January 20, 2013

TODAY the tree finally came down. It was my chore to perform this year. From hand wrapping and boxing all of the ornaments and pulling the lights down off the tree.

I get a baseless sentimentality for the tree every year, looking on it as a temporary guest that gets discarded when he’s worn out his welcome. The visual manifestation of all that is primary and holy to me. His conversation having grown tiresome and scattered on the floor. That tree is a symbol of the season and that tree represents a lot of things. From the anticipation of a week off that starts somewhere in the hours between the end of Thanksgiving dinner and the start of Black Friday sales to the yearly trip to the Oglebay Festival of Lights.

That tree also represent this season as a moment in time. A moment that we will never get back.They will receded far into the rear view mirror to be replaced by other Christmases. Other beach trips, tragedies and trials.

And as I drag his brittle mass through the door I reflect on that all if that. I see it all at the same time; hear it, feel it and taste it. I wonder if I’m the only one in this family that feels this so deeply.


Routes: McClay to Foster

December 30, 2010

FROM 844, I’d usually take McClay as my jump off point. This road starts as a steady, 45 degree drop, a small trailer park on your right and a water hauling service headquarters opposite. The grade makes an abrupt change as it leveled of and cut through a wide soggy bottom bowl of stream and fields, seemingly similar to the arch-typical sterilized country scene that you’d expect to be hung between the large wooden spoon and fork in one of the trailers now behind you.

You’ll notice a marked increase in ascent wherein you pass an actual farm and a scattering of houses. There is a lot of road kill in these tighter bends as they get tighter and more frequent. I’ve killed here.

Before you lies “Big Bend” which has thrown many drivers into it’s bank of shared and soldiered yards or to the left over it’s steep side. And yet more of a climb that rewards you with a 90% recursive bend that seems as tight as it is steep; the loose gravel at the top thrown out as you bear right powering onto South Hewitt Avenue.

SOUTH Hewitt is uneventful until it becomes Rural Valley Road. Visible ahead is North Buffalo Presbyterian. It sits at the end of a huge farm field with nothing around it. On a clear Moonless night you’re just high enough to afford an unobstructed view of the north, east and southern sky. One can enjoy the parking lot and field. There is also an outdoor chapel and small attached cemetery that’s worth wandering through.

ONWARD to Taylorstown famous for having the KKK march through it back in the mid 90s.

IN the spring of 1995 I was attending the University of Pittsburgh and I regularly parked at the Soldier and Sailors parking garage in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh. After class, I headed back to my car and end up somewhere on a back road in Washington in what had become a routine. One warm sun day of long wintery shadows was different, as I noticed the grocery bag next to my left front tire that wasn’t there when I parked. Could it be – a gift from the long silent Porno Fairy? Even in this burgeoning age of Internet porn thumbnails, I would have still been grateful for his pot o’ gold; in my youth found in the form of Juggs and Oui in Town Park scattered among condoms and used sharps. It turned out to be from a fairy alright; and the only silence here was equal to death. I’m not sure if it was because the audience in the city was different than that of small town Canonsburg or if his tastes had so drastically changed along with the times. There wasn’t one straight magazine in the lot. It was all hardcore full on gay anal sex and dick sucking. My smile faded to a frown as this gleaming treasure was the masturbation equivalent of pyrite. A few issues of a very different genere were there as well and they focusing on infantile role playing – where dudes dress up as babies and wear diapers…and soil them. I was definitely taking these for my zine publishing endeavor.

I also knew the potential of gay pornography to some funny end – a joke whose punch line I would probably never know.

LATER that year, the first issue of my zine included one of the infantile images. Part of a paste up that included a valley girl and associated slogans. The image of a fat ass guy with a total molester mustachio in a bonnet and bib with a giant rattle.

The stuff i never used was even better. Order forms and pictures of stuff to complete your ‘nursery’ like patent leather Mary Jane shoes up to a men’s size 15, adult sized cribs and cloth diapers. In a seperate accordian folder, manlove, cock suck, ass fuck supreme remained, literally unloved. It was always in the back of my mind. I kept thinking how funny it would be if something happened to me and the family member cleaning out my cabinet finding piles of choice ephemira with the inability to understand the worth and potential of the images, designs and texts.

