The Dollar Experience

Hello my Good Ol' Three Faithful Readers!

I wonder if you're even out there. Maybe you grew old, awaiting for another post and died under silky cobwebs and running dust bunnies. Yet here I am and I hope your mummified eyes are still able to read my often hollow, sometimes amusing ramblings.

In any sense I guess logic would dictate that first of all I should explain my absence from these particular series of bits floating around in the Interweb. Yet, I'm not gonna do it. Deal with it. I guess if I keep on publishing eventually you can put the pieces together. Either that, or you can make up your own story. I'll bet it would be a lo more epic and cooler than whatever actually did happen in my life.

For now I'm going to talk to you about a real funny experience I had yesterday. As you might recall, I'm a horror fan. I love horror movies. When I dream, if I have a nightmare, it's actually a pleasant dream for me full of excitement and fun. Schitt, I've been killed in some dreams and that has not stopped me from enjoying the experience.

So there's this movie called The Midnight Meat Train, which is based in a short story by Clive Barker on the Books of Blood. Both the short story and the movie are amazing. You can read a good review of the film here. Suffice to say it's beautiful. Like a blood soaked haiku poem.

The point is for some reason Lionsgate did not want to release the film on big name movie theaters, and sent it straight to Dollar Movie Theaters. Apparently the move involves an odd feud between Lionsgate and Clive Barker. Don't know much of the details, but I know this and that, as horror fans, we should support our beloved genre.

It so happens there was a show in my city. So obviously I went to see the movie and was treated not only a really good horror movie, but also a very, very interesting life experience I had long lost. See, I was going to a Dollar Movie Theater. Can you understand the power of that? A motherfriggin' Dollar Movie Theater!

What instantly came to my mind was the image of kids. Kids who get their weekend allowance after finishing their chores like picking up their room, cleaning the dishes and mowing the lawn under the summer sun. They come back inside with a proud smile on their faces and extend their hands whereby their parents nod and say: "You earned it Champ" as they move their hand to their backs, to that sacred place where the magical leather device holds many, many plastic cards, business cards of unknown strangers who might one day maybe be useful contacts, old family pictures proudly flashed at said unknown strangers, folded napkins with lipstick kisses and telephone numbers, a forgotten condom too old to be used yet too meaningful to throw away.

All that does not matter to our young hero. All the kid cares about is when that glorified piece of paper comes out with angelic tunes being played in the child's mind.

Five $1USD bills.

When you're a kid, five dollars is a whole bunch of money. You still don't have a full grasp on the concept of what stuff is really worth and the fact that that bill means about 1.288 gallons of gas. All our Little Weekend Warrior knows is that he goes to his bike, holding to his five bucks for life and goes to the Dollar Theater.

And let me tell you, those five dollars take him a long way! He comes to the theater and parks his bike. And there they are; movie posters with magical beings, fedora wearing heroes, menacing serial killers, women in large cleavages being held by alien beings and 50-feet high monsters holding civilization hostage. It's the factory of dreams! And he stands there, looking at the future promises of action, adventure, horror and romance trying to make up his mind what dream is to come true this weekend for just $1.

Thus, our Little Weekend Warrior goes to the box office and drops his $1 bill and a movie ticket come back to him. He goes inside where there is an impregnated smell of popcorn on the old, rotting carpet; where flashing lights invite him to pop quarters on the arcade machines and pictures of old black and white celluloid heroes hang from the walls. He pops in 3 quarters trying to beat Galaga's high score and maybe one last quarter to the claw machine hoping to win some kind of surprise held in a plastic bubble.

Finally he goes to the candy store, where he buys a box of Milk Duds and large Cherry Coke before he nonchalantly walks towards the old man who is sleeping yet as soon as someone comes close to him with ticket in hand, like clockwork, he wakes up, smiles with his crooked and yellowing teeth before he cuts the movie ticket in half; he points out your theater number and that you should keep your half in case you have to go out to the restroom.

