Román Leão

Tag: life

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Meets The Stick (Pt. 2) [ficção]

    POINT ARENA, CALIFORNIA  |  1971

    “What about you, man? So, you’re a cook?”

    “Shit,” Khumalo groused, as he grabbed the passenger assist grip, “I was a cook. There was an… incident this morning. With a goose.”

    “OK, now you have to tell me,” Perigo laughed as he downshifted and swung into a turnout at an inappropriate speed and vector.

    “Fuck this thing,” Khumalo pulled the scratchy polo up over his head and tossed it into the weeds on the side of the road. “There was a wedding party this morning. I was cooking my ass off as my prep neglected to make it to work. All of a sudden, the bride’s mother comes barging into my kitchen. A sacred space.”

    “Amen,” Perigo sympathized as he rooted around in the center console for a cigarette.

    “This broad starts yelling about how this Canada goose took it upon itself to join the festivities, uninvited, and was now honking up and down the rows of friends and family pecking at ankles and shitting all over the place.”

    “Sounds like a goose, alright.”

    “That’s what I said! ‘That’s what they do, lady. What do you want me to do about it?’ That’s when the owner pops his fucking head in… again, his place, my kitchen.”

    “I can see where this is going.”

    “Both of them started tag teaming me about how this goddamn goose was ruining the wedding and somehow it was my job to fix it.”

    “What did you do?”

    “What could I do? I put the chowder on low simmer and went to out to deal with it. By this time, the whole ceremony had come to a halt and everyone watched as I tried to shoo the fucking bird off the deck. To it’s credit, it had moves. Every time I got it going toward the gate, it would pull a head fake and scramble past me.”

    “Daaamn.”

    “I finally cornered the bastard against the railing and it tried to bite me, so I got a hand around his neck and my other arm around his body and and tossed him over into the water.”

    “Power move.”

    “That’s what I thought. I was ready to go back to the kitchen when all of a sudden the wedding party turned into an angry mob. Apparently, the goose—somehow forgetting that it knew how to fucking fly—hit the one concrete piling sticking up out of the water. Knocked it cold. The crowd started calling me ‘goose killer.’”

    “They did not.”

    “Like it was my idea to come out and dance with the fucking thing! I told them all to kiss my ass.”

    “An understandable response.”

    “A-fucking-men. So, here I am, an ex-cook.”

    “I’ll drink to that. Sounds like you have the day off, I’m buying.”

  • Once More Into the Breach: 2026 Edition

    It turns out that “May you live in interesting times,” is not a Chinese curse after all, but rather—like most things that seem all neat and tidy but end up causing wide-spread pain and misery—from the English: Austen Chamberlain, older half-brother of Neville to be precise.

    Austen’s mother, Harriet, died in childbirth, resulting in his father not speaking to him for a quarter century, and in the interim, marrying the woman’s cousin, Florence, who birthed the infamous Prime Minister, so… yea, I get it.

    As we head into a year sure to be more challenging than a Chamberlain family reunion, it is going to be important to keep our wits about us. I am sure that TFG* will continue to daily operate in a way that offends any- and everyone who is not a sadomasochist. Whether he and his cohort are motivated by spite, madness, greed, or some other affliction is immaterial.

    The trick for us is to not rise to the bait of every single malaprop-laden rant or misspelled-digital screed. I will be there in the voting booth, the streets, the barricades if need be, but it does no-one any good to wear out their dopamine receptors in a constant orgy of outrage.

    There are things that I can do to ensure that I make it long enough to see this episode through to the credits, however, things to maintain mind and body at a healthy-enough level that I don’t blow a gasket when it’s time to step on the gas.

    These are mine. I suggest that you find your own and try to implement some sort of strategy to keep the knees—or if you are one of our unfairly maligned friends to the north—elbows, up.

