Cake for breakfast, cake for lunch... you get the picture.

30’s the new 20 nigga', I’m so hot still...
Jay-Z, Kingdom Come

Obscure events in history that took place on March 6th:
1820: The Missouri Compromise is signed into law
1836: Texas Revolution: Battle of the Alamo
1899: Bayer registers asprin as a trademark
1992: The Michelangelo computer virus begins to affect computers

People lucky enough to share this day with me:
1619 Cyrano de Bergerac
1806 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
1926 Alan Greenspan
1972 Shaquille O'Neal

...and the ones who perished...
1836 Jim Bowie
1836 Davy Crockett
1888 Louisa May Alcott
1986 Georgia O'Keeffe

Happy Birthday to Me!!!!!!!!!!!!!
If you need me I'll be at Disneyland eating a corndog.
Holla

Guess Snoopy would be assed out if he had to hitchhike too.

I have begun training in a field competition in which I literally have no knowledge or expertise in. I remember reading a Peanuts cartoon when I was a kid in which Snoopy prepared to wrestle in the arm wrestling capital of the world.
Courtesy of findarticles.com:

Wouldn't these macho men be flustered to learn that it was Snoopy who flexed his muscles and brought arm wrestling to the world's attention in 1968?
The sport got its first 15 minutes of fame when Peanuts creator Charles Schultz did a series of 11 strips in which Snoopy was preparing for his trip to Petaluma, Calif., - the birthplace of organized arm wrestling - where he planned to enter the arm wrestling championship.
But Dave Devoto, a founder of organized arm wrestling, said in the final strip, Snoopy was disqualified because the official arm wrestling rules state contestants must lock their thumbs - Snoopy has no thumb.

I was already exhausted upon arriving at the gym Monday evening but managed to pound out a modified regime, warm-up cardio on the treadmill: 20 minutes, stationary bike: 15 minutes, elliptical: 20 minutes, three sets of crunches 25 reps, three sets of push-ups 15 reps, followed by a long stretch session on the mat. Free weights didn’t seem a specific enough exercise for my wrists and Espe ended up asking one of the hulking trainers wandering the gym from http://psychofitness.com/ (namely the muscle encased bald dude in these pics on the site) what were the best exercises to strengthen the wrists.

He looked me up and down quickly. “Is it for an arm wrestling contest?”
I perked up, “Yes! How did you know?”
He shrugged his monstrous shoulders. “Come here.”

We followed behind him like eager puppies. He led up to a lat pulley machine, positioned himself on a weight bench, then gripped the handle in his massive right hand. Each of his calloused fingers were almost double one of mine. Mr. Psycho Trainer showed me two exercises to strengthen my grip and forearm.
He leaned toward me and spoke quietly, “Do you want to know how to win?”
It was golden. I squatted to my knees and peered up wide-eyed at that dude as if we were at a campfire and he was the best story-teller in the world.
“How?” I whispered.

He said: (spoiler) highlight the following if you want to know....

HA HA HA!!! ! Yeah right, like I’m going to tell YOU the secret to annihilating my opponents! Eat your Wheaties and drink your Ovaltine, bitches!!!

With that nugget of knowledge, I took his place on the weight bench and began curling with the weighted handle. Espe stood over me as I struggled. My arm burned after eight reps. I glanced at the weight stack. 4? As in four pounds? Mr. Psycho had bounced that cable back and forth like dental floss. I assumed that I was starting to fatigue so soon because of the earlier warm ups. But damn, I couldn’t pull four pounds without wincing? Then again, I had never worked out with this machine or this specific muscle group before. Hmm... what other excuse could I come up with? Sweat in my eyes?

I told Espe to drop the weight peg to 2. He mumbled something under his breath and wouldn’t shift it past 3. Three reps of 20 on each arm later, I was done. No, really, I was done. I was mentally trying to figure out how the hell I was going to undress and bathe myself that night with broken arms.

My bud Ferdinand has started calling me Hawk and
Espe, who keeps beating me with a rolled-up towel, insists I refer to him as ‘Mickey’.

Training day number one, down. Nothing has snapped yet. So far so good.

Chicks dig big guns

So, my Clarise Starling days aren’t really all that far gone. We decided to take a trip to our local shooting range one weekend after perusing for blood oranges at the local farmer’s market. It was a weird day.

