I swear to Christ. Navigating social media is like walking through a mine field.
There's going to be something or someone that's going to trigger you.
Creepy Uncle comments on your sexy new dress post - KABOOM!
2 Facebook friends get into a comment war over some stupid shit, putting you in the middle - KABOOM!
Just laid Fluffy to rest? Check out this animal abuse fundraiser page or adoption video - KABOOM!
Instagram suggests you follow your shitty ex-boyfriend? KABOOM! Then you see his new girlfriend, you know, the one he cheated on you with. KABOOM!
Stressed out about the state of the world? Don't worry, here's some more bad news via these news articles - KABOOM!
What's with the KABOOM?
Jesus. I'd like to check in socially every now and then without getting a limb blown off, my heart gouged out, or battery acid poured in my eyes.
Whatever happened to simple updates about you, your friends, and your family? Photos that illicit awws or aww yeahs? Not oh hell nos. The programs are so "smart" that I don't even see 90% of the posts from the people I'm "friends" with. And yeah yeah I know, something about algorithms, blah blah blah. It doesn't need to be this difficult. Or painful. Or unpleasant. Even during supposed quick phone sessions on social media, swiping around, I've fallen down a rabbit hole ending multiple hours later. Feeling like shit.
Hopefully my attempt at a fun, funny little blog has given you respite. But now that I think about it, maybe it hasn't. Maybe my whining about being triggered has made you feel triggered.
Have you ever heard of a Slip 'N Slide? Crocodile Mile?
Have you ever had the pleasure of owning one or other similar aquatic Summer lawn product?
I recently read that due to the heatwave we're going through in California and COVID keeping us away from the water parks, Slip 'N Slide sales are booming. It gave me a chuckle as it made me nostalgic and happy to know that companies like Wham-O is still fucking kids up.
Maybe I was just an overzealous kid that ran too fast or didn't use the product right, but whether I had a Slip 'N Slide or a Crocodile Mile my ass always ended up careening off the far end of that all too warm plastic. And I'm not talking oh whoops, I missed the end zone - giggle giggle - pick yourself up and start again. I'm talking by the time I hit the last length of slide or the "splash pool", I was hydroplaning sideways at 5-7 miles an hour with nothing to stop me but grass and my face. I used to use the Slip 'N Slide so often in the Summer that a small pool of water would build up at the bottom of the little down slope my Grandmother had in the backyard. It served as my sludgy grass Crocodile Mile splash pool until they actually came out with the damn thing.
I was always told as a kid to "go out and play." The adult version of I don't want you inside annoying me while I drink my boxed wine out of a coffee cup. Never you mind if there was anything or anyone to play with. As you can infer by the previous sentence money WAS an object when I was young, so imagine how out of my mind crazy I was when I got a Slip 'N Slide. Problem was of course the water. I couldn't very well run the hose all damn day. The water would flood the grass and my Mother and Grandmother would have to take up second jobs to pay the water bill. If I had a dollar for every time my sweet meats met hot, burning plastic without water on it I would've had enough for my college tuition.
Crocodile Mile by Marchon also took layers of skin off your limbs, though if you could get your Superman form perfected to slide hard enough and long enough to hit the splash pool you were heaven. I mean, LITERALLY in heaven. The crocodile tarp, blow up bumps, and pool were meant to slow you down and welcome you to a nice cool down because your bathing suit more than likely caught fire from the friction of your spandex suit and plastic tarp slide. In reality though, the bumps only served to launch your flaming body into space, well over the splash pool, landing face first into the hard grass. Did Wham-O and Marchon test these damn things with real kids before sending them into mass production and out into the world?
Crocodile Mile's catchy jingle "You run, you slide, you hit the bump and take a dive!" is 50% true until the 'bump' and 'dive' part. Realistically it should go - You run, you slide, you catch fire, you launch into orbit, and you land a crumpled grassy mess somewhere in your neighbors yard. Slip 'N Slide at least kept things honest. They weren't overselling shit. You got a tarp and two metal stake fasteners. That's it. Their jingle, "Sliiiiip. Slip 'N Slide" is an honest sell and as simple as the product. Honest but again not telling the whole truth of the experience. It should have been - Sliiiiip. Judge your running speed carefully. Or - Sliiiip. Slip 'N Glide (into the bushes or whatever else you put too close to the end of the small tarp runway).