    1. Write everyday. Somethings will be crap, a few things half-clever, but there is always the outside chance that there may just end up being something worth sharing from time to time. Doing it more will only help that to happen. Writing is also good practice at gathering one’s far-flung thoughts and distilling them down to a coherent mindset, something that most definitely will come in handy this year.
    2. Cut down on drinking. Drinking beer does not lead to a coherent mindset, it leads to… I don’t know, more beer drinking? At this point, it doesn’t even lead to bad decisions, unless napping is a bad decision.
    3. Get in shape, you fat fuck. Number two will help, number one… not so much.
    4. Play more guitar. You should be playing everyday, and not the same old shit. There is an unending supply of free online lessons, take advantage. Music helps the brain build new connections and, let’s face it, helps to blow off steam.
    5. Who knows what the hell the economy is going to do, so you should be ready. Get those costs down. Cancel all the subscriptions that you don’t need. Pay off the credit card. And for Christ’s sake, get your resume in order.
    6. This should go without saying, but be kinder to yourself and others. (I’m sorry I called you a fat fuck, you fat fuck). They call it a practice for a reason.

    *This Fucking Guy

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Enrique Bravocado 3 [ficção]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    That must have been some really good speed. It what seemed like no time at all, Zongo and I had hacked our way through the brambles and were starting to see moonlight coming through the other side. The night was dead quiet except for the hypnotic crashing of surf somewhere far in the distance.

    I was the first to break through the undergrowth and heard the distinct sound of a bullet being chambered. Once you’ve been on the wrong side of that sound, you never forget it. I stopped cold. Zongo, clueless to the situation, blundered right into me, knocking us both out into the open.

    My mind reeled as it took in the scene of the biggest Moon I had ever seen silhouetting a Victorian mansion and a helicopter with a surfboard lashed to the bottom of it.

    “Hey, man, ever been shot?” A voice out of the darkness questioned.

    “Holy fuck!” Zongo shoved me aside. “It’s Charlie Fucking Perigo! Who shot you, you fucking maniac?”

    “Charlie did,” Perigo said. “Fred Williams, you son-of-a-bitch. What are you and your buddy trying to do, give me the heebie-jeebies? You know I have a delicate constitution.”

    “The only thing delicate about you, Chuck, are them fancy panties you wear under those baggies.”

    “You ought to know, Freddie, I got them from your sister.”

    The two went on and on, playing the dozens until I finally broke in. “So I take it you two know each other?”

    It turned out that Zongo and Charlie met right after he’d come back from Vietnam and they had been thick as thieves for a while. I guess they just kind of lost touch when Zongo went south to to be part of the San Francisco scene. Both Charlie and I laughed our asses off when he told us the story about the how the Condor sign spoke to him one night. Who’s to say? I’ve seen—if not crazier things—some pretty weird shit out there on the edge.

    Well, we spent a good piece of time there in the courtyard, laughing and smoking some primo weed that Charlie was holding. At one point, we had been talking about all the heads that had been showing up in Mendo, and wouldn’t be cool if we had a place where we could all hang out together where we wouldn’t get hassled.

    Zongo took a big hit and looked kind of philosophically up at the moon so that we followed his gaze. “I’ve got an idea!” he said once he had exhaled the smoke, and that was that. Girassol was reborn.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Chae Burton 1 [ficção]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    Every community has its own creation myths; stories that bring members together in shared tradition while allowing new people to understand in a deeper way where the group was coming from. Girassol was no different.

    My favorite one was when Charlie almost shot Zongo and Enrique as they first popped out of the forest. I had taken a little hike into the woods to pee, so I missed it, but I would have loved to see Zongo’s face; not just at seeing the property for the first time, but staring down the barrel of an automatic for the first time as well. I’m guessing.

    Charlie used to love to tell how the huge Moon we had that night had risen above the tree line behind the mansion. It was a full moon at vernal equinox and came over the house due east, throwing some spooky shadows back over the courtyard.

    He’ll probably kill me for telling you this, but Charlie was always afraid of the Menehune. Ever since he was a little kid. Imagine the scene; it was dark, with this big full Moon rising over an abandoned ranch from the 1800s, and there are noises coming toward him.

    What would you do?