“Holy Fuck! He’s a fag!”

A punch line that I wouldn’t know for sure with me playing the great comedic victim instead of an unsuspecting mark.

A few years pass and Dead Mike, my best friend at the age of 8, mentioned that his neighbor had recently moved back into his parent’s house with his new bride in tow. She was a chick a few years younger than his neighbor that graduated in our class. We used to clown her because she was dumb. And not just any dumb – you know the way a cow looks at you when you roll up to it whilst it chews cud – almost seemingly through you wholey unaware of it’s own existence? She was that sort of dumb. Cow dumb.

She was every woman in college who would get drunk at frat parties hoping to get taken advantage of. Sort of cute but sloppy with smeared lipstick and full, round titties. The guy that eventually bites to the “you took advantage of me; I love you” nuances is who she marries, has kids with and divorces. I almost felt bad for her upon hearing that she married this cock. Similar I suppose that is vaguely similar to the the way I feel about the retarded people that are exploited in fast food joints.

Terry was one of the most horrible people that I have ever known. He was the type of guy that made fun of retarded fast food workers and meant it. The type of teen that would run over a cat in the road and laugh as it tumbles end over end in his rearview. He was the most cunty cunt. Always a loud mouth yet never actually fighting. He had a douche crew of five to six dildos at any given time with pegged jeans and collar popped golf shirts that were like the gnashing pittbulls in a DMX videos. They enveloped him and were quick to jump in to any fight he’d start. Like with me, one, overweight solo punk. Every single one of them a potpourri of cliché movie characters. A judicious blend of Teen Wolf; Mike Seaver; Alex P. Keaton and Biff from Back to The Future. Chet from Weird Science in a short, Eisenhower style Chess King Jacket. I’ve often suspected that if you caught any of these fucks alone (including Terry) without a baseball bat or bike chain, the outcome would be most different. But they were never alone. And they never were without some type of weapons close at hand. I often wondered what the draw was to Terry – did he blow them or pay them?

Maybe both.

I hadn’t thought about this guy for years, and the mention of his name was like a worm hole back to 1987. Instantly I knew where the Man Love collection was going.

I select graphic images of full on, man on man anal DP and cock sucking, labeling each of the fuckers after the members of the Deuche Crue. His confusion would be high and turn to an intense anger as his rock-dumb wife would start yamering and asking those questions with obvious answers. involved, asking a million questions with an ingenuine inflection of shock: “What is that!”

A letter was also included. It utilized a font that resembling poor handwriting; this at a time when people were not as medium savvy as they are today. It was from L. Neski, another local creep that went to high school with us. Why Len? Because he had recently appeared in the police reports for chocking his girlfriend with an extension cord until she was unconscious. It was also a plus that we was crazy, like spent time in a suburban hospital mental floor and could be found walking the streets of Canonsburg any time day or night. These two diserved each others destiny:

“…rent me a room so I dont half to beat u down and tell everyone the truth that ur a faggit!”

A few years go by and I run into Dead Mike again. We left off with his neighbor and that’s where he picked up. He laughs at the gag and thinks it’s fucking great.

Twelve years pass and the name Terry comes up again, this time mentioned by a coworker. He hates the guy and his wife.

As time goes on, my coworker friend lets me in on the Maury episode that Terry’s life is becoming. Terry started fucking a “friends” wife that works for him. Suspicion confirmed when his wife asked for a divorce and he managed to record her talking to Terry on more than a few occasions. A typical call:

“I want to leave some stains in your bed for the Pig (Terry’s wife) to find.”

“Once she moves out of the house, we can get a new bed.”

Apparently he has found someone dumber than his own wife. Terry makes about 300K a year and after alimony and child support that is going to leave him enough for KOA lot fees for his Motor Home.

Adam and Bill’s wives are friends and she admits the affair to Bill’s wife and asked why she was, “not cheating” on Bill. She said that he was no good and that Terry mentioned to her that he suspects Bill’s wife “wants him and is probably jealous” that she is not “with him.” I have seen a picture of him recently and he looks like he weighs in at over 300 lbs; his hairline has receded to the middle of his head.