He moves towards his theater, and then looks back to see if the old man is looking. Lo and behold, the old man is sleeping again. Silently, the way Sam Fisher likes it, he goes past the theater number his ticket says he should go in and moves towards that prohibited movie. And he sits. And he enjoys and marvels at the magic that happens right there, in front of him. All the make up, prosthetic faces, the blood, the gore, the gratitous nudity and maybe, just maybe, he will learn something about human sexuality which he will share with his street buddies.

He smiles.

In the back of the almost empty theater sits a couple who are too young to afford a motel but old enough to discover their bodies. Somewhere over there is a horror movie buff half enjoying the movie half criticizing it. There's an old lady who went there not knowing what the movie was about and who leaves the theater half-way through the film. A group of friends sit having joking, throwing popcorn and making fun of the movie. But to our Little Weekend Warrior... it's all magic.

Magic happening before his eyes. His eyes swallowing all those images inciting him to dream. To smile.

You see, amidst the blockbusters and CGI effects and all the hype and the media we have forgotten what it was like to be taken away by movies. We forgot the mysticism behind the actors, the stories and the images that are laid out in front of us. We have forgotten what it was like when we went to the Mom and Pop's Dollar Theater with second run, grindhouse, unrated, artistic movies; being a friend of the janitor who would sneak you from theater to theater and sometimes to the projection boot where he would let you cut a frame of magic from the print. We have forgotten how much of our first sexual knowledge came from looking at grown-up movies and the art of popcorn wars and where the Montauk Monster is real.

And so I enjoyed The Midnight Meat Train in more, mystical ways than one. At one point I was going to complain that there was a small shadow covering a very, small part of the film on the bottom right corner. Yet I thought: "You cheap bastard! You paid $1 to see this movie. ONE BUCK!!! Shut up, sit down, munch popcorn and enjoy it!"

And so I did.

There's also another kind of dollar experience that has to do with lap dances and g-strings, but our little weekend warrior would probably not be allowed to go in. Much less so with just five $1 bills.

Explaining a Pleasure of Life

Hello there my Ol' Three Faithful Readers.

Today I came to my office for another day of "work," and as I am sitting in front of the computer, typing away, looking at this Sick Sad World News, reading emails and trying to figure out what will be my good deed of the day... I have a realization. It dawns on me and illuminates my face in the same way a 2nd grader opens his mouth in extasis after finally knowing the answer to the brain bashing 16x16 multplication: the reason for what I think is one of the greatest Pleasures of Life: diarrhea.

Yes, yes, I know how awful it sounds. But please, humor me and do two things: first, read this post from two years ago: A Pleasure of Life. It will help you understand what I'm talking about. And two: keep reading 'til the end; whether I convince you or not of my proposed theory on one of the Greatest Pleasures in Life please make a line and leave a comment on this post.

... *making time while you read the previous post. Looks around his office, talks to co-workers, plays a Worms game, solves life to a clueless user calling Tech Support*...

Welcome back! So I begin.

I was thinking on why... why is it that diarrhea gives us so much pleasure? Heck, no... I went one step further: why is it that taking a nice, large, solid defecation is so pleasurable to men? See here, the stereotypical image of a man taking a dump in a movie or TV program shows the man sitting on the toilet as he's about to go, some resonating flatulence noises and a splash sound... and then a close up to the man's face of pleasure. Or when you are clogged up and can't go to the bathroom because you ate something and it's just there, not letting the stuff come out. Then finally, after almost a day without going to the bathroom you finally do. And by golly it seems that you are eating giving birth or a big, brown rock is coming slowly out of your system. When it is all over after exorcising the monters inside you in a holy battle that took 15 minutes, you sigh a long sigh of relief, rest agains the potty and feel a little pleasure go through your body that - sometimes - even makes you tremble a little and your body's hair behind your neck stand out.

Phew... yeah... we all know it...

And now I've come to know the reason! Drum rolls please! It is because of...

*drum rolls*

... the Prostate!

