Nipples, beer, and a new kind of cigarette..

As I sit here lighting another cigarette I wish there was a new kind of smoke, one that was bolder, or different. I light this one not because I like or even enjoy it but because it’s what I do. Call it addiction, or habit, or slavery, or whatever; it is what it is.

I think part of getting older is a dulling of the senses.

I remember when I was a boy and my brothers and I would snitch one of Moms cigarettes, sneak it down to the basement, gather around the hot water heater and roll up newspaper, and light a fire from the burner to light the stolen cigarette and pass it around. Damn that was a good smoke. That was a good time.

I think I was about 16 when I went into a grocery store in Cimmaron Kansas. I don’t remember what I bought but I remember when the clerk bent over I could see right down her top; the image was seared into my brain and even now a thousand years later when I close my eyes I can see the plain white bra that was a little too big and the hint of nipple that peeked out at me, as if to say “Oh look at me, didn’t expect this did you?”

I remember the first time I jerked off. I remember the first time I got my finger wet. I remember my first dance, my first feel, my first sex, my first lover, my first BJ, my first dirty book, the first time I fell in love. I remember my first broken heart, my first car, my first computer, my first gun, my first crime, my first prison sentence.

I remember learning to drive in a monstrous pink ford Thunderbird. 

I remember my first car crash, my first job on a shrimp boat. I remember my first flight. The first time my 1^st wife cheated on me and the first time I cheated on her.

I remember my first apartment, my first job, my first car and first truck. So many things and I remember the magic of every one of them.

As I look back over my lifetime so far; at all of the different J. Swaneys I wonder if my changes are coming to an end. Have I finally crystalized once and for all? Or will I again cocoon up and re-emerge different and exciting.

I’m older and supposedly wiser, and quite frankly I miss the high. The rush of something completely new and unexpected. Life has become predictable and I can understand why some people do foolish things when they are my age.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not unhappy or dissatisfied. Honestly I am one of the luckiest people I know. I have a great family. I live in a beautiful area. I can’t remember the last time I was hungry. I am actually surrounded by, married to, and related to beautiful people, the kind of people I never even imagined having the nerve to speak to. I’m a lucky and appreciative man.

But..

I can understand a mid-life crisis. A sports car, a young lover, cocaine, a small business, political obsession, strippers, whores, alcoholism, or any of the other things that trip men my age up.

I see it all around me and recognize it for what it is, so I’ll take a pass, but I can understand it. 

I remember when I was younger and working in Brownsville Texas in this huge un air conditioned tool and die shop. It was so fricking hot. You don't even know. Brownville TX in the summer has temps over 100 degrees, with humidity above 80. Anyway this buddy and me used to get off work, go to this store that he knew of that had a walk in cooler that had beer that was like 30 degrees, we would buy a 12 pack get back into his truck, drive to his house, sit in the driveway, crack open the cans, pour salt and tabasco sauce on the rims, and then slam the beer. It sounds lame but it was simply amazing.

Remember the first time you ever shot tequila, licked the salt from your hand and bit the lime? The burn of the alcohol, the bite of the salt, and then the explosion of the lime; it was like a roller coaster for your mouth wasn't it?

But… if I jumped on my bike, went to the store bought some top shelf tequila, stopped at the market, bought a few limes, drove home, and did some shots, or even went to the bar, right this second… it just wouldn't be the same.

Is my tongue different; is the tequila? Or is it me?

                  

Anyway, there really isn't a point to this post or a moral to this story.

I guess I’m just ready for the next best thing, or at least a new kind of cigarette.

J. Swaney

Condoms, Chicken, Magic, and Love

Let’s just say if I were forced to tell the absolute truth I would have to say I believe in magic. Now this wasn't always the case. I’m sure when I was a kid I believed and then I out grew it. But then I lived, and I studied, and I read, and I watched, and slowly and steadily my belief grew.

I think I have a pretty logical mind, sentimentality annoys me more than a little because I am just cynical enough to see it as a form of manipulation more often than not. But still, I have seen some things that I can only describe as magical.

Plus there is the fact that magic was accepted and considered as real as electricity for thousands of years and by millions of people long before I ever came on the scene.

Now I will admit that there is a chance that I know things that all of those people didn't  But then again just the fact that they all believed in it, kind of makes me consider it. I mean is it likely that all of those people were wrong for all of those years, and we as a society are right now? I just wonder.

Like Columbo in the old time TV show, that starred Peter Falk, I bumble and stumble through life but in the back of my mind, like a dog chewing a bone; I am always on the lookout for it; magic.