Wow; twenty years on and nothing has changed with this fucker but the packaging. A cool, middle age, midlife crisis package with a self opinion not based in reality. Adam did get even. He talked to Terry’s wife as well as discussed the situation with mutual friends that happened to be clients of Terry’s financial practice. Several severed ties. It seems as though it is not enough for him to handle ones assets; he thinks he can handle your wife’s ass’ets as well.

At some point, I tell Bill about the little prank that I played via the USPS and he cracks up. He thinks it’s the greatest thing that could ever happen to Terry and he wishes he had known about it when it happened. He was at the point where he was ready to move on Terry, beating the fuck out of him. Adam talks him out of it and refuses to confront Terry.

RECENTLY Terry broke off the affair with Adam’s wife. He told her that his entire life was a sham; that he actually owned nothing and all of this was ruining him and he was trying to reconcile with his wife. If that didn’t work out, he was contemplating suicide. He also fired her. Now Adam’s wife wants to “reevaluate” the divorce. She told him that she couldn’t help herself; the power of his seduction was overwhelming. Apparently it started accidentally one day when he called and asked a favor. He needed her to pick up his families dog that was left in his huge travel bus because his wife had left it with the air conditioner turned off. When she showed up the only dog waiting there was Terry; with the air running and an opened bottle of wine and vase of flowers. “It was all an accident” she told him. Yeah – I guess she just slipped and fell onto his dick. She apparently tried to make her husband feel better about the whole thing by telling him that Terry “blew his load in less than a minute.” If everything is true, and I have no reason to doubt it, Terry is still a scum bag but now, fat, balding, on the verge of bankruptcy and a premature ejaculator.

Maybe the Porno Fairy could pay him a visit and help out with that last problem.

Is it broken?

April 11, 2010

ONE chore that any parent has whose kids are provide with an orgy of excess is the cleaning of ToyBoxesBins.

Through time, they’re rolls change. New toys break and some lines, like Littlest Pet Shop have crazy tiny accesories that moms and dads across America vacume up and throw away, those that survive linger at the bottom of the receptical with pieces of puzzles and broken crayons; scraps of paper and stickers long lacking in adhesion. Having multiple children yields at least one possible fate for the missing sock; the bottom of that bin.

Today, I took on that task and found a long forgotten toy recieved for a birthday or Christmas. It is a collection of little doll figured about the size of a Polly Pocket. But you don’t dress these; they’re disected like little Black Dahlia’s and to change their outfits, you swap heads and waists with torsos. I’m disserning enough to realize that these little odds and ends of bodies are actually not broken. My wife; not so much. I just wanted to take the time to acknowledge how bad a concept this toy is.

Liza Nutal was about four years older than me and was really passionate about beating my ass. I was about seven when it started. She would call me to her, “Hey Ronnie baby – come here…” At which point I would run in the opposite direction for home, hoping to pick up a shovel or sizable stick to fend her bull dyke ass off. I usually failed as her future record setting softball base running calves would close the distance, like a Peregrine falcon against a pigeon. They were massive and think but shaven clean. She was a hairy beast at twelve and she had a mustache and unibrow that helped to emphasize her massive and manly face. She looked exactly like Nancy from the comic strip.

She probably outweighed me by 35 lbs. Pure muscle; as compared to my fat gut and big ass in my so-blue-they-looked-black Huskies and my third grade style Special Ed unbreakable eye glass frames.

This continued until I was about ten. Now I know you’re probably thinking, “what a pussy” but you have no idea what it is like to be man handled by a huge manly girl that you could tell was getting sexual gratification from giving you sailor taps until you pissed your pants. Her huge nipples popping out of her chest as she straddled you and smiled while she felt the urine in her own crotch. Kids now a days get hot teachers and MILFs – I got a pre-teen leaning toward Lesbian, built like a linebacker with tits and a face like a bulldog.

AT some point, I became friends with the Claude. She was a few years older and was an Italian tomboy. She had an older sister who called Liza out one day. She was about seventeen and she was not going to tolerate this shit going on around her little sister. It ended that memorable summer day; very similar whether wise to today in the west of Pittsburgh.

SEVERAL years went by. I was a few years out of school, having done a stint at the Harvard on the Allegheny and this particular day found me at my Grandparents house. My uncle lived with them and my aunt by marriage lived next door. Auntie popped in at my Grandparents. “There’s a friend of yours next door.” I followed her next door, “She knew you when you two were really young…”

I followed her through her door; into the foyer past the kitchen and into the living room that looked like something out of the show Clean House. I turn right and Nancy looks up at me sheepishly – “Hey…how ya doin?”

