hellogiantme

[hellogiantme]

True Story

Today, during lunch, a person in power felt so emboldened to tell me how he thinks Mexicans are disgusting. Maybe, because I'm 6'5" it didn't occur to him that I am (proudly) of Mexican descent.

I said to him, "It's strange you say that since my experience differs from your assessment. My family came from Mexico and were very clean people."

"We weren't and aren't rapists or criminals." He answered, "Maybe just the Mexicans in South Texas." To which I replied, "Like where my grandmother came from." He said, "Well, I didn't see what it was like inside their homes."

Now, this guy is in a position of power in ways that could negatively affect my family--people's careers and such, so I kept my cool. I said, "This thought process and rhetoric is akin to that the @POTUS, which is unfortunate, shows a limited scope."

I went on to say: "You can sway a thousand men by appealing to their prejudices quicker than you can convince one man by logic." a quote by Robert Heinlein.

After I left he complained to a friendly mutual acquaintance that I talk too much, another wrong assessment since we sat for an hour and I didn't say much after that. Maybe I did talk too much, but at least I didn't knock his teeth down his throat. As tempting as it was, I don’t do that stuff any more. Plus, he is an #LEO so beating him would definitely land me in jail.

[hellogiantme]

The Ball Peen Hammer

When my brother and I were kids he was using a ball peen hammer to hammer nails. I told him to use the right type of hammer but he kept at it. He snapped the wooden handle. I got mad at him. I was sure I'd be blamed and then be in a lot of trouble but nothing came of it. Years after my dad died, my mom finally allowed my brother and I to have the tools.

I own a woodshop, but I also do other types of work. My dad's ball peen hammer hangs in my shop, untouched, still broken.

[hellogiantme]

If only

Skagit Valley - Washington - USA (by Michael Bolognesi) 

[hellogiantme]

Violent Life part 6

Sitting in a small bar deep in a hidden corner of Orlando, Florida, my friend and I had a few beers waiting on other friends to join us. The plan was: have a few drinks, get good, then walk to Will’s Pub (The original Will’s Pub) to see a punk show; the headlining band were friends of mine so we were on the list. Will’s Pub actually didn’t overcharge for cheap beer, but we all wanted to get there with a good buzz.

This older man wearing reflective gear and covered in dirt kept looking at us, but especially my friend. Obviously, to me, the guy worked construction (I knew this because I too had worked construction as a teenager and wore similar gear at the time); the problem is: Most of the guys who work construction in the area are usually racist and homophobic. The location of the bar gave me hope that this guy didn’t harbor these callous feelings. I chose to ignore this guy, half expecting him to hit on my friend or me. 

In downtown Orlando, there is a huge LGTBQ+ presence. I can easily say that half of my friends belonged to the LGTBQ+ community. It was so common that it didn’t even play into our identities. 

My friend went out for a smoke and to call our friends to find out how much longer until they joined us. I ordered another round of beers. As my friend walked out the bartender asked the construction worker if he’d like another beer, he looked over at me and said, “I’m not sure I wanna drink next to a couple of queers.” I looked at him. He grinned.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” I said, “I’m not into dudes.” 

“Coulda fooled me.” He replied.

I answered, “I’m flattered, but I have a girlfriend.”

The bartender grinned at me. The guy grumbled, “Fuck you.”

My friend walked back in smiling, aloof to what transpired seconds ago. The construction worker looked at my friend and said to me, “Then why do you hang out with that faggot?” 

I knocked that guy on his ass before he had a chance to grin. He fell about three feet from the stool, which was knocked over. The sound of the bar muted with the exception of the bartender calling the cops. 

I looked down at the construction worker moaning about the pain and all I could think was, “Fuck. I’m going to jail.”

The people in the bar had my back. They told the cops that they didn’t actually see what happened. I gave the cops my version of the story. The construction worker let out of there before the cops arrived. The cop said, “If that guy hadn’t left and wanted to press charges you’d be on your way to jail.” 

My friends called from the driveway of my house about a block away saying that they picked up a case of Pabst and a bottle of vodka. I paid the tab and we walked to my house. It rained that evening and I fell into a ditch. My friends’ band played as well as three other bands. We had fun. I woke up early that morning on the grass next to the lake.