No, I am not kidding you. I bet if you're one of these kinda modern, open minded people or simply had a lot of time in your secundary grade to dig around the Internet reading and educating yourself with sex-related articles due to a lack of any real, physical exploration and discovery of your and the opposing sex's body - I know I did, heh-; then you must know that the equivalent of the female's Gräfenberg Spot - more commonly known as the G-Spot by the Vox Populli - in a male is the prostate. Don't believe me? Well don't take my word for it since it hasn't actually happened to me, but you can surely dig it up - no pun intended - on the Internet.

"But!" you ask with a defiant tone. "What does this... prostate... thing... have anything to do with taking a dump?" Well, it just so happens that the prostate is located right there along the rectum. If you remember your biology/human/natural science class, le crap-o goes out through the rectum. Ergo, my reasoning is this: large amounts of fecal matter going through your rectum must generate some pressure to the prostate thus estimulating your sexual nerves thereby giving you some kind of pleasure.

As I mentioned earlier, maybe only men can understand this in the sense that women have no prostate. But we men... ooooh... we men know the delicacies of taking a dump. Maybe it has something to do with Freud's pshycosexual Anal Stage.

... or I could be totally wrong...

Of being a god

Sometimes gods walk amongst us.

There are moments in life when us mere humans become something more than what our frail bodies allow. To give you a quick example of one of these cases: the Steelers became walking, human gods as they held the Lombardi Trophy over their heads. That was a moment which crowned those players and set them above par, above every other human being in the world as they bathed with all the glory and honor.

Just as a note, I am not trying to be disrespectful to The Powers That Be. And I am also not a Steelers fan. It is just that at times like winning the Super Bowl, no matter what team, they are transported to a land of make believe and those men become invincible, unstoppable and immortal. I suppose there are many moments like that in life and they come in very different flavours for many people. From your first kiss to holding your newborn baby all the way through walking on the moon to your first Hello-World program.

Oddly enough I believe that it is through competition that we achieve those moments of unparallel glory. There are two basic types of competitions according to the Gospel of the Great Fry: The first are individual competitions, in which you have no one else to beat but yourself. I personally do not remember many of these moments, maybe because I like to believe I have me under control; sure I back fire from time to time like a firecracker or an atom bomb, depending on the situation. Or maybe just because I have bad memory. Some of these moments involve overcoming your own fears, beating your own apathy and achieving your own goals. All in all, these are moments that make you stand tall and be proud of yourself. Personal victories that no one else can understand. I have never gone to a titty-bar, for no particular reason other than my own, moralistic and maybe retrograde conviction if you wish; but it is still a personal victory over no one but myself that no one can completely understand - and yes Victoria, I have never gone to a titty-bar.

The other competitions involve others. We are talking basically about sports, tournaments, whatever involves beating an opponent; a victor and a loser. I am not a sports-man per se, but I love this victories the most. Because when you are down field, you meet your rival in the eye; and it is in that small moment of eye contact that you realize that in order to achieve victory you have to win. And to win, you need not only beat yourself but your rival two; because you are at identical conditions, you both wear the shoulders and helmets like an armor, both have their bodies prepared, both have our minds atuned to the same goal, and both are fighting the individual battle to control your fear, your anger, your anxiety. At that moment the difference between you and your rival, winning and losing, between the glory or the void, are not the tools or the skills since both have that. It is who has the will and the might to win. So in order to win you have to beat your rival's will and impose your might. Be it chess or football, he with the most passion and desire wins.

But here are certain factors that elevates some type of competitions above others and that, ultimately, take you to real, human godliness. The first is playing in a team. In a 1-on-1 game it is your will against your rival's; yet in a team game, it has to be the total sum of the blue team's will against the red team's will. Back when I was an offensive lineman, many a one time I beat my defensive counterpart; sat them on their butt, take them to the ground, hold them at the line of scrimmage and opened highways for my running back to go through. Yet my victory over the poor soul in front of me meant nothing if a lineman from the other side did not do his job thus ending the play with a sacked quartebac; my victory meant nothing when a receiver dropped the ball; my victory meant nothing when the defense did not do their job. It was a team, and just like a machine need to be tuned up, we all needed to be atuned to the same desire, pasion and will to win. Thanks to The Powers That Be, we all had the same drive to win and so we won - most - games.