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Charlie Perigo 3 [ficção]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    I had been surfing the late afternoon break at Manchester, north of the lighthouse, and the Sun was starting to drop behind the mountain. The great whites come in to feed when it gets dark, so I rode one last wave all the way to the beach, collected my stuff, and lashed my board to the chopper’s skid. Chae came and met me at the edge of the dunes. I had talked her into exploring the old ranch with me and she had showed up ready to go, dressed in cutoffs and hip boots. She looked so good, I almost asked if she wanted to forget the ranch altogether.

    I mentioned that being alone on the Girassol property always made me feel paranoid, like I was being watched from the tree line. This particular evening was really bad. I had a serious case of chicken skin by the time as soon as we landed. I could swear I heard voices, but I wasn’t about to say anything to Chae.

    It’s embarrassing, but as a kid, I was deathly afraid of the Menehune, the race of little people who live… well, in remote forgotten places like Girassol. I had an auntie from the Big Island who told me about them, and I never got over it. I know they’re supposed to be friendly; they were the ones who came out at night and built all the ancient temples and fishponds, but for some reason, they freaked me out. Maybe it was because they only came out at night. I never did like that story the cobbler and the elves, either.

    I know it’s wasn’t really in keeping with the whole peaceful warrior trip, but I used to keep my service piece, a Colt Commander, in the bird just in case I got bum rushed by a wild boar or some critter out in the deep country. I grabbed the gun and began my recon of the perimeter. By this time, the Sun was down and one of the fattest moons I had ever seen was rising up, casting the courtyard in an unearthly light.

    Across the clearing from the main house were the ruins of some smaller buildings, maybe worker’s quarters or something at one time. Behind that mess, was a dark tangle of green that made ’Nam look down right barren. That’s where the sound was coming from; because, of course it was.

    I have to say, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time down in the shit, not as much as the grunts, but the whole scene that night was bringing me right back to my time in-country. I took a defensive position behind one of the collapsed walls and waited for the little fuckers to come out of the woods. To my surprise, it wasn’t Menehune at all.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Charlie Perigo 2 [ficção]

    
UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    I first discovered the old Girassol Ranch by accident. When I finally bought my chopper, I talked my way into doing some fire spotting for the Department of Forestry. In addition to fuel, which was no small worry, it had the added benefit of giving me an excuse to be be flying back and forth over the back forty so I could help some of my friends move some foliage when it was harvest time. No one was going to question the flights if I was supposed to by looking for flareups. Keep in mind, this was before CAMP and the sight of a helicopter made everyone twitchy.

    Another benefit of being able to get above the trees was that I could really check the surf break before I paddled out to it. If the wind was makai, or toward the ocean, it would help smooth out the faces of the waves offshore and keep their lips up. There were plenty of crunchers out there—the bottom drops away pretty quickly at Manchester Beach—but when the wind was just right and I had the break line to myself, it was paradise, man.

    The first thing you learn as a stick is to constantly be looking for a place to land. Choppers are like bumblebees, built totally wrong for extended flight. I mean, just look at the damn things; it’s only through sheer tenacity that either of us gets off the ground, and that goes against the grain. The ground is always looking for a chance to take us back.

    I was coming back from where Bravo was working out toward Spy Rock when my engine took a shit. I lost all hydraulic pressure and had to fall back on auto-rotation, where I have to use the potential energy of my big chunk of glass and metal wanting to fall out of the sky. I quickly reduced my pitch which took advantage of the wind flowing upward through the rotors and was able to keep them spinning, slowing my tearful reunion with Mother Earth.

    Luckily, I had happened to notice the courtyard of an abandoned farm on the way out and was able to aim my dead bumblebee toward it. The most butt-clenching part of what my old flight instructors unironically called a “controlled decent” is the flare. At the last minute, the stick has to yank the pitch back up to get the bird moving parallel to the ground before the big kiss-and-make-up with that dusty bitch.

