Román Leão

Category: Blog Posts

  • Shit From an Old Notebook: Love is… Car Bombs and Margaritas

    When a milestone birthday approached like a runaway Peterbuilt on the downhill grade from Tahoe, my soul-daughter Annalise decided to either try and lessen the impending impact by helping me create a protective layer of fat, or mercifully take me out of the equation all together by means of a massive myocardial infarction.

    To this end she drove down from Ft. Bragg with a platter, a plethora, a platoon of the most amazing, delicious, and decadent to the extent of actually being depraved, cupcakes I have ever had the pleasure of stuffing into my gob.

    The bulk of my bulk will have been made of the incredible Irish Car Bombs—named after the drink which includes, as does the cupcake, Guinness stout, Bailey’s Irish cream and Bushmills Irish whiskey.

    When we illegally parked behind the Kentfield police substation for the handoff of these lil’ beauties (the last place the revenuers would look), the treats were still off-gassing enough alcohol fumes to warrant a breathalyzer test had I been pulled over.

    The unholy trinity of Guinness/chocolate cake, an actually explosive whiskey/chocolate “ganache” filling (which I have since learned is French for jowl, those goddamned French), and a Bailey’s buttercream frosting perfectly combine to warm the heart, and bloodstream, of any good Fenian gourmand.

    Unsatisfied with planting a giant plate of chocoholic IEDs in and around my personage, the payload came with a smaller satellite stack of margarita cupcakes. Just as strong. Just as tasty. Is this numbness in my arm bad?

  • Shit From an Old Notebook: One Man’s Manifesto, #1–36

    About 10 years ago I endeavored to jot what, if anything, I had learned in almost a half-century of not dying. Looking back, I think these “life squeezin’s” have not only held up, but are now cask-conditioned for your edification and/or pleasure.

    Contents may have settled. Objects are much, much closer than they appear. Personal application may cause serious rash and/or burning. If swelling, discoloration, or bleeding occurs, put down the list and notify your physician.

    #1 There is a line of energy from the center of the earth that travels through you and out to the stars. Stand up straight.

    #2 Do not eat anything out of a vending machine. Ever.

    #3 Original sin is a racket. Don’t take blame (or credit) for anything you are not responsible for. This makes you a dupe (or an asshole).

    #4 Everything in moderation. Except meth—that’s just a bad idea all around.

    #5 Sugar is poison. Use sparingly.

    #6 Whisky, despite the name—water of life—is also bad for you. Slightly less moderation, however, is called for.

    #7 Breathe.

    #8 Only travel with folks who think it’s funny when you fart yourself awake.

    #9 You aren’t drinking enough water, or Scotch, for that matter (see #6).

    #10 Know how to drive stick.

    #11 Do not blurt; think before you open your mouth. No one is called an idiot for carefully considering a well-measured response.

    #12 Declarations of love (or friendship, or solidarity), however, should not be postponed. Life is short.

    #13 Things that should never be lent out: guns, knives, and guitars… actually, anything that can kill or maim if used correctly.

    #14 Don’t curse so much, God damn it! What the fuck is wrong with you?

    #15 Be kind to others—even if they’re rude pricks. This will either show the error of their thinking or get them to drop their guard so you can punch them in the neck.

    #16 Admit when you are wrong. Eat crow, it will not kill you (although it could use some hot sauce).

    #17 Always carry a bottle of hot sauce.

    #18 Don’t subscribe to negativity. Bear witness to others’ pain but don’t make it your own, and—for fuck’s sake—don’t spread it around.

    #19 If you need to be somewhere out of your range at a particular time, bring a map. Don’t rely on technology or the kindness of others; they’re both fine but flawed.

    #20 If you have time to kill—get lost.

    #21 Stairs are nature’s Stairmaster. Use them whenever possible.

    #22 Always carry some cash, hidden even from yourself. Something between $20 and $50. Although nothing bigger than a $20, you won’t be able to break it when you need to.

    #23 Choose a day—Sunday’s a good one—and every week get rid of 10 things. Give them away, recycle them, set them on fire; it doesn’t matter. Live like the plane is going down. It’s time to jettison cargo.

    #24 A grown man needs a muffin like he needs a heart attack. Have some fruit you fat fuck.

    #25 Don’t be so hard on yourself, have the muffin once in a while.

    #26 Sweatpants are for sweating. Wearing them away from home for any other reason sends the signal that you’ve completely given up or are ill. Go change.