Today my 15 year old son was hanging around the kitchen while I was frying chicken. (I found legs, and breasts, on sale for .99 cents and brought home lots of it) He was telling me that lately the kids at his H/S have been impressed with his lunches, and have been begging for bites.

“Really?” I asked. I thought back on his lunch for the last few days. I had baked Chicken Breasts, the night before, boned them, and sent the boys with white meat chicken sandwiches with cheese and lettuce, the bread had been fancy deli rolls that were a day old and on sale. Yesterday Marie had boned the rest of the white meat chicken and made a chicken salad, with finely diced celery, boiled egg, pickle, onion, mayo, garlic, paprika, mustard, nothing fancy, just chicken salad.

“Yea” he said. One kid told me he had never seen a chicken sandwich made out of just regular chicken, because his Mother bought the patties, and some of the other kids had never eaten chicken salad that didn’t come already made from the store. They really liked it.

That just made me sad.

But here is the kicker. I know the food isn’t spectacular. My wife is a far better cook than I am but she’s not a Chef, she’s a nurse. As for me, I’m a half ass writer, and half assed home maker. Julia Roberts, I am not.

So now the logical part of my mind kicks in. Is he just blowing smoke up my ass?  I doubt that because being a suck up doesn't earn brownie points in this house, never has and never will; so what would his motivation be for lying to me about this? I can’t think of one so I assume he is telling the truth.

I shoo him out of the kitchen, link my blue tooth head phones, to our Nexus 7, and screen Cruel Intentions on Netflix. But even as I’m watching the movie, breading chicken, turning chicken, and trying to clean as I go, that little piece of my mind is chewing on this bone.

Why is he so grateful for the chicken? Why are the other kids crazy or the chicken? Why is Christopher my Grandson, eye balling the chicken like it’s a prize and begging for a sample? The boys aren't starving. It’s not spectacular chicken.

The evening wears on, dinner is served, the boys go to bed. I run Marie to the Hospital for her night shift, and drive home.

I’m asking myself if this could be magic.

I have a friend who went to cooking school. She used to post pictures of her food on Facebook. I loved looking at that food. These weren't fancy pictures, just snaps with her cellphone, of her accomplishments in cooking school. When she had finished the school, the pictures had stopped. I pulled the snapshots up in my memory and reviewed them. Why had I loved looking at those pictures so much? Honestly, beautiful, professional grade food pictures, are almost as common as porn on the internet, so why were her pictures my favorite?

Obviously because I know her. I know how much she loves her family, I know her Daughter, and I know her Son, and her Husband. I know the love that comes from her hands and went into that food. So it was like I could see the love, I could see the magic. Hmmm could I be onto something I asked myself?

I thought of other times I had personally witnessed the magic of love going into food.

This video I saw on youtube came to mind.

Baking Video

This video is made by a Jewish woman making bread with her friends. The link is above if you want to refer to it. If not, here’s the point, when she is kneading the bread, she knows she is putting love into it. She even says so in so many words.

So maybe the magic doesn't have anything to do with the actual food, but the hands, or even the body.

I thought of some other things that seemed a little magical to me.

By magic I mean the total equals way more than the parts, like when a touch is more than a touch, or a chicken sandwich is more than just a sandwich, or when a woman comforting her infant is more than just some chick holding a kid, or when Rachel's food pictures are more than just pictures of deserts.

Then my mind leaps to other things, like how it’s way more magical to make love to woman without a condom, than with one, or when the Ancient Jews led their livestock into the temple for sacrifice, or when the other ancient tribes and faiths performed blood sacrifice, or when a Bride and Groom first kiss. These things all held magic, they were all more than the sum of their parts, and they all involved personal contact. They all involved a hand, a touch, a sacrifice, something personal given unselfishly, not money, but something more than that something magical.

Then suddenly, something else pops into my mind.

Every meal I fix my Gransons plate first. He is 7 and having him dish his own plate isn’t the best idea. My Son, 15 has asked a few times for me or Marie to fix his plate too. I have always assumed he was joking and flippantly told him to fix his own plate. “You’re grown for goodness sakes.” But now I wonder, is he asking for his share of love, without even being aware of it? If the magic comes from the hands, if the love comes from the actual contact with the food, and he craves it…. And well…..

I think I'll go ahead and fix his plate from time to time.

JS

A Dogs Life, when is enough enough?

Enough.