Don't believe me? All you need do is watch the below original commercials from the 80's to see what I mean. These kids are laughing their asses off in the commercials but I'd bet my imaginary college tuition money after the take that they were holding their shin and sitting in the grass a little bit shook wondering what the fuck just happened. User experiences may vary.
My Special Man Friend's ("MSMF") roommate's cat Sushi (God that was a mindful) has fucking fleas.
We didn't know this until we showed up for a couple night stay. I saw she had a flea collar on and was itching now and then but it wasn't until I saw the tell tale black flea eggs, that look like pepper, that I knew we had a problem.
I don't think anyone on this planet likes fleas. Having grown up with pets most my life, fleas were just a nuisance you had to take care of every Summer season. My dislike of fleas went from no thank you to eat shit and die sometime in the early 2000's. I was dating a Special Forces Ranger who moved off base with a couple military buddies. There was nothing special about the house but there was something special about the room he was staying in. With just a lamp and a mattress on the floor, we tucked in for our first night there. Before turning the light off, I could have swore the floor was... moving. Wondering if I was just seeing things, I sat up and looked around. The floor as well as the comforter were in fact moving!
FLEAS WERE JUMPING EVERYWHERE!
Naturally, I freaked the fuck out. I won't get into the details but suffice it to say they were everywhere. Turns out the prior tenant kept their nasty little dog in that room. We dumped so many chemicals in that room that it was basically inhospitable. I felt like my skin was crawling and felt phantom bites for weeks after returning home. You don't just get over something like that.
So what do you think happened when we went to bed that first night back at MSMF's place? I found a flea chewing on my ankle. I either brought it upstairs with me or it was already there, waiting in the shadows for me. Regardless I slept fully under the covers, sweating my balls off. Fucking fleas. The part that really pisses me off the most is not the restlessness and constant checking of your exposed skin to see if there's a flea there but that fact that we're probably going to bring flea eggs home to my place! My sweet Jaja is an indoor kitty and never has fleas. God help me if we bring fleas back to LA and Jaja gets them.
The only fun I've had with this 2 day flea drama is sliding up close to MSMF, latching my hands and feet onto him while clacking my teeth together, pretending to play bite him. I make the cutest flea - nem nem nem nem~!
My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I have been diligently working out and for the most part eating healthy, even with the pandemic and my ankle surgery getting in the way. Though he's been running every other day, I've kept up my cardio somewhat with body combat. I love it! It's an awesome way to burn a shit ton of calories while feeling like a badass.
We've both been rubbing and wincing various parts of ourselves. After a particularly long run the day before, MSMF felt a bit more sore and stiff than usual.
Me: "Why don't you let me give you a rub?"
MSMF: "I'm ok babe."
Me: "Well what about a massage then?" (laughing)
MSMF: (laughing) "No. I'll pass. I just need someone's elbow in my ass."
Me: (laughing harder) "Whoa whoa whoa, what?"
MSMF: "I mean rub a spot on my butt, not in my ass."
Me: "You said 'in my ass'. That's a huge difference babe."
MSMF is being stubborn about it but as soon as our local massage place opens back up we're both going in to get someone's elbow in our asses.
Any time I've mentioned getting a massage to My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") he'd shoot me a strange look. And for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it meant. Until now.
Last night while unwinding from the day in bed, MSMF and I started chatting about my recent Paul Reuben post, better known as his zany adolescent man-boy persona Pee-wee Herman. He was arrested in the early 90's at an adult theater for playing with his trouser snake. Now, as many conversations with MSMF go, he's already deep into a topic mentally by the time I get brought into his thoughts. So sometimes it's hard to catch up.
Me: "While I don't think the punishment matched the crime, why couldn't Reuben just play with himself at home!?"
MSMF: "Well what about massage places?"
Me: "What about massage places?" MSMF: "People get 'happy endings' there don't they?"
Me: "Nooo... typically people are not touching your junk at professional massage spots."
MSMF: (looking at me confused)
Me: "Babe. What exactly is it that you think is happening at places where people go to get a massage?" MSMF: "That you're getting a rub or tug at some point?"
Me: (laughing) "No. Babe. No. Not professional places anyway."
MSMF: "So those kind of places don't exist?"