The second factor that must be met to take you to manly godliness is to have all the competitions at the same time; against yourself, against a rival and against a team. Like that machine at the county fair in which you put a quarter for a chance to use a mechanic claw and take home the loose teddy bear to your Honey Bunny, those battles take you from among the common mass of mere mortals, grab you by the soul and takes you to another level above others. Turns you into a god.

When I played football, all three battles took place. I had to beat myself during training; so many times I wished to leave the team - almost did once -, so many times I felt like my body could take no more, so many times I feared the monster in front of me, and many more times I had the taste of fear in my mouth, pain in my muscles, scars on my body and tiredom in my mind which made me want to go home crying for mommy and hide behind her dress. But still, everyday I was the second player to arrive at the training field - just after Capi -, still every time the defense took the ball I was the first offensive player running to the field and the first lineman at the huddle. Because everyday and every game I beat myself; I told me that I had proven naught to myself until I had won; to take the abuse on my body just one more day. And so I did.

At the field, I had a rival in front of me. A lineman or a linebacker. Some were more hardened than me. Others were faster. Most were more violent. But I can safely say that none of them had the will and mightiness in their souls because every game I beat them play after play. Sure, in order to rise you have to fall sometimes, but at the end of the day I had stood taller than my opponent. Some times just as I was running to the scrimmage line to take our positions for the incoming scramble I looked at the eyes of the guy in front of me, and I just loved the tint of despair and hopelesness in his eyes; because he knew he was beaten. And it is then that I smiled not in an over-confident way but with that yearns for more.

Lastly, we were a team. And it was as a team that we sometimes lost and sometimes won. It was as a team that one day at training we, the offensive linemen, sang "Hi-ho, hi-ho, it is off to work we go" together while carrying our beloved training tires to the field. It was as a team that we chanted under Chino's command while running around the training field. It was as a team that we laughed when my car burned in the parking lot. It was as a team that we ran under the hail storm. It was as a team that we stood tall when everyone though we would not even win a game.

Maybe it is no coincidence that I am having these thoughts, or rather, memories of old times at this point in my life. Especially those concerning the time when I played football back in the good days. Now, more than ever, I need to be reminded what I want; I need to be reminded how to do stuff; I need to be reminded that I am more than just another one of the bunch. Because I once were.

Back then I felt like a god.

Those Beautiful Places

Hello there!

I know, I know, I have been a bad boy for not posting. But hey, I am a busy man! ... *eyes around* ... right... Though I must say that I did find a job. Or rather, an "occupation." Do not ask me hoy the heck it happened, but a company back in my home city got word that I developed a small PocketPC system for taking drive-thru orders at a local fast food joint. So one fine day they contact me and ask me to help them develop more or less the same thing but in a bigger, better and improved version. To which I said: "Hell yeah!"

Now, here's the funny part though. Back in my good ol' school days I had a class in which we had to develop a system for a real "client." I quote it because it was not a real, real client per se, but a teacher who we had to treat like a client. I remember that by the end of the semester I realized some teams implemented a lot less functionality in the system that what we where doing. So I asked those teams how come they did not develop some stuff and their answer was simply: "Because we negotiated with the client, and we arranged to have less requirements." My jaw dropped at that moment. Of course! You can negotiate to do less stuff, or at least to do the easier requirements. Silly us, breaking our heads to do certain complicated requirements we had to meet when we could have negotiated our way out of them.

But I learned my lesson well... ooooh yes. Because I was not hired as a full-time employee but some kind of freelancer, I negotiated with the company. And in my negotiations I over-estimated the time it would take me to develop the system. Most importantly - and sincerely, I do not know how they agreed to this - we settled that I could work at home. HOME! Of course, I have to prove my progress and comply to certain conditions they set, but I am at HOME! That has to be one of the best job benefits anyone can find.