“Are you fucking kidding me, you brought me over here to see this…this fucking giant Lesbian bitch that used to make me piss on her…this fucking piece of shi-”

“Hey! That’s enough – she is my friend – you can’t talk to her like that!”

At that I see red. “Try giving me some sailor taps now bitch – bring it on!”

MY aunt chased me out of her house saying to me, “…I didn’t know; she said you were friends…” I left it at that.

Every now and then I used to say to her jokingly, “Where is that bitch, Liza at?” The last time I asked, she didn’t think that joke was funny anymore. “You know, she rides a bike 18 miles a day. She’ll kick your ass.” I reminded her that Liza was fired from a local daycare for shaking a two year old. And we never saw eye-to-eye after that point. I think she hates the fact that I told people the story. I can’t figure out why though – it’s not like she has some sort of ‘fault.’ Recently, I was told that she was sent upstate for being a mule, or small time dealing – some bullshit. Unfortunatly it’s an American prison, so she probably has a few wives and is enjoying her stay.

WHO is a fan of taxes? We definitely need to pay something to maintain the roads and for essential services but that’s where most people part ways. A lot of people don’t want their taxes paying for abortions and still more don’t want to pay for defense spending and a sizable vocal opposition want no taxes spent on foreign aid.

The latest tax battleground is taking place in Copenhagen with the proposed implementation of global taxes on carbon emissions administered through the World Bank and IMF. The subject of this blog is not on the merits of the Global Warming debate – I think we’ve all picked a side and we’re entrenched. Time will reveal the true motives.

AND then there is a tax battleground right in my backyard: Pittsburgh Mayor Luke Ravestahl’s proposed 1% tax on college and university tuitions. He claims that it ‘s needed because of the nonprofits use of essential service and to cover the retired city workers pension fund. This clearly illustrates why I don’t live in the city that created the priviledge tax – yeah, a tax for people that work in the city for the priviledge of having a job in city limits. The city of Pittsburgh, as well as the county it is located in, would tax the amount of steps you take if they could calculate how much those steps wear the walking surface. Pittsburgh is dominated by the University of Pittsburgh and the affiliated University of Pittsburgh Medical Center. They pay no taxes along with the other schools of higher education.

Normally – I’d be opposed to this as just more tax burden; if the city wants to close budget holes, they should start by getting rid of the motor pool that gives out cars for politicians to use or closing up expense accounts. But this is different. Why? Because so much tax policy is created and hatched in academia – cap n’ trade being a prime example. I don’t cast “us versus them” aspersions as I point this out – think about it. If you created policies that you were not subject to or impacted by, how would you know how it felt to be on the receiving end? Working in IT, I can tell you first hand how academia has no understanding of the real world. They can’t. The real world is dynamic where academia is stagnant.

These are the future policy wonks and this 1% is a great illustration of how an out of control, greedy bureaucracy should consider the root cause of financial problems that cities face; a mere $270 dollar reminder every semester of the need for fiscal responsibility.

Don’t forget kids, the second half of the team that you voted for en masse, Vice President Biden’s stance, paying higher taxes is the patriotic thing to do.

Pay up, suckers.

C.B. Commando

December 18, 2009

BEING a pest in a chat room and terrorizing messageboards is nothing new. Back in the day people got crazy on CB radio. The first time I saw the potential pest possibilities was from a friend’s little brother. Jonathon was about 13 and wore a dookie gold figgaro necklace purchased by the inch with the gold beginning to wear off. He wore Drakker Noir and pronounced it Jacard. He was sure he was going to pick up older chicks amongst the CB Dirtirati that dominated the single channel bands in Canonsburg, Pa.