I don’t think I was dressed appropriately, though the fashion etiquette for firing weapons wasn’t exactly posted at the entrance to the range. There wasn’t even a standard "DON’T" list to help me out - for visitors with the big, bold red circle and line drawn through it which would explain the spent shotgun cartridges and bullet casings on the carpeted floor... at the entrance door.

Check-in was liberal. I was waiting to sign an insurance policy and get electronically fingerprinted before the clerk handed a weapon over to me. Maybe a retina scan? Nothing of the sorts. The scraggly NRA hippie behind the counter asked us to simply sign a sheet on a clipboard then asked us how much ammo we wanted to buy. Espe purchased two 50 round boxes of ammunition and picked out a dull looking 9mm Luger from the glass case.

NRA hippie packed our wares into a plastic carry crate. I pulled two full sized male sillohute target sheets from the shelf and folded them while balancing the unfashionable protective earmuffs and goggles in my arms. Espe and I walked from the check-in point through a rickety wooden door to a room the size of a phone booth. A posted sign read: "Protective eyewear must be worn beyond this point." I dropped the crate on the floor, Luger included, and pushed the earmuffs down over my ears. Espe rolled his eyes. "Oops," I said grinning. I pushed the goggles on, grabbed the crate and slammed through the door to the shooting area.

It was loud of course, and hazy. There were people of all shapes and ages sprinkled throughout the lanes. The row of partitions extended about 20 yards, with a counter in each, facing what appeared to be an open hanger area with a series of electric-run pulleys for hanging targets. Bullet holes pierced the ceiling, walls, floor, light fixtures, pretty much any exposed area. I watched with interest while walking down the partitioned row. The first booth caught my eye because there was a large group of people in the both but only one was firing. They seemed excited and cheered each time the guy with the weapon in hand pulled the trigger.

Espe and I settled for a booth midway down the lane. He barely spoke, instead, just pointed around and shook his head yes or no. He handed me the 9mm and bumped the clip out. I had to load it. It took forever to push the bullets down one after another. I struggled once the clip was almost full and tight. It became evident, this was not a place for a French-tip manicure. He motioned me to step up and shoot first. Then he fastened the shooting target on the overhead clip then flicked a switch and I watched it whiz backwards. Far. Way the hell back in the dimly lit hanger. I could barely see it. Espe lay the fully loaded Luger on the counter. I picked it up, retracted the safety and pulled the back slide on the top of the barrel. The weapon felt light in my hands. I aimed at the target and pulled the trigger. He pushed into my knees slightly to make me bend them. I cracked off a few more shots, then I felt his hand on my upper back, making me lean forward into the shooting area. I shot again then lay the gun down. We switched places and he expertly squeezed off ten rounds. He genuinely looked impressed at my shooting ability. I had hit the target in the chest area, one bullseye dead center and several shots to the head. We alternated. It was my turn again. I picked up ol’ Lugey and aimed. Another bullet shell casing from the weapon popped up into the air.

Mind you, shell casings had been flying around this entire time. Not just from us but from the vigilante mother and daughter team next door to us as well as the two gangsters shooting 50-cent driveby-sideways style in the booth to my right. Oh, but my feisty casing flew up in the air hitting my protective goggled eyes (thank goodness) but didn’t just stop there, oh no. The hot piece of metal deflected off my lens, flew up over the top of the goggles, dropped within the small separation of space where the goggles sat away from my face and wedged itself on top of my right eyelid, just below my eyebrow.

It makes sense that a shell would be fairly hot after being ejected from a pistola, but I mean, damn. Maybe it hurt even more because of the sensitive spot where the metal landed. It stuck there. I continued firing with the afflicted eye closed while it got hotter. Finally I put the weapon down and fished the casing out of my goggles. Espe didn’t notice at first. My eyes began watering. I bent over and checked the tiny piece of metal on the ground for a tiny piece of my eyelid melted to it, but it was clean. I was rattled. He changed targets then began shooting again. With broken momentum, I stepped up to the counter again when it was my turn but flinched when I fired the first round. I continued missing the target completely while my eyelid remained on fire. Espe shot off the rest of the rounds. We swept the casings into a pile. I noticed the target within the stall at the far end of the shooting gallery. The idiots had tied a large Fanta soda bottle to the mobile target and shot wildly. More casings peppered the ground in rapid fire succession as we walked out. All in all, it was an interesting, harrowing adventure and I have another scar to prove it, providing a much more involved excuse for wearing excessive eyeshadow.