So there I am, coding in my chair - with wheels... oooh yes -, with a Coke by my side - there's a new flavour in the US: "Black Cherry Vainilla Coke;" and being the marketing whore that I am, I bough a 24-packer -, working when I want, taking a dump when I want, listening to the music I want, reading the new Stephen King novel - Cell - when I want, watching pr0n when I want, playing a horror movie when I want, enjoying World of WarCraft when I want, wear the clothes I want or none if I please... wow... Yeah, the pay is not really gonna be THAT much, but these benefits are really hard to beat, eh?

My only problem is... even with my over-estimated proyect schedule, this might only last two month at the most... but hey, I will enjoy it.

In other news! I am in pain. No, not some kind of figurative spiritual kinda pain but real physical pain. Some of you know that I once played Football as a lineman. Some even know that that particular year is the best year in my whole life. Just remembering the physical pain from training camp, the yelling, the insults, the hits... wow... the pain... it brings a tear to my eye. Best thing to ever happen to me up until now - I'm still waiting for you, My Dove.

That was years ago. But it came back with a vengeance.

A friend of mine called one of these days to inform me that I had been registered in the school's flag football team and that the next day we were playing. To which I said: "Are you friggin' nuts dude?!" I ceratainly am in no condition to play flag football, much less the next day! Yet, what could I do.

And the day came. Oh boy, did I prepare myself in my mind. I looked everywhere for my old football equipment; nitros, tables, knee-pads and everything. Then the final touch. Like a priest who during the Consagration at Mass, I slowly walked to my closet and opened. I eyed all my clothing, and it all became irrelevant; right at that moment nothing existed around me but three particular shirts which I keep and care deeply for. There they stood, like an altar to the good time: a small sweater my grandmother knitted for me many years ago; a torn, long sleeved sweater that clearly has seen better days; and a faded shirt that so long ago used to be black.

There they stood with an aura coming out of them. Back in the days those three garments where with me in each and every game under my football equipment. Like the mail clothing the middle age warriors wore under their armor before going to battle; that is what the shoulders, helmet, and my three garments were: my armor. Just touching them flooded my head with memories. Memories of all those games. Of all the training. Of the victory. The loses. The glory. The screams. The tears. The blood. The scars. The sweat.

The game.

Slowly I put the small sweater on, then the long sleveed one on top. Finally the faded shirt. They are not much, but they make me feel protected. As if the cloth with which they are women were capable of stopping anything coming at me. There were no shoulders this time - it is flag football after all. I work my way into the bathroom and look for tape. Lightly I put tape around my middle and anular fingers in my left hand because for some odd reason I cannot go into the field without doing that first. Some players wear the same socks the day before the game, some wear lucky charms. I tape those two fingers together.

Off I went to the field. Most of the members of our flag team are old team members of old. Comrades who had stood with me in the gloryful days of the game. There we stood again, together. Old maybe, some of us somewhat crippled, another stood drunk and all of us out of shape. But there were twothings we hadthat the other, younger teams did not. Experience; we might be out of shape, but we know what it is like to be in the field and we know how to do our job. We do not need speed, nor strenght to do it because we have the know-how. The other thing we have in our advantage is the most important.

We had us.

We know how to work together, how we think. And we know we have our backs. Those ties that binds us together as one, organic team. We took the field and looked at each other in the eyes and anyone could see we had a certain sparkle in them. The sparkle you could see in the eyes of old knights who after retirement have to wear that armor one more time; they grab their swords once again and look up at the skies thanking the heavens for one more chance to do what they had always done: shed every ounce of their being in the battlefield. So we did.

We won, but not without a price. I am now in pain. My muscles hurt in many ways I did not remember. Old muscles I had forgotten I had scream in pain. I woke the day after the game barely moving, my legs hardly responding. My body hurts in all those beautiful places.

I love it.

Everything will be fine

Hello and welcome back my Good Ol' Three Faithful Readers - and my Pretty Assistant -; I hope you are all still around here.