    After I pried my chonies out of my clenched ass cheeks, I hopped out and took a look around. Out of necessity, I had developed a bit of a sixth sense back in ’Nam and had learned the hard way to pay attention to it. Ever since that first time, as soon I dropped onto the property, I had the uncanny feeling of being watched.

    Of course, in time, there would be plenty of troublemakers out there, but even when it was just me—and sometimes, Chae—I would always make sure and do a quick recon just to make sure that no one was going to mess with the chopper. I never saw anybody, or anything, for that matter, but I never could shake that damn feeling.

    All of the outbuildings that probably once housed the ranch hands were completely falling apart but the big house always looked to be in pretty good shape, almost like it was protected from the elements somehow. I don’t know when it was last lived in, but when Zongo made his way up there he said it was almost like the house had been waiting for him.

    Keep in mind that Zongo smokes a lot of weed.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Khumalo 2 [ficção]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    I met Bravo as soon as I hit ground. We did up the last of what I was holding and I caught a ride with him up to Mrs. Chaves’ property. The Mendo coast was different in those days. A lot slower, if you can imagine. I think there may have been one stoplight on the whole trip.

    The bottom had long fallen out of the timber and cattle businesses, and tourists, although around, weren’t everywhere. A couple of freaks in a busted-up VW van could still draw looks when we cruised through town.

    Bravo had been working on some of the remaining ranches as kind of a jack-of-all-trades, which suited him quite well. He told me that he had been a high school English teacher in the Bay Area, and couldn’t deal with seeing his former kids coming back from Vietnam in boxes, so he dropped out. He liked the repetition and the anonymity of working the fields. He also was stoked to be in the best shape of his life.

    Some of the established farms had started supplementing their income by growing the crazy weed, and my man was quite the expert, having lived up in Humboldt County. I was glad to hear that I would at least be able to find some smoke on the Garcia, as that was one of the factors that originally drove me to move down to the City.

    Part of me was glad that the rest of it was going to be hard if not impossible to get my hands on. As I had time to process the incident on Broadway, I could see that I had been getting pretty far out there.
    One good thing about being back in the Triangle was the utter lack of giant talking neon signs.

  • Post #100—Looking Forward


    Well, the ol’ materfamilias has said a lot of goofy shit since… well, since I’ve known her, but I’m going to take this little piece to heart from now on. I think I must have been breaking her balls over Mother’s Day or something, and I prodded, “When is my day? Just because we decided not to have kids, there’s no day for me?” Of course, I knew full well that everyday was up for grabs without carpet critters running underfoot, but I could not pass up an opportunity to give her the business. She looked at me with a moment of strange clarity and said, “You have a whole month.”

    I guess I do have a month, or, at least, I’m claiming it. July is my time to shine, and shine I fucking well planned to do. If it killed me. Ever since I was a kid, the celebratory nature of July was bracketed by the Fourth and—at the tail end—my birthday, which just happens to coincide, more often than not, with the local Portuguese Festa. One of my folks favorite jokes was to tell me that they were taking me out to lunch for my birthday and, invariably we would find ourselves down at the Hall, sweating in the almost-August heat with a several hundred other souls waiting for sopas.

    This July hit different, as the kids say. Besides the fact that it was the coolest July in, if not my lifetime, at least half that long, it was oddly… subdued. Maybe it was the loss of Ozzy or the increasingly unstable political situation, but the last month felt like a demarkation of sorts and now we are all waiting for what comes next.

    I would say, “watch this space” for insightful commentary on the ongoing decline of Western civilization, but, in the immortal words of Sweet Brown, “Ain’t nobody got time for that.” In actuality, this space may be end up being part of my escape from all that noise. I am embarking on the long journey of writing another novel, and plan on posting bits and pieces as I go.

    Which brings me to a question that I have been thinking about a lot this last month: What is the point of art when the whole world feels like it is about to burst into flames?

    Talk amongst yourselves.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Charlie Perigo 1 [ficção]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    What fiery creation / Streaking across the skies… I love that fucking song! Oh yea, sorry, man. Are we rolling then? I was just about to say how much we all dug that “lost” Lucious Cole album when it came out. I can remember exactly where I was when I heard that Cole had died. The first time. I guess I’m getting ahead of myself.

