Is there such a thing? Well there sure wasn't in the restroom I visited at this beachside restaurant in Monterey.
First of all--and I'm not sure the ladies have to endure this--every once in a while you happen into a restroom only to be confronted by a chorus of obscenely barbaric grunts and moans emanating from one of the stalls. Well it just so happened to be one of those occasions.
So naturally I wanted to finish my business and have done with the place before the transgressor reared his barbaric head and exited the stall. I mean, I certainly didn't want to make eye contact with someone who fancies yodeling on the rim of a toilette.
Unfortunately I wasn't quick enough, and Mr. groan-a-lot stepped from his echoing cave and into the bright light of the civilized world.
So I hastily made room at the sink, where I was washing my hands, to avoid being brushed up against or, worse, splashed with his microbes.
But guess what?--he didn't even bother to wash his hands!
After all that strenuous work in there, the man didn't have the decency to clean up after himself! And what's worse--I had to wrap my hand in gobs of paper towels to avoid his Neanderthal germs that were, no doubt, already breeding on the bathroom doorknob.
One Little, Two Little, Three Little Days Of Vacation...
At the tail end of spring break I did manage to take a small vacation. Petra and I hopped into her black Toyota Matrix and headed over to Monterey. It had been raining all week in Fresno, but the morning of our departure was utter perfection--sunny, breezy, cool, fragrant--the exact recipe for a great voyage.
I know you're expecting me to say, "And then...all hell broke loose...," but I can't, because it really turned out to be a nice break from the monotony of university life. Nothing terrible happened, nothing too strange--no visitors from another time. Besides, I think time travelers stay home during spring break.
So we met our friend Daniel at his pad, and then we all went out to have some drinks. Me, drink? I admit, it had been a while, but I fell right back into my old routine. A smooth vodka tonic and then HARDY HAR HAR, everything was so funny. Ok, it didn't get really funny until after the tequila shots--I'm not that much of a lightweight.
Grant = 33; Daniel = 30; Petra = 27; everyone else at the bar = 21-22
So around 11pm--when all the kids were growing rowdy and goofy--the three of us were getting a little drowsy. Hee hee. I'm getting at that age where going to sleep is as exciting as going to Disneyland used to be. So when the others suggested we head back, I nonchalantly shrugged my shoulders and said, "Yeah, alright...if you guys feel like it." But inside I was thinking, "HOT DAMN, I'm ready for some shuteye, and how!"
Tomorrow, I'm going to chisel out some decent stories to tell you from this mini vacation. I'll post the little gems over the next few days. In the meantime, keep writing and marketing what you write. I've always wanted to say that.
You guys know that song White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane? Well, it's a sixties song, and it's sort of psychedelic--you know, woo hoo in Angel Dust, or whatever. Anyway, Petra and I were strolling along near Edward's Cinema, and she asked me if I knew the words.
"Uh, hello, you're talking to the king of the sixties, Petra-lopolus." So I started singing...
One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small...
"That's it!" Petra went into a little dance, then stopped abruptly. "Hey, do you smell that?"
I looked around, sniffing the air. "Yeah... That's pot." I sniffed some more. "Dude, that's weed..."
"No joke," said Petra. Then we both giggled like school children.
"It's the song, Petra. I'm telling you--you sing a sixties song out in the open air, and that's what you get: a cloud of pot smoke. We like, resurrected the ghost of a freakin' doobie or something."
Petra bowed, laughing at the sidewalk. We continued our jaunt toward the Starbucks, and I kept singing...
And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall...
"Hey," said Petra. "Look!" She pointed to a bunch of tiny playing cards scattered about the sidewalk. "Oh my God, Grant...it really is the song. These are like the cards in Alice and Wonderland."
"Crazy," I mumbled, but I was really thinking, crazy-weird. First pot, now cards. Maybe that sixties crap is for real. "Hey, didya see that guy with a top hat run by?"
Petra rolled her eyes and bent down over the miniature cards. She picked one and peeled the corner back. "So do you think this one's the Queen?"
I grinned. "Um, no...but I think it's the three of spades." She turned it over: two of spades.
"Alright, Grant. That was pretty close." She gave me a suspicious look. "A little too close, weirdo."
I flexed my eyebrows and let out my best Vincent Price horror laugh, you know--the deep baritone BRRROOOOAAAAAAHAHA!
"Alright," Petra said in her mature voice. "Let's go get some coffee."
Yeah, so it's spring break. Whoopee. I still have so much crap to do. I have a 25 page paper that I have to start working on. And the topic is so incredibly booorrrring: The Great Reforms of Russia During the 1860s. Geez...I almost collapsed from utter boredom just writing the damn title. I've got nothing against Russian history--in fact, I'd love to know more about them little Ruskies--but give me WAR! and BLOOD! and TORTURE! I don't care if Mr. Stolypin happened to be a bit disgruntled with the Minister of Education in 1863! Do you? No, of course you don't. And you also don't give a rat's heiny what my homework assignments are. So on to something more interesting....
I'm driving down Gettysburg on my way to school and my radio starts flipping out. And no this isn't going to be one of those strange tales of alien abduction. Simply put, the stereo in my Jimmy is possessed by an evil, angry, vengeful spirit who absolutely hates my taste in music.
I whack the dashboard several times with my fist until the station clicks back in and Nirvana starts singing something about not having a gun. I smile, tickled at having reaffirmed my position of superiority over the beast. And then it clicks out again.
Dammit!! I pull up to the stop sign and wallop the dashboard several more times until my fist feels like a hammered cheeseburger. I shrug my shoulders at the stupid kid giving me a blank faced stare as he crosses in front of me.
