The who knews about approaching 30

In my last few months of my twenties I have found myself in a cathartic state. Where was the fortune cookie a few years ago that said "At 30 you will be in therapy". Thats one to get on a date I'm sure. I've reached the oh so important point in my life where I am confronted with the Oroville in me. No, I am not losing teeth, and no, I am not subsisting off of payday loan check cashing places. I am a flourishing addict. Not unlike a caterpillar emerging from the cocoon as a butterfly and taking to the sky only to fly into a beer bottle and drown in beer. Heaven? yes, and no. I am apparently a red flag for a beginning problem drinker. I'm sure if you know me, then you probably are nodding as you read this. My waspy jokes about "everything is better with a cocktail" can only suffice as a gay novelty for so long I suppose. We all have to see the valley around us, dolls or not. So yes...I have to control how much I drink. It's something I have struggled with...well...since I started drinking. Knowing that I don't wanna be that guy. I wanna have some wine while I cook or 2 bottles of champagne...you know....keep it loose. Doesn't everyone go out 3-4 times a week? How many margaritas is too many? 6? that seems like a rational number. Who knew therapy would confront you with shit. Isn't is it supposed to just point out how fascinating and epically troubled you are? Isn't is supposed to be masturbatory for the self serving. "Tell me more about my troubles and how wouuuuuunnnddeeeed I am". Right? Nope...What I now know is that I am on the path to puffy-ness. Drunken sloppy sad faced drunkard. You can sometimes tell yourself that its part of the creative process. "Well maybe I wanna be that guy thats all fucked up and makes shit thats all Nina Simone like". Even though all you're making lately is hashbrown sandwiches. But they are damn soulful hashbrown sandwiches. So its 2 am...christmas...and I am a bottle and half deep in cava. I am supposed to only be having 4 drinks at a time, 3 times a week. So I am supposed to be boring. However....thats not as boring as "Have you seen my 90 days sober coin...its pretty shiney!". Therapy is great, don't get me wrong. But at the end of this, do I get to be the Dali Llama or something? I am gonna be so serene that I hover? If not...At Least I will be the only bum under the bridge with a bottle of Gruet under my arm, and penchant for Truffle butter. What I will have to do for that Truffle butter....remains to be seen. YAY 30!