[hellogiantme]

Good news

I received good news today, my blood pressure is down to a safe level all without medication. I cut most meat and dairy from my diet shooting for 85% fruits and vegetables 15% everything else. I slipped a few times since i started this effort. I am a teacher so i got sick a few times. My mom came to visit and she likes to talk when others don't want to talk so she'd try to talk to me while i worked out. I had to tell her that i haven't been able to talk and work out since high school when i played sports and that was mostly trash talk and farting and giggling. Before you assume that I'm working out to become jacked and juicing steroids and shrinking my balls and fighting cops and looking in the mirror and taking selfies and naming muscles and commenting on other dudes' glutes and wishing my dick still worked because of the steroids and little balls and posting beast stuff on social media and telling other people that they should work out and commenting on peoples' food choices and commenting on random peoples' social choices and wearing Speedos and wishing my balls didn't shrink due to the steroids and commenting on other dudes' glutes and wishing my dick still worked because of the steroids and yelling and grunting and flexing and oiling and wishing my dick still worked because of the steroids, think about the fact that I simply do not want to have a heart attack. It feels good to not worry about dying. Now i can focus my fears and anxieties on my son's safety and well being like a normal dad. Anyway, you probably regret reading this and I don't blame you.

[hellogiantme]

Apps

Sometimes, when I'm hungry, the thumbnail on my phone with "Apps" below it, reminds me of appetizers. Then I get hungrier. I'm hungry right now. Apps.

[hellogiantme]

Potato Chips, Potato Chips, Chips, Chips, Chips, ps, ps, ps… (It takes one to know one)

Working overnight in a rural convenience store offers two things: 1) the great possibility of being robbed 2) extreme boredom. Staring at the ceiling became a favorite past time. The little convenience store in which I worked had drop ceilings with little dots. My duties were to count cigarettes, clean hot dog rollers, and clean the fountain drink machine and of course, most importantly: help customers. Naturally, this gave me plenty of time to stare at the dotted ceiling tiles to see little faces, eyes, animal shapes, letters, numbers, ceiling tiles, etc. My second favorite past time during my working hours at that store was fucking with drunk or stoned people. Now I’m not immune to being drunk or stoned, which is why i’m so good at fucking with people in those states.

This store catered to mostly middle-class rednecks. Not in-your-face-I’m-gunn-lynch-yew rednecks but rather the I-don’t-want-a-guy-like-you-dating-my-daughter rednecks. I would fuck with them by playing the Fast-slow game. Where I would real quick grab a pack of Marlboro Reds and ring them up, and then really slowly ring up a bottle of Coke, and then really fast ring up and bag their road-beer, and then really slowly take their money, and then really fast hand them their change. They would look at me like: This guy’s gotta be on drugs (I wished).

Every so often, a couple would come in. We all knew each other from high school. The male, Doug, was a couple of years younger than I. I knew him through his brother, Josh, who auditioned to play in a band with me--he could play the lead to any Iron Maiden song you asked him to but he had no rhythm. Doug, a well humored local redneck and I got along well. His girlfriend Tammy, on the other hand, not so much. We shared a class and she always spoke to me as if I looked stupid or lesser than her. She hung out with the popular girls and assumed since she didn’t know me and my locker location was among the less desirable band nerds (my brother and I registered for class late because we just moved to town and people in this town arrive hours early to get prime locker location and not be stuck among the nerds… seriously, these people were that fucking shallow...and fuck them! I liked some of those fucking nerds!). It wasn’t until her and one her overdressed asshole girlfriends decided to slum it at a punk show and saw me playing that she decided to speak to me as if I had somehow become human. I brushed her off. So, Doug and Tammy would come into the store and would ask in a fucking super-stoned awkward stammer where they could find things, such as:

“Hey man, where’s the ch-ch-chips-potato chips?” With a wry smile.

I had to fuck with them.

“Yeah man, potato chips.”

“Where are they?”

“Potato Chips, Potato Chips, chips, chips, chips, ps, ps, ps, ps…”

“What?”

“I told you.”

Doug would laugh with irritation, “What?”

“What?”

“The chips.”

“The chips?”

I loved the echo game.

“Yeah potato chips.”

“Potato chips, potato chips, chips, chips, ps, ps, ps…”

“Yeah.”

“The middle middle of the middle aisle the middle of the middle. Get it?”

They would nod wanting it to stop. I would oblige because when I’m stoned there’s only so much I’ll take. I get it. Get it?

Other times I would play the whisper-yell game which is played by repeating what people say as either a whisper or a yell.

Doug, “Where’s the sandwiches?”

I whisper, “Where’s the sandwiches?”

“Yeah, where are they?”

“WHERE ARE THEY!!!!!!!!!?????”