    I was driving back up from surfing the Point break all morning with Chae. You’ve already talked to Chae, right? Man, I had just bought the Olds back then, a beautiful 1970 442 in Nocturne Mist. The top was down, of course, and the wind was blowing her long black hair around like she was in a shampoo commercial.

    I had the radio tuned to a pirate station from out in Boonville and they were playing a block of tunes from Cole’s old band, the National Loaf—not really my favorite as I’ve always been more of an R&B guy. Otis, Sam and Dave, that’s my bag. James Brown! Say it Loud!

    At the end of Cut the Loaf, their last big hit before Cole was shitcanned due to his uncool behavior, and alarming—even for that time—drug use, the DJ broke in and laid the trip on us that he was gone. It was still all rumors as to what had actually happened to him. I remember one story said that he had choked on his own vomit while crashing his motorcycle into an airplane. Hey, man, you have to consider the times, we had just lost Jimi, Janis, and fucking Morrison in quick succession, so we were getting used to shitty news and were becoming… uh, a little cynical.

    Chae was a big Lucious Cole fan, especially of the more personal solo stuff he had put out after the Loaf breakup. Personally, I can’t stand that singer-songwriter shit. For my money, if you can’t say it with a five-piece horn section, then maybe you should just keep it to yourself, that’s just me. Chae was pretty upset and moped around the rest of the day playing Cole’s records until I secretly started being glad that he was dead.

    Cole had checked out at the going sell-by date of 27 and everyone made a big deal of him being another member of the “club;” yet another case of wasted youth and potential. I’m here to tell you that 27 didn’t seem all that young back then. A lot of us had grown up hard and fast when the ’60s went up like a house fire next door to a fireworks factory. All the “flower power” bullshit that you hear about those days had been pretty well defoliated in Vietnam before getting stabbed to death by the Angels out at Altamont.

    I did one tour flying Hueys overseas—lift and assault—and got out just before the shit really hit the fan. It was no picnic, but nothing like those poor fuckers had to deal with after Tet. At least I ended up with a marketable skill after all that grind.

    Back home, I found enough action on both sides of the law to keep me flying with enough under-the-table cash and free weed that I was able to by my own chopper before too long and stay high enough to often forget where I had seen it last.

    My main gig before the farm was flying rescue for the County and fire spotting for the Department of Forestry. I was still keeping the hair high and tight at that time, and as a decorated vet, I didn’t attract too much heat. Of course, I ran night missions in the Triangle come harvest time. Back then, I was the only motherfucker crazy enough to make those runs, although our drunk uncle Sam was churning out flyers younger and crazier than me by the DC-8 load.

    You could say that I was mixed up with the family out at Girassol from day one. My man Zongo Khumalo was the one that first got permission to be there from the old lady that owned it, back before things got really weird. I used to party with Zongo when I first got back from Vietnam, back when he was still going by what he started referring to as his “slave name.”

    Zongo is tan as a motherfucker, but he’s not Africa tan, if you know what I mean, and the only two things he’s ever been a slave to are weed and pussy. As you can imagine, we hit it off pretty well.
    I do feel partly responsible for what happened, but when I really think about it, the whole downfall of Girassol was Lucious Cole’s fault from the jump.

    You know, if Chae hadn’t been feeling so bummed out that day, I wouldn’t have taken her out there with me and maybe she wouldn’t have gotten mixed up in all that foolishness. I guess some things are just written in the fucking stars.

    I read somewhere lately that the word disaster actually means “bad star.” That’s really when the trouble started, when that bad star showed up.

  • Kingdoms of the Radio: Zongo Kumalo 1 [ficção]

    UNFINISHED DOCUMENTARY, KINGDOMS OF THE RADIO  |  1995

    I came down to San Francisco in ’68… no, ’69; it was right after the whole Manson Family thing. I tried to make something happen out there for a couple of years, but the scene had been getting pretty heavy. It seemed like all of a sudden, there was a lot of speed on the street, really nasty shit. Of course, I was no Boy Scout in those days. After staying up for seven days straight—pretty badly bent, actually—I had what you could call a mystic vision. Sure, you could call it a psychic break, but I prefer mystic vision.