Gladys

I do so fear the reaper. I find any reason I can to assume that I am dying. A mosquito bite is the flesh eating bacteria. A bit of indigestion is a heart murmur. And a bit of toilet paper stuck to the tip of my penis is herpes. I found that once I moved to Portland and a lot of things that I never had, fell into place. A good amount of love around me, the whole not being alone thing, and great food. At that point I started becoming a hypochondriac, or, as I like to call, a realist. Of course my sore leg is because of the on-coming testicular cancer. One ball is just not o.k. Not even enough to fill an espresso cup....well....maybe not enough to fill an espresso cup with a nice foam and cocoa leaf design. Cancer is this thing that lives in your cupboard that you have to at some point eat because there is no more zatarans. You can't avoid it, and it will eventually make its oh so salty presence. I remember when my grandma lost her eye to cancer. Saying it like that makes it sound like she lost a bet. Like a spoon should be involved. She had her eye removed, and I feel like just last night I started to realize what terror that would be. Sure, when you are forced to go to Walmart (because in my hometown, there is nothing else left) you don't have to see as many pok marked tube topped crack heads about 2 stone over the "ugh" mark. You will only see the ones to the left. When she had her eye removed, there was no question in mind of her mortality. My grandma is tough as nails. An alabama country girl who could probably sew a lopped off tractor/turkey deep fryer accident back on in a jiffy. She did quite well. I used to have to put antiseptic drops in her eye..... well... where her eye used to be. However, there was a coral ball there, so it wasn't a macbeth thing. I didn't see the future or anything. I saw a white ball and it wasn't that scary. But no one else would do it. Then I would sit across the room and we would toss a tennis ball across the room back and forth so that she could learn a new depth perception. It was such a normal thing for me. But so was dancing in drag for the rest of the family with my cousin to the soundtrack for dirty dancing. Hungry eyes? Doubtful. We got through it, cause no one puts grandma in a corner. I haven't dealt with a lot of death in my life. I have dealt with a lot of loss. It's like I've shopped the K-mart of life. Not complete loss, but a whole lot of markdowns and empty aisles. No matter how many blue lights flashed on surprisingly bright and fresh mumu's. The first death I ever dealt with and actually the one that had its biggest effect on me was Gladys. Well aside from this cat or that hamster. Prince Nemo was a tough time for me, and Sadie left me melancholy. I will never watch "where the red fern grows" ever again, cause thats some fucked up shit. Why you gotta make me hate ferns? Gladys was an older woman when I met her. I think I was around 6 or maybe 8. I had to go to bible school in the summers. It was at my grandma Azevedos' church, that she worked at. It was really probably just a chance for parents get a few more lines in by day end. Took a lot of energy for my mom to hold up those shoulder pads, they're real heavy. Needless to say I didn't relate to other christian kids. I did however find the developmentally disabled girl quite interesting. Only cause my parents told me "she talks that way cause her tongue is too big for her mouth". Thats right. They said that. So of course I found this girl with some superhuman tongue fascinating and terrifying. It could have wrapped around my neck like an anaconda... you don't know. But one person was sweet to me. Gladys. And older woman, probably in her sixties. She took me under her wing, and I would sit on her lap. I never interacted with other kids. They didn't get me like she did. The two of us understood things they didn't. I was beyond my years. there has to be something so deeply sweet about the friendship of a 5 yearish old boy and an old woman. I did so love her. And we were methodist, not catholic, so it wasn't dirty. Almost like an instance of time travel, the next memory I have of her is going to chico memorial hospital to visit her. apparently she was sick. But it was o.k. I knew she had changed into something she didn't want to be, but what was a hospital to me at that point? A place you went to with the flu, and you worked it out. But she had hair that didn't say "flu" to me. It wasn't gone...it was just....an old christian woman versian of Dianna Ross. She needed a hot comb. And she was so happy to see me, this boy who was just some shy kid she had let sit on her lap here and there. Some boy she protected from the in-justice of children in groups. I saw her that time and it was sad. It was a spazzy introverted boys first taste of true sadness. I was told soon after that she had passed away. I Knew that that meant she was dead. I understood all of the terms. And I knew I would be going to a funeral. that old stuffy brown methodist church with yellow stained glass. The church that I sat on her lap in. I did so love Gladys. I wanted to let a balloon go with her name and address on it like we did at the end of every bible school summer. That was the best part of that church, as far as I saw it. Shoulda done it.