I dusted off my dad’s old CB that had been in the basement for several years from a truck he drove when I was growing up that was long gone. I added a transformer and a plug so that it could use a wall outlet and got a cheap antenna from Rat Shack. The few times I was on, I had been cordial and mostly listened. A few weeks later and I met up with about half a dozen of this crue… what a cast of miscreants and creeps! These were the types of dudes who suped up Chevy Citations, turning them into muscle cars. None of them were volunteer fireman but for some reason half of them had light bars on lifted red pickups with giant antennas. There were chicks for Jonathan all right – the type of chick that hangs out with a guy who supes up a Pinto or adds light bars to their trucks and pretend to be fireman. Up to this point I didn’t know who most of these people were and so I used to just mildly annoy and break balls a little bit but after this meeting, I knew I had several new butts to future jokes.

I started by misrepresenting myself to passing truckers by pretending to be a woman looking for some “hot trucker meat.” I would lead them off the interstate and send them to either the local McDonalds parking lot or the Senior High school parking lot and they’d wait around for the underage girl that never showed up. A few of them caught on. Also, enough truckers got burned that when I would try this, random truckers would drop in – “Breaker, that ain’t a woman, it’s some faggot…”

MY man Nick started the CBGCB war when he fired the opening salvo on a creepy methhead Canonsburg mom asking if there was anyone who would talk to her 8 year old son, Robo Cop.

Nick said, “I will – go on, breaker.” In his best of a worst southern drawl.

The kid got on and said “Hi” in a shaky, timid voice. Nick replied “Robo Cop – I wanna eat yer brain!”

His mom freaked out. Nick opened the mic and started in, asking why she would put her kid on the air to talk to strangers, who were no doubt weirdos because they were hanging out on the CB and talking to an 8 year old at four in the afternoon. Scott, a tall, lanky dork who was a few years older than me got on and dropped my name. I grabbed the mic and responded, “Actually it wasn’t – it was Brice.” Brice was this lonesome loser who was our Stewart (Beavis and Butthead); our Corey and Trevor (Trailer Park Boys). Whenever the shit went sideways – whenever something smelled rotten in Denmark, it was laid at Brice’s feet.

Scott starts in again, he kept saying my name and when he finally stopped, I get on and said his full name, along with all of the Canonsburg CB junkies names, over and over.

“Scott – big dork who works at Giant Eagle, Dave – fake fireman with a crew of ugly chicks.”

He tried to spook me by invoking a federal agency , “I’m reporting this to the FCC – they are gonna hear you on here and it will be big trouble!”

“For what?” I asked.

“For interfering with communications – that’s illegal!”

I started to laugh and continued as I responded.

“Yeah, I’m interfering with dorks talking to each other from the Canon Mac Senior High parking lot to the McDonalds parking lot across town. You really think they care about you guys? You’re idiots talking on a CB. In Canonsburg.”

Radio silence.

SHORTLY thereafter my parents bought an additional car, a red Pontiac sedan that had a CB built into the radio. This car was a few years old and so was sold at a time right before the prevalence of bag cell phones. For those not old enough to know, cell phones used to be carried around in a bag about the size of a bowling ball and about half the weight of one.

We were now mobile and no longer limited to terrorizing Canonsburg’s CB clique. We took our comedy on the road to towns like Washington, PA. There we found a curious ole redneck going by the handle Wild Turkey. Initially, I pretended to be various CB creeps from Canonsburg; using their handles as I insulted and challenged him and his boys to fights. He and his buddy were able to figure out that we were not in Canonsburg. They could tell by the ‘pounds’ of our signal which is the strength and clarity.

That is when I claimed to be this guy named Tony. Tony was a punk rock Morrissey looking kid that lived in Washington and had a tendency to get drunk and pick fights with entire groups of people. I would threaten a fight and then a lawsuit; my ‘dad’ the high-profile attorney who would get me out of anything and sue Wild Turkey and his boys if they touched me were going to fuck up his world. We were going to burn down his trailer and shit in his truck bed. I acted drunk as I fought with him nearly every weekend for a month. At some point, he told me that he knew that I was hurting and that I was just getting drunk and fighting with him to ease the pain. I played into this and pretended to cry. Wild Turkey told me that I could hit him up whenever I needed to talk. I was kind of touched that this guy was out there and willing to help a young, troubled, drunk high school student looking for a fight. After that, I only checked in periodically and showered him with insults and profanities. He would always tell his CB pals, “That’s Tony – he’s a troubled young man, just let him go – he needs to vent. Ignore him and he’ll stop.” Suffice to say, it was dead air no matter what I said. I moved on to new targets.