Me: "No, they do but any place that does that kind of thing would be super seedy." MSMF: "Well, what about the New England Patriot's owner? He got in trouble for some funny business at a massage parlor. And I even experienced some inappropriate touching while getting my hair cut."
Me: "Wait, what?"
MSMF: "Yeah. At a place called Sport Clips. I got the 'MVP' package with a hot towel and massage but while the lady worked on me her breasts were rubbing up against me."
Me: "Ok. What is it that you're saying?"
MSMF: "I'm saying that massage places are just a front for a brothel."
Me: (dying laughing now) "Ok. Wait." (laughing some more) "Come on. Ok." (slowing enough to breath) "You think massage places are brothels?"
MSMF: "Well...aren't they?"
Me: "Jesus babe. No. They're not."
MSMF: "So there's no secret menu? Like, if I go in for a normal massage but then I say or do something wrong and suddenly I'm getting the secret service?"
Me: "No...they're places to go get knots or tension or even injuries worked out of your muscles. Or to relax. There's no secret menu and there's nothing sexual going on. Or I should say there shouldn't be."
MSMF: "Oh."
Me: "So, this whole time when JZ or I would talk about getting massages you thought we were getting sexual favors?"
MSMF: "No. Well, I don't know. Maybe you were getting a tug..."
Me: (dying laughing again) "Babe, I wouldn't get a 'tug'. Jesus. What do you think is going on down there? A rub maybe but not a tug."
MSMF: "Ok, a rub. A rub!"
Me: "It's no wonder why you've never wanted to go get a massage. They're really nice but God if you thought they were just places for unsolicited or hell solicited yank jobs, I can see why the thought made you uncomfortable."
I don't know about you but I cannot wait to get rubbed and tugged from a massage brothel.
This morning My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") was reading an article about Pee-wee Herman and the 35th anniversary of the 1985 film Pee-wee's Big Adventure. I was never much of a fan of Paul Reuben's show, Pee-wee's Playhouse and don't own any of his movies on DVD. Oddly a few years back I went to a Pee-wee Herman art event in Los Angeles and commissioned an artist to do a small Large Marge piece. I love it.
As I said I'm not big on the film, otherwise I'd own it, but I enjoy the silliness at times and of course love the Large Marge part. It's so ridiculous. Sadly when MSMF mentioned the article was about Pee-wee Herman the first thing that came out of my mouth was, "didn't he get arrested for exposing himself or indecent exposure or something like that?" Of course MSMF responded with a "baby!" But I mean, what? Didn't he though?
The question MSMF had for me in return is a good one and that was, should someone like Reuben be forever plagued by one mistake? On the one hand I think to myself, of course not. On the other I think, well, he was a fucking kids tv and movie personality. What the hell was he thinking going to an adult theater to begin with let alone fondling himself and getting slapped with an indecent exposure arrest? It's also not the only incident involving Reuben and an adult theater or being found in possession of erotic collectibles, some of which were of young men. While I don't agree with celebrities or anyone in the social limelight being hounded and required to live up to the expectations of every fan or viewer, where is the separation? When is it okay to have a public life as well as a private life? Or is it?
Sadly it seems for most celebrities that once a certain level of exposure or success is achieved their life is no longer their own. And that goes for their thoughts, words, and deeds. There's a constant level of scrutiny and an expectation of angelic, better-than-you-or-I-am mentality. I can be a total piece of shit human but my kid's role model better not be. What the all too frequent media frenzies just go to prove is that people of power or influence, on the field or in the studio, are just as fucking normal and stupid as the rest of us. They cheat on their spouses, they gamble, get arrested, do drugs, and/or turn into power hungry ego maniacs. The recent Ellen DeGeneres, is she or isn't she mean debate, is a silly example of what I'm saying. Seriously, are we in high school? Who gives a shit if Ellen isn't nice? It's a shame she isn't but is it really that surprising?
Pee-wee Herman and Paul Reuben turned into overnight pariahs after his arrest in 1991. Though the end of Pee-wee's Playhouse was already planned, many of Reuben's future scheduled projects and events as the wacky character were permanently shelved. It was almost 18 years later before Pee-wee Herman would come back to life. So did the punishment match the crime, as MSMF asked? In Reuben's case, I don't think so. It's unfortunate though it's also a shame that he didn't practice better sense when it came to his actions. Do people just think that they're not going to get caught or that they can just click their fingers and make it all go away? Unfortunately, the later holds the majority truth. Even Reuben's said he'd hold a children's benefit for the sheriff's office if the whole arrest incident 'went away.' That's pretty sketchy.