This blog will give you cancer

How did I end up in such an un-flattering color of yellow, or gold...I'm not sure which it really is. I have now worked for IKEA for 6 years. 6 years and in two different states. 6 years is one of those tough numbers. I got a swiss army watch for 5 years so that was kitchy...I'm gay so I like kitch. But what do I get at 6 years? Reverie. At 6 years old I certainly didn't have aspirations to point people toward a bathroom they will never find. I believe at that age I wanted to be a fashion designer. Actually I think that was 8 when I came to that lofty goal. For a couple of weeks I drew dresses I would make. I would show them to my mother, she would say they were good. Just good doesn't cut it though. She did however assure me that men who designed women's clothing were usually not gay. So she could really read me, yeah? One of those moments where a parent thinks they can get all subliminal and plant that, in my psyche, making me not gay. In all honesty I think I asked if most designers were gay, and she had a gentle way about her, so her response was to re-assure. So I decided soon after that I would be a landscaper. A manly way to play with plants. There were not a lot of mexicans in Oroville, so the market was ripe for the picking. A gay kid with a flair for the avant totally has a place in a town where most of the vehicles are actually parked on the lawn....making my job easier. Needless to say, I didn't pursue that dream.... I realized by watching people do it, it was sweaty and dumb. I also spent a summer working for my uncles construction business and that fucking sucked. Even as a child I would have described it the same way. The last day I worked that awesome gig, my uncle said I was "making a career out of digging a hole". I was 8. I then said I was sick and left and got mcdonalds with my aunt kunt, I mean...Kim. She's not all bad....but a little Kunty. I then spent a few years...wandering..un-decided on my future. Not unlike kerouac. Until my sophmore year of high school. I was to be an actor. It was my way out. I was let in to Theater. I didn't have to take the pre-requisite course...drama. I was so gifted. The teacher saw the fag in me and said "let him in, HE is the future". That or.. "you can audition later". A star is born? I was in theater. I did many many plays. I ended my career as the lead in the little shop of horrors. done, not through the school, but through the Oroville community theater. I was great. But I was too skinny to lift adrian into the plants mouth...so the love affair bit was a bit of a stretch. I did however have to strip my undies between scenes and my classmates had to dress me in a minute and half. Including my first boy crush Ole. A german/arabic exchange student. I wrote many a Tori Amosy poem about that one. My Senior year I left the acting world for the prestige of MacFrugals. My first real job. You know, it was big lots, and pic -n -save. Till it became all big lots. Gnarly. I remember once when I was a working a register and big samoan guy asked me if were a drag queen because of my sparkly orange glitter nail polish. I was so offended and told him no whilst thinking "ugh, you just don't GET rave culture".  I soon left that job and Oroville to move to glorious San Diego.  The big city. I was around homosexuals and I hung out at a coffee house. I was doing everything the 90's taught me to do. I was however working at Payless shoes. I would like to skip over all my Payless time....so.....2 and half years later...I was back in San Diego.  I was jobless, and living off of jack in the box tacos. I would get two for a dollar.....lunch and dinner. So I applied at IKEA. Got the job...talking about green peace and believing in their business model. I worked in Lighting. Then Frames. Then textiles. Then Activities (seasonal). And then got a job offer in Portland, OR. I came here. I made the best choice I have ever made. I met my wonderful mexi-boyfriend. I met friends that love to drink as much as I do (and they are wonderful, but lets be honest...the drinkin is a big plus). And I love my life. For the most part. I  still work a pretty much blue collar job in retail. I stagger along, above the poverty line but below what I am capable of. I subsist as an inferior to people who can't spell the sedatives they take daily. I never wanted to be blue collar-ish. I think of blue collar and I picture a man with a blonde swoop of a hairstyle and an un-attractive blue button up. Something that someone who loves calvin klein would wear. I'm sure it would be covered with something made of fleece. I wanted to work with rocks, or work with music, or take beautiful pictures of hungry models. I want to cook food for people who want to eat it. I don't want to be expected to convince people that Teflon wont give them cancer. It will, so will everything. This blog will give you cancer, and I don't have the energy to convince you otherwise. I have the capacity to make a lot of money at my job. I am however stuck in a store that has the backbone of a tadpole. So I must continue to pretend I am stupider than I am. I have to pretend that I am nicer than I am. and I have to pretend that I want to lead people out of the IKEA labryinth so that they can hobble to wallmart to buy a tinkerbell folding card table. Some day I will work for myself and the worst abuse I will have to deal with from myself is masturbation. And that is a job downfall I can deal with. 

Saw-una

There is nothing quite like working during a sale at IKEA. The different levels or "shades" if you will of the lowest common denominator is quite thrilling. Amazing and breathtaking like an aurora borealis, except try not to breath too deep, you might not like what you taste. I will admit, IKEA is not Target. It is not Walmart, it is not Sears, or Home depot. It is "Japanese right?" a customer asked, semi aggressively as they usually do. No, it is swedish, which would explain why I have been asked if carry wooden clogs. I am sure you would picture the swedish wandering through their tulip fields which miraculously grow near the arctic circle. A favorite food of the arctic fox I'm sure. As far as the majority of our customers are concerned, the swedish are basically a combination of every other culture that is strange, but white. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect people to know about the swedes, or IKEA, or the concept of near and far. I get that IKEA is confusing. I do not however think it is so ambiguous that I would be asked where the baby strollers and car seats are sold.