    I was walking down Broadway headed downhill from Columbus past the Condor and the Hungry I looking to pop up Romolo to the bar under the Basque Hotel for a shot and a beer to help focus my spinning eyeballs. I had no sooner passed under the giant Carol Doda sign—the one with the blinking red nipples—that I heard a voice calling me.

    Now, I had been inside the Condor a time or 20 and had run into, or had nearly been run down by, Carol enough times to recognize her voice. This sounded like her, but… not. It’s hard to explain.

    “Fred,” she said. I was still answering to my slave name at that time. “You are now known as Zongo Khumalo.” Heavy, right? Well, Carol Doda calling me out to change my name would have been weird enough, but here’s the drop; she was nowhere to be seen.

    “Fred Williams no longer exists,” the voice explained. “Zongo Khumalo, it is time to fulfill your destiny.” The voice was really starting to fuck with my head. I kind of stumbled off the curb and that’s when I saw it. It was the sign.

    I don’t mean it was a sign, I mean it was the sign. I know it sounds crazy, but the giant Condor sign was talking to me. I must have stood there a half-an-hour in the piss-smelling gutter rapping with the Giant Neon Doda before one of the club’s goons gave me the bum’s rush.

    I had a plan by then anyway.

    I knew this old lady that lived over on Fillmore that had inherited some property up in Mendo. I had been doing some work for her at her place—really nice old pad, lots of old hard wood detailing that you just never see anymore.

    I must have mentioned to her at some point that I used to live up that way so when she got a letter from an attorney telling her that she now owned this place, she started talking about having me check it out for her.

    I didn’t have any plans to go back up the coast at the time. You know, I thought the City was where it was happening and, more importantly, I had done the Emerald Triangle trip. People think it’s easy—living the life of luxury—but it’s not all bare tits and bong hits. You really have to have your act together out there. I shined her on for a few months, not having any intention of taking her up on it. I had seen a lot of those old places that hadn’t been kept up properly. The woods are no joke. You have to keep an eye on the environment or it reclaims what you’ve so carefully carved out as soon as you turn your head.

    All of this was in the back of my mind when the Giant Neon Doda started telling me to go out and prepare a place to ride out whatever was coming down the pike. It really did feel like it was all… what’s the word? Predestined, or something.

  • Shit From an Old Notebook: Dancing with Mr. D

    So, I’m sitting on the patio of a coffee shop in Arcata… and I know what you’re saying, “Of course weird shit is going to happen, it’s Arcata,” and that’s fair, but hold on.

    I’m outside with my wife and the pup, just kicking it after a stunner of a day, and who comes out, does an over-theatrical stretch, and stands there looking out at G Street? Death.

    It’s the most beautiful day I’ve ever seen in Humboldt County, I’m enjoying my coffee in the waning sunlight, and fucking Death shows up. Now, I’m well aware that it there’s a chance it was some person dressed like Death—the flowing robes, the big white skull for a noggin, gloves (which is surprising since I always had Death pegged for a hands-on kind of guy)—but I have to ask, yet again, would that any less weird?

    Being the curious—and occasionally not very bright—type, I ask, as many would, “What up, Death?” Big mistake. Big D was just waiting to tell someone that we were on the cusp of something called Walpurgis Night. Death read the blank look on my face and offered, “It’s like another Halloween.” Fair enough. Is there candy? “’Erm… no.”

    Death went on to explain that it’s more for witches than the more inclusive “All Spirits” kind of affair. Traditionally there are wild dances, bonfires, and orgies… and that’s when Death acknowledged the awkward conversational turn. “We probably won’t go that far tonight,” Death back-peddled.