eating my feelings

About an hour ago, I pulled up to the order window at Omega burger. There are some moments in life that call for a good, greasy ghetto burger. This was one of those moments. Sad to say that the only thing keeping me grounded, wavering on the edge of a total emotional meltdown and reality was a charred burger patty from an establishment with a faded “B” rating in the window. I hated my world at the moment. I placed my order and provided incorrect change thus lengthening the transaction process. I snatched my white food sack and cradled it. Greasy little paper windows showed through almost immediately. Raw onions stunk up my car just as quick. I haven’t actually eaten solid food in two days so whatever was in the bag was going to taste undoubtedly wonderful.

Something very disheartening had happened to me. I’ve been broken by other people before, but this time it will take some getting over. Turns out I have great friends who care about me; who don’t think I’m nuts for texting them a very disturbing message regarding what had happened, at 2:00AM. I was suffering and I wanted everyone to hold my hand, or at least hold my hair back while I puked up Little Ceasar’s pizza in the toilet at my parent’s house.

I don’t remember what the text message I sent out said exactly. I remember crushing the buttons on my cell phone key pad to the point where my thumb pulsated. I remember wiping away tears and biting my bottom lip until it bled, then wiping away blood with the back of my hand. I’ve been having sinus problems so my nose didn’t run with snot, it stuffed up, causing me to breathe heavily through my mouth. Everything hurt. I was exhausted. Dad said to try and sleep, that things could be worked out in the morning. I thought he knew me better than that? There was going to be no sleep in my future. My mind raced uncontrollably. My body continued to run hot.

I had seen Dr. Chops my acupuncturist earlier. He diagnosed me with an earth-fire, or was it earth-wind-fire fever? My body always runs hot. I usually have trouble sleeping because my brain can’t let me relax. Tonight would be no different. I’m feeling a little better now. A little more civil. The burger helped along with a rainbow sprinkled doughnut from Winchell’s, half a sack full of stale doughnut holes, a diet lemon Snapple tea, and mounds of Trader Joe’s Pirate Booty White Cheddar Puffs. My belly hurts now for obviously different reasons.

Thank you everyone, I’m bouncing back quite nicely. Other than that, Philly whupped the Giants’ asses today. There is hope after all.

Burn!

Where's George Jefferson When I Need him?

Ahh... F'n Christmas. Where do I begin. As I may have mentioned before, or just cried out in my nightmares, I have a “Bad Mexican” side of the family and the “Good Mexican” side of the family. Most of my Good Mexicans have migrated up to the Seattle, Washington and Oregon area. They’re a Gypsy breed. They used to drag me cross country with them when I was barely a teenager, on crazy adventures to hunt down Indian Pow Wows and holistic retreats. I love them dearly and try to keep in touch with them as much as I can. The Bad Mexicans, however, will not leave. I have a gravitational pull that keeps at least a dozen of them living within a five-mile radius of me at any given time. I equate them to roaches. They’re lazy, overweight, ignorant, 300+ pounds and will probably outlive me.

There was no way in getting out of going to the Bad Mexican’s home for Christmas. Lacking the energy to start an assembly line and quality masa resources, I made the mistake of saying I was going to buy and bring tamales. Mind you, I mentioned this WEEKS prior to Christmas when at the time, my world was somewhat stable. All I heard about for the ensuing days was, “Are you still bringing the tamales? Don’t forget the tamales. How many tamales are you bringing?” and so on. Here it was the morning of December 24th already and I wasn’t even done shopping, let alone looking forward to making the trek to East L.A. to purchase quality tamales for the ingrates.

Work let out just after high noon. How very appropriate. I was terrified of fighting the crowds in the malls. I was aimless. Unprepared. Fearing last-minute sales of Sham Wows and Chia Pets. I jokingly told my Supervisor that I was going to end up at 7-11 for the remainder of my gifts and that everyone was going to get beef jerky. She laughed. Suddenly it didn’t seem so wrong.