"I'm sorry, a baby stroller is not really considered a home furnishing. That and the swedes eat their children soon after birth with pickled haring in a festival known as FanterSKoppen. I know, I know... weird swedes".

I have been asked for luggage, portable fireplaces (this sounds not only real, but safe), diapers, tennis rackets, car parts, and industrial meat slicers.

However, the best question I have ever had, in 6 years, I was gifted from god this weekend.

As I stood at the computer trying to avoid all eye contact with anything with eyes. I was approached by a couple, no older than mid to late thirties. So very Idaho, they practically left a trail of potatoes and mormons (Yes, mormons. Utah isn't the only holy state). The scruffy baseball capped, dirty flannel clad husband asked me a low, manly tone (be sure to apply accent):

"Huay, Whur you guys got stuff fer my saw una?"

"What"

"Whurs the stuff fer saw unas?:

"Huh"

This is where the very long haired pregnant wife chimed in.

"You know....Sawunas?"

She had a bit more of a sophisticated way of speaking by not making sawuna, two words.

"Oh..... Saunas....no, we don't sell things for your sauna."

It's almost as if he has owned a sauna, but just before showing up at IKEA, read the name of this bubbly water box for the first time, because he was indeed in need...of things for it. Now I came for semi bumpkin beginnings.... but... saw una? Thats just precious.

Off the shoulder

There was a time in my life that could be described as pathetic, hilarious, deluded, and super gay. That time in my life was when I was an electro-club go-go dancer club bunny. at the beginning of 2004, I left Chico to move back to San Diego. A decision that I would like to poke fun at except that even at this point I find it to be one of the best decisions I made. I was living in Chico and working for Payless shoesource (pay less, die more). I spent my days at work reading books behind the register and dealing with people who wanted to buy their 1.00 pair of shoes and get another pair of 1.50 shoes at half off. You haven't lived until you have wedged a shoe on to the hoof of some fat crackhead on a rascal. My dark years included at lot of various clog rip offs. The rest of my time was spent getting high with my room-mate and either watching basic cable (WB) or going out to one of her hipster Chico friends houses and being awkward (the one time I showed up on a thrift store mustard schwin is the only time I got any attention whatsoever). I did have my fun, don't get me wrong. Kelsey and I made the best of Chico and we made some pretty awesome moments. But I decided I wanted to be a part of the gay culture (Chico frat dudes who want you to blow them when they are drunk does not a gay man make), and move to San Diego. So my friend Maurice said he would give me a place to live rent free until I got a job. So I gave notice, stole money from the till, and bid Payless a fond "I hope the children in your sweat shops rebel and rip each of you to shreds, and then construct a masterful rip off of a steve madden out of your skin and hair" farewell, and moved down south. Within 10 minutes of arriving after a 9 hour drive, Maurice, some homo he knew, and I went to an 80's night at shooters. I had arrived. Shortly before I arrived the up and coming electroclash club (four years after electroclash had really hit underground, but hey, we were on the cutting edge....we were party monsters) had shut down and re-opened as a hybrid in a shotty bar/club in city heights (shitty heights). This place was later to become a beauty bar. I spent the the following 6 months going to this bi-weekly (bi-whatever) club. As well as any other thing "electro-ey" that happened. Here are some of the things I wore.

*A long sleeve black shirt with the neck cut out so that I was an off the shoulder number. I wore that on top of a white t-shirt (to man it up a bit) with my black hair straightened like a bowl and 3 a-symmetrical beauty marks and black nail polish (and a bit of mascara, always a bit of mascara to bring out my ice blue eyes).

*A long sleeve black and blue striped shirt with the neck cut out, draped down my sternum with a black neck tie on, black paints...classy.

*A sleeve-less red t-shirt in which I took the sleeves that I cut off, cut them into strips and tied them on my arms and forehead and on the the knee of my WHITE JEANS!!!! I thought that I had to make something that wasn't happening happen... and I thought "White jeans!" I tried twice and realized that somethings can never ever happen, outside of welfare offices and Jersey.

