.
G: Is this one of those special massages?
OAM: No, not special.
G: How much?
OAM: $30
G: Yeah, okay. Let's go check it out.
Older Asian Man grabbed my arm and led me down a side street and into a business with a sign just in Chinese. I paid my $30 and was led into a tiny room. Two of its "walls" were just curtains. A sign of the wall stated "no eroticism of any kind." a super cute Chinese lady (OAM wasn't lying!) came in and asked if I wanted it medium or harder. I decided fuck it, let's do harder. So she did. Driving her elbows, knees, and heels into my back. Pinching the hell out of my neck. Pulling my arms back and karate chopping them. Pulling my fingers until they pop. All the hype I had heard about massages was true. I felt euphoric.It is the best sensation I have felt in a long time. It was pure bliss.
I walked back to my sisters' place and had just enough time to pack and scarf down some Chinese food before Ashley drove me to the airport. I bought a pop and boarded the plane. We left at 9pm.
The pop's carbonation made me burp like crazy. The smell of Diet Dr. Pepper and Chinese food made me gag a little.I hope the guy beside me smelled them too. Mini-Bible-reading jerkface.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
My Former Neighbors
I picked up a former neighbor of mine last week. She occupied the apartment now known as "Fort Bitchin'" - the unit across hall from my own. She was in her late thirties or early forties when she lived there with her two sons, who were both in their teens. She also lived there with her boyfriend. That is until something happened and her kids kicked the shit out of him. The end of a relationship doesn't get any more official than that. The boys were no strangers to crime; my friend recognized the older one from when he used to work at the teen center in South Portland. But the guys and I were on good terms. They told me if anyone ever gave me a hard time they would take care of it. If I have to have thugs living in my building, it's best that the thugs have my back.
The older son moved out at one point to live with his girlfriend whom he had knocked up. Babies having babies. Soon after the lady of the house's nephew moved in. He had just been released from prison. I don't remember what he was convicted of. A drug charge I think. He seemed to have cleaned himself up during his stretch in the joint. The guy learned to read while incarcerated, and he had a job. Sure, his job was escorting dancers to "private parties" but still...the man was making cheddar by legal means. One time there was a party at Fort Awesome (courtesy of the Party Princesses), and he found out about and got really excited. His plan was to call his stripper co-workers and them bring over, along with cocaine. The blow I could, and still can, do without, but strippers I would have welcomed with open arms. But the family matriarch poopooed that idea, telling her nephew he wasn't going to ruin our good time. I'm not exactly sure how bringing over ladies that take their clothes off for a living is a bad idea. C'est la vie.
The nephew was a good conversationalist. We had some good talks on the stoop, until he started talking about white pride. Literacy wasn't the only thing my neighbor picked up in the clink despite the man who taught him to read black. He claimed it wasn't racism but just being proud of his race. I never understood that argument. The concept of black pride stems from generations of people of color being told that they were inferior to caucasians (at best) or treated as nothing better than livestock (at worst). White men, as a collective, have never been through that struggle. We have always been the oppressors, either towards brown-skinned people, women, or each other. So, yeah, I don't fucking buy it but whatever. Be proud. But the second you started dropping N-bombs, former neighbor o' mine, you stopped pretending to be proud of your racial heritage and revealed yourself to be the racist shitbird that you truly are.
So, Rosie, White Power Brian, Ex-Boyfriend, and Kids 1 and 2: while you were perfectly fine neighbors, in your own right, I think I will stick with Bethlynne, Sofia, and Finn.
The older son moved out at one point to live with his girlfriend whom he had knocked up. Babies having babies. Soon after the lady of the house's nephew moved in. He had just been released from prison. I don't remember what he was convicted of. A drug charge I think. He seemed to have cleaned himself up during his stretch in the joint. The guy learned to read while incarcerated, and he had a job. Sure, his job was escorting dancers to "private parties" but still...the man was making cheddar by legal means. One time there was a party at Fort Awesome (courtesy of the Party Princesses), and he found out about and got really excited. His plan was to call his stripper co-workers and them bring over, along with cocaine. The blow I could, and still can, do without, but strippers I would have welcomed with open arms. But the family matriarch poopooed that idea, telling her nephew he wasn't going to ruin our good time. I'm not exactly sure how bringing over ladies that take their clothes off for a living is a bad idea. C'est la vie.
The nephew was a good conversationalist. We had some good talks on the stoop, until he started talking about white pride. Literacy wasn't the only thing my neighbor picked up in the clink despite the man who taught him to read black. He claimed it wasn't racism but just being proud of his race. I never understood that argument. The concept of black pride stems from generations of people of color being told that they were inferior to caucasians (at best) or treated as nothing better than livestock (at worst). White men, as a collective, have never been through that struggle. We have always been the oppressors, either towards brown-skinned people, women, or each other. So, yeah, I don't fucking buy it but whatever. Be proud. But the second you started dropping N-bombs, former neighbor o' mine, you stopped pretending to be proud of your racial heritage and revealed yourself to be the racist shitbird that you truly are.
So, Rosie, White Power Brian, Ex-Boyfriend, and Kids 1 and 2: while you were perfectly fine neighbors, in your own right, I think I will stick with Bethlynne, Sofia, and Finn.