    OK, Death, if you’re reading this, sorry we slipped out, but you know, shit to do and all that. As busy as you must be, I’m sure you understand. Catch you later (way later, I hope). I’m sure you’ll end up with the opportunity to screw me before it’s all said and done, just not right now.

    But, I’m sure that’s what they all say.

    Art/Praetorius Blocksberg Verrichtung, Johannes Praetorius, 1668

  • (Not That You Asked): Rants, Exploits, and Obsessions—Steve Almond


    I picked up this collection of essays from Boston writer (and Bay Area native) Steve Almond on a total whim and found it to be one of the explosively funny books I’ve read since Ozzy’s autobiography. Almond is just nuts—and honest to a fault—which may or may not be a product of his insanity.

    Not that You Asked is organized thematically with the chapter entitled About My Sexual Failure (Not that You Asked) being the most cringe-worthy of the bunch. In the extended piece Shame On Me (Why My Adolescence Sucked Donkey Cock), we are regaled with tales of his late-blooming sexuality via the water jets in the Almond family hot tub; hand jobs con sharp, inexperienced, fingernails; the family dog’s rooting out of a used condom from the trash and subsequent tug-of-war with Almond’s mother leading to predictable, but no less horrifying results; and getting publicly busted for shoplifting condoms and Sta-Hard gel from Longs Drugs.

    Chestfro Agoniste and My First Fake Tits reveal waxing and breast implants to both be somewhat less wonderful than advertised, the former resulting in this conversation painfully recounted by Almond. “Me: Ow! Please. Please, don’t—Fuck! Her: It’s almost out. Me: You have to do it faster, really—No! Ow! Fuck! Please move to another—that part really—Owwww! Her: Stop being a baby. Me: Please, sweetie. Please, I’m not joking. Her: Lie still. Just fucking lie still and let me— Me: Owwwww! You fucking bitch! You mean fucking bitch!”

    For every writer who has attempted to wince his or her way through a sex scene, Almond offers a 12-step program that lays out some pretty good (and common sense) advice, such as, Step 5 (Real people do not talk in porn clichés): “Most of the time, real people say all kinds of weird, funny things during sex, such as ‘I think I’m losing circulation,’ and ‘I’ve got a cramp in my foot,’ and ‘Oh, sorry!’”

    Given my utter lack of interest in the sport of baseball, it took me awhile to battle my way through one of the longer essays in the collection, Red Sox Anti-Christ, which ended up having some interesting and insightful things to say about sport and its place in a war-loving society such as our own. He equates the coverage of the kick off to the invasion of Iraq with a major sporting event. “Nightly highlight reels charted the day’s major offensive drives. Correspondents offered sand swept on-the-field interviews with our burly combatants, while generals served up bromides fit for a head coach.”

    Almond goes further and takes part of the blame for the unnecessary war onto his own shoulders. “As a fan, I had helped foster a culture governed by the sports mentality, in which winning mattered above all else, and the application of violence was seen as a necessary means to that end rather than a betrayal of our democratic standards.”

    In a chapter entitled In Tribute to My Republican Homeys, Almond turns on the vitriol. Demagogue Days, Or How the Right-Wing Hateocracy Chewed Me Up and Spat Me Out spins the story of how Almond, an adjunct professor at Boston College at the time, resigns over the school’s invitation of Condoleezza Rice to give the commencement speech. Almond uses the format of Dante’s descent into hell to map out all of the insidious devils of punditry that all wanted a piece of him for a brief, terrifying moment.

    With the ability to ride out ridiculous situations with the artistry of a Mavericks surfer (see How Reality TV Ate My Life), one starts to wonder just what would really get to Almond, what would crack his smooth, white chocolate exterior and let the creamy nougat pour forth?

    That force majeure comes in the form of a baby girl, the arrival of whom is hilariously recounted in 10 Ways I Killed My Infant Daughter in Her First 72 Hours of Life. It is this window into the hopes and fears that people have shared from time immemorial, that saves Not That You Asked from being simple a collection of ravings from another smart ass cynic. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

    Random House

    Also by this author:
    Which Brings Me to You

  • 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.