*a black muscle shirt, a vintage star wars cap, one black glove, and my jeans tucked into wrestling shoes. Asics naturally.

*and once when I had a cold-sore, I painted on a mustache with eye liner, put on a straw hat (that Peaches had thrown at my roomate...CRED!) and a western shirt and went all ironical and shit. Funny that that was one of my best looks by the crowds re-action).

*One time I puked in the sink of the joint cause I chugged a whole bottle of rosse rose in the parking lot and ended up on a couch at Portia's house. just wanted to mention it.

Then there came a time where I climbed the ladder of the San Diego awesome-ness ladder and became a regular at the a new club that my friend May opened up. I was industry now because I never paid, passed up the line, and got drink tickets to boot. The thing blew up, and soon I was taking pictures for the flyer, and jet-setting to the nearest taco joint... but with a much deserved superiority complex. So I naturally began go-go dancing for May because thats the natural progression of fabulousness. Here are some of the things I wore.

*A button up red shirt, with a vintage gucci tie, and a white pullover on top of all that. As well as little boy swimming shorts... they were red. It was an underwear party theme, and I will say, i was the classy-ist...by far...by realllllllll far.

* A long sleeve wool maroon sweater number with stitched arms and large buttons. Lots of foundation. Red pancake makeup for rosey cheeks. And lines drawn on my mouth, neck, arms, and legs so that I looked like a marionette. A pouty marionette.

* Giant ripped jeans, a wife beater, fingerless gloves, and gold chains. The theme was over the top 80s so I went Jersey 80's. I also went with what was in the "I need to donate" drawer of my dresser/floor.

*For the 7 deadly sins theme I danced on the box as "Pride". I wrote "Rob is cool" on my cheek and wore a crown of pictures of myself. My friend jennifer was "gluttony". So she wore a trash bag that I wrote the word gluttony on in mustard.

There were many more artistic things I put on my body, face, and in my mouth. In the end, I had fun-ish, I got free booze, I helped May get onto Spins top funnest places (who reads Spin?), and I got my wish... I was around the gays. I got gayer. Gay.