Or I would play the look game in which I look at them portraying the judgement: I know you’re stoned! I would look them over and then pick up the phone all the while staring at them. I would talk into it in a suspicious whisper saying, “They don’t know that I know.”

Sometimes, as a customer I would go in there stoned and Dwayne, a filthy, unbathed, sweaty, greasy local redneck would say loud enough for all to hear, “I kin tell yur on somefinn!”

I would just look at him. Pay. Then leave. His game sucked.

[hellogiantme]

Spaz the Cat and Tony’s Nut Sack

On the Space Coast of Florida, in Merritt Island--a long key with the Banana River Lagoon on the East coast and the Indian River Lagoon on the West coast, both shallow and simmering bodies of water--the air tends to swelter; it’s usually hot and extremely humid. People stay indoors and do indoor things like eat and watch tv, or some other similar bullshit placater to move people from working, to retired, to dead (if they’re lucky). I received a call from a friendly acquaintance named Tony. He had weed and wanted company. I looked at Dom, short for Dominic, sitting in my passenger seat, to see if he wanted to hang out with Tony, he shrugged. Dom and I played in a punk band together and figured Tony must have called all of his raver friends before rolling around to my number. Dom didn’t smoke weed or do any drugs. He liked to drink and even then he would only drink a beer or two--a real control freak. Tony probably had beer so Dom would just help himself, if not there was a corner store near Tony’s apartment. Dom could walk there and pick up a 32 ounce in a brown paper bag. I pulled up to the complex and parked in a spot near the exit--I always did this when I was either smoking weed or buying it. Always.

I had only visited Tony’s apartment one time before, on the way to play Hempfest in Melbourne a few miles south. Tony needed a ride and I wasn’t carrying the equipment so I offered to pick him up. He made me wait, which pissed me off until he smoked us out in a parking lot on the way to the show, this turned out disastrous because I was too stoned to remember the songs I was supposed to play...fuck it. I had forgotten that he had a cat named, Spaz. The rumor was: One time while Tony spent a few days and nights consuming copious cuts of cocaine the cat ate some and fucked its brain up. I never believed this story, because I never want to believe in somebody hurting an animal--even if by negligence.

Naturally, like most people who do drugs, the blinds were drawn so’s not to attract unwanted attention. Tony wore a pair of tighty-whiteys and an ex-girlfriend’s silk robe, which ended half-way down his hips. Tony liked to play video games and sat in the middle of his couch legs open for maximum comfort. Neither Dom, nor I played video games so we watched. Dom with a beer. Me with a bong. Tony, a usually very sedated individual, became very animated during video game play.

Spaz, meanwhile darted back and forth chasing the controller wire. This made me laugh. Tony on the other hand grew more and more impatient with his cat until finally he grabbed an empty Pepsi can and threw it at Spaz. Spaz darted away disappearing into the clutter. I said, or mumbled something like, “Don’t do that, man.”

Tony already irritated answered, “That’s my cat I’ll do what I want. Fuck you.”

Dom and I exchanged glances. It was time to go. I waited a few minutes as Tony restarted his game before saying, “Hey man, we gotta go to the warehouse to practice.”

Tony, without turning his gaze from the television, said, “Sure man.”

I felt bad about smoking and leaving so I invited him to join us. Tony declined saying, “Why would I do that? I’ve already seen you guys play.”

Tony started getting into his game.

I dusted myself off as if that would rid me of cat dander and pot stank.

I started to get up when Tony screamed. Dom and I looked at him. Spaz had come out from under the couch and clawed Tony’s balls.

Whack! The cat got him again.

Whack! Again.

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

It happened so fast. Tony screamed.

“Holy shit!” I said through laughter and amazement.

Dom and I laughed and laughed all the way to the warehouse.

I wrote a song about this incident, but never did anything with it since it was stupider than this story.

[hellogiantme]

Adopt A Beehive — Save A Beekeeper? - NPR

[hellogiantme]

A sketch of my next painting

[hellogiantme]

https://soundcloud.com/jah-hubris/all-hail-mel-gibson-unfinished-and-likely-to-change-completely

[hellogiantme]

Modern Intrigues

whisper whisper BANG! BANG! BANG! whisper whisper BANG! BANG! BANG! whisper RING! PUNCH! BANG! BANG! BANG!

[hellogiantme]

https://soundcloud.com/jah-hubris/plastic-lens

[hellogiantme]

https://soundcloud.com/jah-hubris/pretender

[hellogiantme]

https://soundcloud.com/jah-hubris/pretender2-1

[hellogiantme]

https://soundcloud.com/jah-hubris/pretender2