"Fine!" I announce to the testy little demon. I plunge the pedal to the floor. "You wanna play games? I can play games!"
I start singing. Really loud:
COME AS YOU ARE, AS YOU WERE, AS I WANT YOU TO BE! AS A FRIEND, AS A FRIEND, AS AN OLD MEMORY...AHHHH!
And then it happened: The little demon wimped out. Royally. The radio clicked back on! Only instead of Nirvana...it was John Mayer. That's when I realized I hadn't won after all. I HATE John Mayer! And that little pointy-tailed-Jimmy-possessing-imp knew it! (Not that Jimmy)
True story, by the way. And I have the shiny fist-sized clean spot on my dashboard to prove it.
My friends are always making fun of me for continuing to live in Fresno--the place where I was born, the place I'll probably die--while they've all moved off to more hospitable environments. Jack & Natalie live two inches from the beach on the central coast of California; Makoto & Sydney are living it up on the fringe of Hollywood in sunny So-Cal; and David & Janae are kicking back in Steinbeck country, better known as the Monterey Bay.
But Fresno ain't that bad. So what if it's been dubbed the Raisin Capital of the World--there's still plenty to do here. Like going to the cinema...and...err.... Ok, I confess, it's not really a happening kind of place. There are no beaches in Fresno. And during the summer while the temperature on the coast is a comfy 65 degrees it's a blistering 110 here in the valley. And yes, that really sucks the big thermometer! But hey, us Fresnans don't have to worry about the BIG ONE! You know what I mean. The 8+ earthquake that's going to swallow up you little bastards on the coast! Then us Fresnans will have beach front property! Neener Neener Neener! So there!
Ok, this one's for you, Jack--Mr. I live in Morro Bay/Cayucos and can be at the beach in one sneeze. Check this out!
I have three juicy scraps of news to tell you: two of them are good, and one is bad. Which do you want to hear first...err...I mean, read first? Oh really? Ok, then: We'll begin with the bad news. Today I received the BFOD (Blue Form of Death) from Realms of Fantasy magazine for a story I'd submitted a couple of months ago. Basically that translates to: YOU SUCK! And please think twice before you submit to our magazine! If you were standing right in front of me I'd spit on your face and rub it in with my fist. Who ever led you to believe you could write deserves an exploding enema. If you're ever in New York stop by my office so I can fart on your face. Ok, Ok, it's not thaaaaat bad. But a YFOP (Yellow Form of Promise) would've been much nicer. That would translate to: YOU DON'T SUCK THAT BAD! But we're still rejecting you. Send your next story to us and maybe we'll buy it. Hang in there kid, you might just make it. We almost loved what you did with this story. But, hey, almost ain't gonna cut it. Keep trying, though.
Alright already--on with the good news. Do you see that strip of blank space in this paragraph? If you highlight it with your mouse you'll get the good news. But you might have to put your face all the way up to the screen. And don't act like you've never done that before. Wink. Hallelujah, I passed the CBEST test! Yay for me! And the other good news also relates to Realms of Fantasy magazine. And this is pretty cool, man, so get ready. The editor may have passed up my story for publication in one of the most awesome fantasy magazines, but she did publish my initials: GM. And not only that--she also published the initials of my story: BM. If you don't believe me, just follow this link. Oh, and let me know what you think. I hereby give you permission to critique my initials in any fashion you see fit. Are they too bold? Do I need to rearrange them a bit for effect? I've always been a fan of Times New Roman, but I'm willing to compromise for my fans.
Dumb: Ok, so my sister was taking a history exam, and one of the questions asked her to name who wrote the Communist Manifesto. She wrote: Richard Marx. Ha ha ha ha. The answer, of course, is Karl Marx. You know, of Marxism, of the king of Revolution. But what's truly hilario is that her professor gave her full credit! HA! Only in California! (By the way, my sister gave me permission to put this here, so don't think I'm an ASS!
Political: Here we go: The Italians are blubbering and whining because they just can't understand why so many of their fellow compatriots are constantly getting abducted in Iraq, while other nationals are being left alone. Hmmm. Could it be that whenever an Italian gets kidnapped their freaking government PAYS the terrorists a freaking ransom! Come on, even I would kidnap a damn reporter for a million dollars (euros, whatever). Especially one who works for a communist newspaper. Duh!
Interesting: Did you know that Muslims are supposed to make a pilgrimage to Mecca in Saudi Arabia at least once during their lifetime? And in Mecca is this large structure called the Ka'bah, which is Arabic for "cube." And it looks like a cube, only it's massive. Well inside the Ka'bah is an ancient black meteor, and the Muslims kiss it as they circle by in an enormous procession. Did you know that the Muslims believe that this same meteor was given to Adam (as in Adam and Eve) by God (Allah, same difference)? But they refuse to let anyone perform tests on it. Damn! I bet there are a bunch of space critters on that blasted thing and we'll never know.
Dumber: When I was about ten, me and my friend Brandon Bestenheider decided to build a submarine. You see it had rained a lot that year, and the puddles were so massive that the streets were completely submerged. So we scored some plywood from my dad and nailed it together until it pretty much looked like a sporty coffin. Then we nailed the whole contraption to a couple of skateboards (one in the front, one in the back). It was so rad! We hauled it to the top of the driveway, got inside, and after much jerking and leaning we whooshed down the driveway and splashed into the enormous puddle. Then our submarine sort of crawled to a stop in the middle of the flooded street. Next thing we knew water was seeping in the numerous cracks. We scrambled to get out, screaming and kicking the plywood apart, like chimps breaking free of their cage. It was so cool.