    #27 Coffee is magic.

    #28 Never trust a man who wears shoes with no socks, unless in the tropics, then avoid sock-wearers at all cost.

    #29 If asked to leave a job, do not burn it down on the way out; all parties may become desperate enough to revisit this relationship.

    #30 Do not, under any circumstances, return. This rule applies to women and bands* as well, only more so.

    #31 Pretend that you belong somewhere, and people will usually assume you do.

    #32 Never. Call. The. Cops. There is no bad situation that cannot be made worse by the addition of the authorities.

    #33 Stay limber. You will be glad you did when the cops show up and/or people finally realize that you do not belong.

    #34 For fuck’s sake, keep your hands off of your fucking face! Stroking your chin in a pantomime of deep consideration is, in reality, anything but. This is how you get sick all the time. (Wow, this one really played out.)

    #35 I was a smart kid but not very wise. Now, I’m wise as hell but still do things that aren’t very smart. Endeavor to be both and see where you end up.

    #36 There is a reflection of the divine in even the biggest ass hat you’ll ever meet. It is up to you to recognize it.

    *Unless you’re Ozzy, but you’re not.

  • Shit From an Old Notebook: Pour One Out For the 24

    Before the pandemic shook the world like a snow globe full of goat piss and tears, I was enjoying being chauffeured practically door-to-door from our home in the Mt. Tam watershed to the Big City and back by the 24 bus.

    Taking public transportation to and from San Francisco every day affords one a unique perspective on fellow travelers. Buses are, by nature, pretty big, but maybe because they’re so damn ubiquitous—like the proverbial elephant in the room—no one sees them.

    A casual glance out the window and down rewards even the mildly curious (or bored) rider with a veritable cross-section of humanity—a good portion of whom at any time will be engaged in every type of ill-advised behavior for a person operating a motor vehicle.

    Once I started leaving the truck back in the holler, I witnessed “drivers” texting, shaving, cutting their hair, doing their makeup, eating cereal, reading the paper, reading a book, and exchanging “pleasantries” (wink) with their passenger(s).

    This particular morning, however, took the cake. While rolling through the tony enclave of Ross, a driver pulled alongside the bus and started smoking dope off a piece of tinfoil with a blowtorch.

    I couldn’t tell what he was smoking, or which way he was headed—up or down—but he was actually driving better than eighty percent of folks on the road, so I’m guessing some kind of animal tranquilizer cut with raspberry ketones. It was Ross, after all.

    The thing about torches, however, is that they don’t go out if you drop them. Let that one sink in. That driver probably came through everything unscathed, the 24 didn’t. Once society lurched back to life after lockdown, the county pretended like it had never rolled at all. And don’t get me started about the 25.

    Perhaps it was all just a crazy dream.

  • Shit From an Old Notebook: I Wish…

    Buried among my collection of black T-shirts emblazoned with sardonic sayings, an old favorite surfaced the other day. The well-worn shirt has a small graphic of a penguin helplessly flapping its wings while underneath it reads, “I wish I could fly.”

    I pulled it on without a thought before walking into town with the dog. I don’t know what it is about my sartorial sensibility—or overall personal vibe—that seems to invite comment, but I seem to encounter a disproportionate number of people who take an intense interest, and/or umbrage, toward what I wear when leaving the house.

    On this trip, I ran into a woman waiting at the ATM who turned to me, looked me up and down, and asked, “Do you?”

    Do I? I thought. Well that depends. Primarily on what the hell you are talking about. I might. Then again, I might not.

    “Excuse me?” I asked, not entirely sure if she was talking to me. It’s hard to tell, what with Blueteeth and schizophrenia both running rampant on the street these days.

    “Do you?” OK, now I’m pretty sure I don’t, whatever it is, and if my dog wasn’t currently rolling around at your feet, I’d have her drive you off. “Do you wish you could fly?”

    What the… ? Oh, the shirt. “’Erm… sure, doesn’t everybody?”

    “Hmmmpf.” The woman turned away dismissively and ended the odd little philosophical tête-à-tête. Was that the wrong answer? Do I really wish I could fly?

    After walking and ruminating on it, I have to admit that, no, flying isn’t really on my short list of things I wish I could do. Understanding my fellow humans, for instance, would best flight in a heartbeat, although I realize that it is slightly less likely to actually happen.

    What do you wish you could do?