Honcut city limits

I recently traveled down to San Francisco, and in the interim stopped in my hometown Oroville. Being in that general area of great beauty that my friends ex boyfriend described as the background to a mario brothers game reminded me of one the other random places that my rag tag childhood traveled to. There was a time when I was a child that my mother and her drug dealer boyfriend must have gotten adventurous and spun a globe and put a finger down, laughing and talking of the wild experiences and foreign people they will encounter while doing so, and that finger landed on the humble town of Honcut. In reality instead of a globe it was a crack pipe and a chance to cook methamphetamine out of the reach of those vice like sleuths that are the cops of Oroville. I have no real idea how they/we ended up there in a rundown old two story house. I'm sure my mothers boyfriend agreed to kill someone to get it or something, being the cunning business man that he is. The Honcut house was held together by nothing more than popsicle sticks and shattered dreams. I traveled between this house and my grandmothers house, since Honcut was about 20 minutes outside of Oroville (who knew heaven was so close?), so I was given a room....upstairs. I write that with a foreboding hesitation because to travel upstairs was not unlike entering the temple of doom. Every step was a willingness to die in some horrible boobytrap. The stairs could not have been more than a bunch of pallets and old rotten firewood crafted together and covered with blue insulation (to match the walls, Martha would be proud). If you make it up the stairs you're not out of the woods. You then get to dodge the rusty nails holding the second floor together. The only thing that made all of this more fun was when the generator would run out of gas and all the lights would shut off, which happened often not unlike the chime of a grandfather clock. I guess when confronted with decision to buy gas to keep you out of the dark ages, and buying meth, the choice is an easy one, you don't need electricity to light up. When that bell tolled you prayed you were close enough to the bottom of the stairs to make it down in one piece (no banister), and not so far up that you had no option but to go up. For to go up in the dark meant one thing. The rats would come out. These are rats that would eat a baby before it could coo at them. The few times I remember sleeping up there it was a orchestra of scuttling and chewing. Coupled with the random porcelain dolls that my mother gingerly placed throughout the rooms, it was like Stanley Kubrick did the decorating. But it wasn't all rats, dolls, and rusty nails....there were bee's too. We came home one day to find that the house was full of bees. I suppose in your less quirky homes you might have covered the hole that used to house a wood stove pipe, but out in Honcut people aren't so bogged down by societal standards or safety. I mean, bee's need a place to build a hive too you know. Aside from the casa del grandeur there was the actual town of Honcut...which in my opinion rivals the greats like Venice, Paris, and Chernobyl. Population would be about 200 hundred I'd say. There was a church, a k-3rd school, and a general store. Well strike that, there is now a church and a k-3rd school. The general store met its untimely demise while I lived there. There was a night when Honcut was all a twitter. We walked down the street to see the general store burning down. It was awesome, like the 4th of july. Everyone felt bad, but really wanted to clap at the same time. It burned to the ground. About the a week later me and some of my local Honcut friends, A girl named billy, her sister Koochie, and my "girlfriend" Nikki, were all swimming at the local swimming hole and we were waiting for some local boys to show up on bikes. They never showed up, something was awry all "Stand by me" like. We all walked back and when we crossed the road there was shattered glass all over the road and a pool of bright red. Turns out, one of the boys had just looted the burnt down general store (as most Honcut natives were doing, come to think of it it was arson that burned that place down...hmmmm) and were riding over to us with a couple of six packs of hawaiian punch and crashed his bike on the road due to the weight. He sliced his chest open and went to the hospital. He was not far from the rail road tracks....and his friend did kinda look like a young River Phoenix....if you were a closet gay kid and he rarely wore his shirt. My then girlfriend eventually broke up with me cause she thought he liked her....Heartache in Honcut. Honcut was a terrible place, but I had some experiences there. We outlived a tornado there, I rode 4 wheelers and shot crows with a b-b gun. A coming of age really.

Project Fagtime

Things have changed I've been noticing. I'm thinking this as I fag out watching the new project runway with the enthusiasm of a white trash kid on lice check day. What happened? What happened to not only project runway, but to Lifetime as a whole. Lifetime used to be a channel that made no apologies for its vaseline lighting and crying in the shower. All things that women who spent the 80's drinking strawberry daiquiri wine coolers had grown to love and relate to. No other channel was giving you tips on figuring out if your husband was gay. No other channel offered gang rape and leukemia in one mascara streamed movie and/or mini series. No other channel kept a career alive for Judith Light, Jean Smart, Valerie Bertinelli, and the mom from family ties. As I watch the commercials for Lifetime now (which admittedly, I hadn't watched Lifetime since I was a faggy stoner of 20) it seems to have lost its path. It's now the gayest thing ever. Not even LOGO has such a limp wrist. There is some show where a pretty girls soul is in a fat girls body and in one episode, ONE, there is Liza Minelli, Rosie Oddonel, Delta Burke, and the maraschino cherry on that sundae is Paula Abdul. The only people watching this are super homo's. One probably named Rodger, who lives in the south and wears kimonos around the house while he eats cherry cordials. Just a hunch. They have traded vaseline for lube, Judith for Paula, and the golden girls for project runway. I obviously used to love project runway, seeing as how my friend was on it and won. I loved it before that though. I do not love this orphan amputee version of project runway. Its so lame. It's just a bunch of whiney, un-memorable wet towels bitching about the easiest challenges ever. EVER. Your challenge this week "designers" is to take any amount of money you want, and create any design you like, for any event you like. The twist is....you must use black thread, at some point, but if you don't.....thats o.k too. Innovation!

I don't want to watch the old lifetime, I don't want to watch the new lifetime either. I just feel bad for those women who now have to turn to the Hallmark channel for their banal emotional movies. Except now they have to deal with christian undertones. Why don't you just slap the Little Debbie right out of their hands you monster.