Monday, March 14, 2011
I posted the last installment of The Ballad Of The Guak yesterday, completing "The Guak, The Origin (Part I)." In the past I post the finished arcs here on GuakTalk, but that seems a bit cluttered and harder to find. It made more sense for me to start yet another world wide web log, just for publishing The Ballad Of The Guak. So that's what I did. You can read The Guak's exploits at...
http://guakballad.blogspot.com
Be excellent to each other.
http://guakballad.blogspot.com
Be excellent to each other.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The Clash (and the early afternoon after)
Another Thursday, another hangover. I went to my first Clash of The Titans last night. It was my first because they used to be held on Tuesdays, a night that I work (and probably the one night of the week I haven't taken off in ages). I was really excited because it was The Clash vs The Ramones, two of my favorite bands. I was annoyed because it didn't get started until close to 10:30, but I got there before 9:45 so the entry was free so I suppose I have no reason to complain. The show was decent though the band covering The Clash wasn't nearly as good as The Ramones, though in The Clash's defense I would think covering The Ramones is a lot easier job assignment. I left just after midnight just as The Clash were starting their last song. I was bummed that my favorite Clash song wasn't played. "Straight To Hell" is not only my favorite song from The Clash, but it's probably one of my top three favorite songs ever. I'm not one to list and rank such things so I can't be completely positive it's in my Top 3, but it's most definitely up there. So I left and met Jackie at Ruski's, later joined by Krister, for a couple of pints to finish off the night.
I also had an...interesting...text exchange with a lady I have had the fortune of meeting recently. It may have become awkward, though it hasn't on my end. But she has yet to get back to me today so I don't know what's going on with that.
Another Thursday hangover remedied with water, ibuprofen, and a hearty, yet a bit overpriced, Ruski's breakfast. When I got to my favorite watering hole/breakfastery a crazy man was waiting for the bus, with a few things to say to the world...
"Mark is fucking us public school teachers over! X-P-5-H-17!"
"This Bud's for you!"
"God bless the Coast Guard!"
I'm off to work soon, a slave to The Almighty Dollar. Monday and Tuesday were average, if not slightly better than average, days money-wise, but yet I still feel a bit let down last week's hot streak hasn't carried over. Here's hoping the last half of my workweek is fucking tops.
I also had an...interesting...text exchange with a lady I have had the fortune of meeting recently. It may have become awkward, though it hasn't on my end. But she has yet to get back to me today so I don't know what's going on with that.
Another Thursday hangover remedied with water, ibuprofen, and a hearty, yet a bit overpriced, Ruski's breakfast. When I got to my favorite watering hole/breakfastery a crazy man was waiting for the bus, with a few things to say to the world...
"Mark is fucking us public school teachers over! X-P-5-H-17!"
"This Bud's for you!"
"God bless the Coast Guard!"
I'm off to work soon, a slave to The Almighty Dollar. Monday and Tuesday were average, if not slightly better than average, days money-wise, but yet I still feel a bit let down last week's hot streak hasn't carried over. Here's hoping the last half of my workweek is fucking tops.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Catching Up
It seems like forever since I have posted a world wide web log entry. Here's a quick summary of what I've been up to...
Last week I came seriously close to beating my all-time record of most profitable week ever, missing it by a mere $17. That record was set around eight years ago when I drove 60 hours a week (I drive 42 - 45 hours a week now). I'm still a winner in my book (though yours may be a different edition than mine).
Also last week I was a reunited with Black Betty after the two of us were apart for nearly two weeks. She was downed because the heat just wasn't working in her (a real problem during a Maine winter). Once I was finally able to drive her again I was super happy. And I could tell she was too.
A crack whore gave me a little marijuana in exchange for a ride. I haven't smoked pot in over twelve years so I passed it on to a friend. He smoked it and didn't die, which is a good thing. During that same ride the crack whore also put her head in my lap and rubbed my crotch. Interesting fare.
A close friend of mine and are working some shit, most of which stems from me being a judgmental, stubborn ass. The issue isn't really resolved, probably not even close, but I think it will be in time.
I started writing the continuation of my serialized-via-Facebook The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli. It's going to be considerably longer than the first story arc. I'm still working on it, but I'm going to start posting it later today. The last time I didn't post anything until it was completely written, but I think if I did that this time it would still be quite a while until I would be ready to post. It begins the day after Harry Guakomoli dispatched his greatest foe, Sasquatch McGillicuddy, but before that I'll be delving into a little of The Guak's origin story. It also has a lot more of Oslo, the world's smartest cat.
I think that about covers it, or least the parts I feel sharing with the world. By "the world" I mean the half-dozen friends or so that read this.
Be excellent to each other.
Last week I came seriously close to beating my all-time record of most profitable week ever, missing it by a mere $17. That record was set around eight years ago when I drove 60 hours a week (I drive 42 - 45 hours a week now). I'm still a winner in my book (though yours may be a different edition than mine).
Also last week I was a reunited with Black Betty after the two of us were apart for nearly two weeks. She was downed because the heat just wasn't working in her (a real problem during a Maine winter). Once I was finally able to drive her again I was super happy. And I could tell she was too.
A crack whore gave me a little marijuana in exchange for a ride. I haven't smoked pot in over twelve years so I passed it on to a friend. He smoked it and didn't die, which is a good thing. During that same ride the crack whore also put her head in my lap and rubbed my crotch. Interesting fare.
A close friend of mine and are working some shit, most of which stems from me being a judgmental, stubborn ass. The issue isn't really resolved, probably not even close, but I think it will be in time.
I started writing the continuation of my serialized-via-Facebook The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli. It's going to be considerably longer than the first story arc. I'm still working on it, but I'm going to start posting it later today. The last time I didn't post anything until it was completely written, but I think if I did that this time it would still be quite a while until I would be ready to post. It begins the day after Harry Guakomoli dispatched his greatest foe, Sasquatch McGillicuddy, but before that I'll be delving into a little of The Guak's origin story. It also has a lot more of Oslo, the world's smartest cat.
I think that about covers it, or least the parts I feel sharing with the world. By "the world" I mean the half-dozen friends or so that read this.
Be excellent to each other.
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