Wow, I have been asked several times why I have not written anything. My answer has been the same to all of them: "Nothing interesting has happened worth mentioning." Yet, I promised a special someone out there that I would find something to write before this week was over - and yes, the week ends to me on a Sunday, so I'm still on time Babe ;). Oddly enough, as soon as I made that promise lots and lots of interesting stuff worth writting about began to happen; so much that now I do not know what to write this about.

Just as a side note to my Anger Reports: There have been no more anger fits, but there has been a scar left behind in me. Now I find myself being very sour and punctual about things. All in all I do not belive it has been a bad thing, but quite the contrary. Some would argue that it was hard lesson I had to learn in my life: sometimes you have to toss your soft-hearted side away to get things done the right way. As hard as that may be. The key residences in finding a balance.

At least I tell myself that to sleep at night.

In other news: I'm graduating. Finally. Praise be to the Powers That Be! I am just a two weeks away from sitting down at the school's gym along with all my classmates, anxious and sweating in anticipation of hearing our names flowing out of those ominous speakers as if announcing the glorious return home of victorious warriors after a vicious and taxating war. And we will stand up as we hear the echo carry our names, we will walk through the hall of champions among the roar of celebration. We will receive a taste of immortality; of divinity.

Then we will sit back down in our seats in the school's gym and further engross the lines of unemployment.

This scares me. It makes me tremble with fear down to the marrow of my aging bones. No, I am not afraid of tripping down as I go for my diploma, or of peeing my pants of joy. I am afrain because I am uncertain; uncertain about my future. What will I do now? See here, for sixteen years in my life everything has been laid out for me. Everyday I knew I would wake up in the morning with wax in my eyes fumbling one way or another to turn the alarm off and pleading for just five more minutes. Back in the old days my Mother would come into my room to make sure I stood up, now I do it out of routine more than anything. Finally I would stand with and air of lazyness floating around me, whispering at my ear to lay down. Most of the time I had to gather all my strength to cast aside this voices; other times I would have a reason to carry on: a special dinner, a night at the movies, turn over school projects... but mostly dreams of seeing My Dove's smile.

And I would then clean my putrid, scarred human body. It ain't clean until it bleeds. Because I hate losing time deciding what clothes I wear then I make my life easy always wearing jeans - or my school uniform back in the heyday. A comb would pass through my hair in a motion that mimiqued the human act of fixing my hair, clean my teeth; somedays I would have a breakfast though lately I do not. And off I went to school. Afterwards I would come back, do my homework, watch TV, listen to music, watch pr0n. You know, the usual. Finally back to sleep, with the certainty that the next day would pretty much be the same.

For sixteen years.

And now? Now there's uncertainty in my life. What will happen tomorrow? Odd, because no human school on earth prepares us, educates us to live. That is a lesson we learn by living; by crying, laughing, scarring our bodies, screaming. We learn it from and along with friends, family, acquaintances and enemies. Every step is a new adventure.

But, as some know, advetures mean risks. And I must say that I like to take risks... but only after I analized all the variables and outcomes. So, in a very paradoxical way, I only take unrisky risks. Sadly, no great man ever became great by doing that. So I find myself at a great divergent, at a great risk: do I follow my heart? Do I follow my mind? Shall I listen to my emotions? Do I obey logic? Shall I go on a Hobo Adventure? Will I stay be true to my carreer? These are variables that cannot be assigned; that stray from fixed values, ever changing. Hence, my future is a risky risk I fear to take. And this takes my sleep away.

Not two days ago I was talking with my Dad over the phone; talking thing over about my future, about what I wanted to do, opportunities I have... and yes, even my sentimental future. Then we chenged the subject to business: where my papers ready? All grades sent in? Curriculums sent? After a while, we said good-bye. And then he said four words I will forever cherish in my life.

"Everything will be fine."

Bless him and his aging, silver hairs. I was like a stray baby sheep, lost in the woods where many strange noises blind my senses. Nothing through the dense, black night could be seen but unsightly red eyes; there was nowhere to go, no clear path to safe evergreen pastures. But then he, my Sheperd held me. Now I can sleep with my mind at ease amid the storm because now I know. Now I am reassured everything will be fine.