It's too bad Large Marge wasn't in the theater seat next to Reuben. She could've scared him into going home and finishing himself off in privacy.
Could you cut your own arm off if you were pinned by a boulder?
This was a recent discussion My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I had in bed the other night.
MSMF: "Could you cut your own arm off?"
Me: "Are you talking about that hiker guy that got pinned by a boulder and had to chew his own arm off?"
MSMF: "Yeah. But he didn't chew it off. He cut it off."
Me: "Yeah I totally could. Would you?"
MSMF: "I don't think I could."
Me: "Dude but you're going to die if you don't."
MSMF: "Yeah... I don't think I could."
Me: "Not only would there be the immediate threat of dying but I'd think about my Mom or the most important people in my life that I'd never see again unless I did it. That's how I'd get through it."
MSMF: "So think about you and Jaja?"
Me: "Yeah. It's like motivation or finding a will to live."
MSMF: "I think I'd still wait to be found."
Me: "So what did happen exactly? How was he found?"
MSMF: "I think he called out for help but when things got serious he drank his own pee and cut his arm off."
Me: "So how was he found?"
MSMF: "I think on a path nearby."
Me: "God, then why didn't he just keep calling out for people to hear him if he was found that easily?"
MSMF: "I don't think it was that close by."
Me: "Hmm."
So it turns out Aron Ralston had to make his way through the canyon he was pinned in, rappel down a 65 foot drop, and hike 7 miles to get to safety. That's after being pinned for 6 days and cutting off his own arm! I'm sure the delirium helped but man, facing cutting off your own arm is not something I would even want to dream about let alone have to do.
MSMF and I have such wonderful pillow talk. Pleasant dreams!
I have the hardest time letting something go. Someone. Something. Any of it. All of it.
Except for the things or people in my life that I have willfully pruned away, letting go of changes that have occurred by ACCEPTING that they have happened has always been a long and painful process. I thought by this point in my life I'd be better at it. But I'm not.
Lately the little nuggets of shit I haven't been able to let go of have been plaguing me. In dreams, random thoughts while I'm awake. The best let-go's always rear their awesome little heads typically when I'm having a grand ol' time. You know the ones - you're buzzed and having the time of your life so naturally some stupid shit you haven't been able to let go of or that you THOUGHT you let go of - pokes it's head in on your good time to ensure that it's summarily ruined. That or at least brings you down a peg.
It feels like there's a laundry list of let-go's right now that are making me edgy, annoyed and overall broodish. What that really means is that there has been a lot of change in the last year or so. A good portion of which I believe I got dealt dirty on. It's hard to not let change in your life linger in the negative sense when you gave something your all or were a good human and still got fucked. You still took an "L". It creates a "why?" thought and emotion that for the life in me just won't clear. I'm sure there are answers to the question. I even thought I found resolution in a few instances or solid reasoning to justify the let go. But if I did, then why are they lingering around like those weird gnats that hang out in the middle of the room of certain restaurants. WHY ARE YOU HERE? GO THE FUCK AWAY. NO ONE WANTS YOU.
COVID has been odd and alienating not to mention a huge challenge for many to accept in terms of the impact it has had on life. On the world. Putting the pandemic aside, in 2020 I have grappled with my neurological health from Vestibular Migraines, the end of a big relationship and 2 friendships, attempting to come to terms with my 19 year old cat's terminal illnesses, being grounded from ankle surgery, and the general quandary of what the fuck am I doing with my life. When I read that back it's no wonder I started drinking more, let alone feel on edge.
So how do you let go? Or is it just the way of things; that old memories, poor choices, and lingering frustrations will always come and go?
A colleague once told me her way of dealing with things was simple. When something was overwhelming or if she was unable to deal with an issue at the time, she'd shelf it. Mentally, emotionally and maybe even physically, she'd put the matter at hand on the shelf. It doesn't mean the problem or pain has gone away, it just means that you have relieved the immediate burden and weight off your shoulders.
God forbid there's ever an earthquake because my shelved bullshit will bury me!