I hit an ATM, fully depleting my bank account and circled the mall parking lot for 40 minutes. Christ. I walked into JCPenney’s clutching a half-ass written list on the back of a Carl’s Jr. receipt. I couldn’t find a thing that I needed or anything that made sense. I walked out in 10 minutes. I drove toward the freeway and tried talking myself into purchasing lotto tickets for everyone. I would pray for the best.

The second mall was more successful. I found almost everything I needed. I feared the Wal-Mart lot, but there actually wasn't as many people there as I thought there would be. I had to buy additional wrapping paper and bows. ON CHRISTMAS EVE! I wasn't alone but still, it's the principal of the matter. I used to laugh at 'those' people - out on Christmas Eve, hunting feverishly while I sipped on a warm Starbucks soy mocha and strolled the aisles looking for nail polish. Any other year, my shopping would have been complete by Halloween. I was that good. This year, it DID sneak up on me. Damn December 25th. I was increasingly gettin angrier by the minute.

I found a short checkout line. Two elderly Asian business men in cheap suits were completing their transaction, and a skinny thuggish black dude was directly ahead of me with a handful of items. Shweet. The check-out girl looked like Fiona from Shrek. I am not kidding. She was as slow as an ogre too. I couldn't figure out what the holdup was, the Suits didn't even have any items on the conveyer belt. They talked to each other in Japanese and grew increasingly louder. I poked at the wall of gum. My mind wandered.

"Isn't this some bullshit?! I HATE Christmas," said Skinny Black, aloud to the air. I avoided eye contact then I noticed the items placed on the belt directly after mine. A female had gotten in line behind me and steadily emptied her cart. An economy-sized bottle of generic bleach, Febreeze, Wrigley's gum, two of the largest economy boxes of Magnum condoms I've ever seen in my life, Pringles, an almost empty bottle of Welch's strawberry soda, mint dental floss... I became fixated on the bleach. And the condoms. Who in the hell needs that many condoms? What kind of party was she planning? Individually, these items were harmless. Combined, who knows what unearthly force they could unleash?

"This is some bullshit," Skinny Black's whisper faded out. "Do you see that?" he said through his teeth. Rubber Girl peered around me and looked toward the register at the Suits. The screen subtotal read: $7,000.00 in digital orange letters. "Sheeeeet, it's like that?" she said, cracking her gum. The suits appeared to be applying money to stack of gift cards. I counted seven cards which would mean, $1000.00 a card. On Christmas Eve, at 4:00 in the afternoon. Wow, if only I could have been thought of so much, yet so little with a Wal Mart gift card in the amount of more moolah than I had in my WaMu account.

"That's more than I make in a month!" said Skinny. Hm. Really?

Fiona the checker had a look on her face as if she needed to take a massive shit. Either no one had ever purchased gift cards from her before or she was completely burned out. The purchase finally went through and Skinny shifted his conversation from hating Christmas to not being able to afford anything. He and Rubber engaged in a lengthy conversation. They bonded. I just wanted out. I made it to my car and headed home. Ahhhhhhhhh..... I had forgotten the damn tamales *cue the rain* I was indeed in hell.

There was no way I was going to make the trip to Lilliana's on Cesar Chavez Ave. in Los Angeles. I called Zee, stressed, cursing, almost in tears. He talked me off of the ledge and recommended I stop by Diana's. The line was short with good reason. They were completely out of the pork variety of tamales (the best!). I ordered a dozen sweet and a dozen of both chicken and pork which cost me a half hour wait time. Finally, with a sack of tamales and hot salsa in tow, I headed to my parent's house then back to the apartment through the pouring rain. I flicked on the 24 hour marathon of "A Christmas Story" and began the daunting task of wrapping endless boxes of gifts.

What started out as a fanciful "Nightmare Before Christmas" decorations theme complete with special tree ornaments and flocked, boldly printed paper and ribbons ended with me slapping neon colored crushed bows from holidays past onto wrinkled Snoopy wrap. I finished just before midnight and swore that I would NEVER again wait until Christmas eve to finish shopping and all the rest of that crap. Lesson learned. Didn't even need a visit from Christmas ghosts to teach me that little kernel of wisdom.