ONE of the more fun things to do was mess with truckers on the interstates while actually driving along with them. There was a level of risk in getting caught and maybe crushed by some deranged trucker. guerilla unit shit way before 50 Cent. There are a few really memorable incidents involving truckers. One of my favorite skits was to turn channel 19, the trucker channel, into Radio BLAK.

“Channel 19 is now BLAK, The Black Muslim Network. All you White Devils – Get off it!” I used my best Farrakhan diction and breathing. I would then hand the mic to John who would read passages from a Koran that was ‘appropriated’ from the Walden bookstore at the local mall. They would stomp all over us with their more powerful radios calling us “Mud Ducks” and “Dummies”. We would respond in turn, calling them “Gear Jammin’ Diesel Dicks” and “White Devils”. John would read more passages from the Koran. One time we got busted over in Ohio. We usually tried to keep the mic low so that it just looked like a car load of kids talking, but we were sloppy and got noticed, probably due to signal strength. We got id’ed a few miles before we hit the West Virginia border heading North toward Washington PA on Interstate 70. I remember my heart sinking in my chest as I heard some anonymous do-gooder out us, “They’re in a red Pontiac coming up on mile marker…” At that point, my ears started to ring. Every truck in the distance was a potential adversary and I tried to stay equidistant from the trucks ahead and the ones behind, trying to time patterns to make a breakout. This was some real life Red(neck) October shit. Two trucks seemed to really be gaining fast. Now that we were made, I kicked on the afterburners and made for PA and the back roads that I knew like the back of my hand. Backroads that no diesel dick pulling even an empty trailer would be able to navigate. We had to get under the radar. As you cross into West Virginia on 70 heading north, you hit a huge hill – hell, it’s a mountain side. The trucks ahead started to slow as we maintained speed with the diesel dummies fast on us. We slowed and they responded by slowing more. The road split into three lanes. It was obvious that the truck immediately ahead was listening and attempting to intervene by blocking us in. Luckily, we were split by the center lane and so I was able to put a group of cars between us and the hero that we rode up on. He was really on it and managed to get into the center lane but we were starting to crest the mountain and I was able to get more power and pull away. A few more trucks joined the chase as we crossed into PA. We continued to talk smack as one truck in particular gained and was within a few car lengths. I was able to maintain this distance for quite a few miles. I was now at 80 miles an hour and all I could see in my rear view mirror was truck.

Only one more mile to go until we hit the Taylorstown exit.

I manage to get him to follow me into the far left lane and then somehow weave between a few cars and in a semi controlled sweep across the passing lane, I steared over and onto the Taylorstown exit ramp. Luckily there was a lot of ass in the car and so while I drifted so slightly, the tires stayed on the road as I hit it at nearly 90 miles an hour and I was able to maintain control. I slammed on the brakes as I started sliding down the ramp. I can hear his Jake brake in the distance passing to our left down the highway as he overshot the exit. We all looked at each other and laughed our asses off.

AND then there was the time when I nearly got John run over. He was ahead of me in his AMC Spirit. With him were two chicks, Jamie and Cindy. Our destination was his house in Washington and from Canonsburg – about 14 miles – again on 79, this time heading south. At the time, John had a shaved head, which in those days was quite uncommon for black or white guys. Usually people thought he was a Nazi skinhead because they were making the talkshow rounds in the late 80s. He rolled up toward the back, left side of the trailer and began to pass. I broke in on the CB, “Breaker 1-9, at mile marker blah, blah”

“Go ‘head breaker.”

“Listen muthafucka, I’m a crazed skinhead in an AMC Spirit with two bitches coming up on you right now – you best let me pass if you know what’s good for you, breaker.”

In one sudden motion, the truck swerved toward John. I saw his hand fly up and dirt dust from his left tires as he dodged by riding into the berm and nearly going into the median. He took a couple of more swerves at John before powering away. I took a mental note of the truck and got off the exit to John’s house and pulled off at a little pizza shop with a pay phone. I promptly called 911 and reported the erratic, crazed trucker who was running cars off the road and was last seen headed west on 70.

John rolled up and was freaked out – “Did you see that crazy fucking trucker?!” I copped to it and we all laughed.

Well I did.

And he did eventually as well.