I've been thinking this morning about enough, and how we, as a society, might need to redefine that word because for some reason it seems an impossible goal to achieve.

I look at my dogs and I envy them because they seem to have enough, but then when I think back of all the dogs I've ever had, and I realize they have always had enough.

When I was a boy we were very poor. Not poor like didn't have the money to pay the cable bill poor, but poor like, no cable, electricity getting turned off, neighbors dropping off groceries on our porch, always going to a neighbor’s house for an after school snack, not even being asked to fill out the form for free lunches, getting immunization shots for free from the health department, prone to shoplifting, would do any chore for anyone for a dollar, nothing new ever, school shopping at the salvation army, five kids sleeping on a full sized mattress on the floor of an upstairs bedroom, without sheets, huddled in blankets, water frozen in the toilet on extra cold mornings, holes in the bathroom floor from wood rot, scratch the registration sticker off someone else’s license plate, and glue it to your own, often ate fried potatoes for dinner, took a generic bag of potato chips for the potluck at the church, Kool-Aid was a rare and wonderful treat, 3 channels on the black and white TV, antenna wrapped in aluminum foil, moved and moved and moved again, wore work boots, or bare feet at gym class, never joined a sports team, hunted when we could and ate every damn thing we killed, raised rabbits to eat and fed them by pulling weeds to put in their cage, our dogs never had shots, or flea medicine, or heart worm treatment, hair-cuts at home, lunch at school, supper at home, no breakfast, never used deodorant until we could buy it for ourselves, built imaginary forts in the wind break, and entertained ourselves with sticks, stones, ponds, and imagination poor.

But, you know what?

That old dog was happy. He met our school bus, he ate our leftovers, he slept on the mattress with us, he played with us, he licked us, allowed us to wipe our dirty hands on him, or cry on him, he didn’t even take it personal when he was hungry or we scolded him. He just had enough.

Now it’s a million years later. We live in a beautiful condo in one of the world’s greatest cities, we have to be careful to not over eat, I can’t remember the last time I was actually hungry, our children are educated and successful. Marie shops at thrift shops for fun. I drive a scooter worth about 5k dollars, when we need a car we go rent a brand new one, when we need clothes we simply go get them, we prefer Tilleys over WalMart, we eat meat in 98% of our meals, we sometimes order Pizza and have it delivered, I’ve eaten so much I’m fat, I get annoyed if I don’t have at least 2 hard liquors, and mixers in the house. The boys eat 3 meals a day. Our cable and internet bill are more than our rent was as a kid. I think we paid about 40 dollars for the wrought iron and stainless steel dog dishes that our dogs mostly ignore for scraps off of our plates. Sometimes I get stressed because we don’t enough snack foods around the house, 2 computers, 3 smart phones, a Google TV, my sons High School has a pool, we have good health insurance, we carry about 300k dollars in life insurance, in case one of us passes, and the Mrs. makes a very comfortable living.

And you know what?

The dogs are happy, they have more than enough.

But me?

Well I really want a 5 bedroom 3 bath house, and a new Honda Ridgeline. I really need a Vacation with just the Mrs., about 4-5 days in a nice hotel in Vegas would do the trick, maybe take in a show. I would also like to only drink top shelf booze. Greg thinks he needs new clothes, Marie would like some new boots, I wouldn’t mind spending a couple of hundred on some new clothes myself. I would like to be able to buy new cars for our 20 something daughters. I worry about them breaking down and that would give them a little less to worry about. Our air-conditioning unit is out dated. I made a promise to a friend and then had to wait until next payday to do it. I would like to put down real tile in the bathrooms and kitchen, and replace the carpet in the bedroom to match the new hardwood floors we put in last year. Our new washer and dryer isn’t front-loading and sometimes gets off balance and makes too much noise. I wish we could keep more fresh fruit and juices in the house. I would like to have a new Honda Goldwing completely tricked out and a month or so of nice weather so the two of us could tour the US, you know, down across Texas, then through the South, along the coast of Florida and then to New York City.

I guess the point is this. The dogs had enough then, and they have enough now. I didn’t have enough then and still often times don’t feel like I have enough.

So either enough is never actually enough, or Dogs have a wisdom that I can never hope to achieve.

Do you have enough? Do your dogs?

JS

Red Lights, The United States Post Office, & My Shit Day

For me today has been one of frustration. I've been snappish, impatient, sarcastic, and a little mean. Long story short I have been an ass-hole.

I didn't plan to be, but some days the world just annoys the shit out of me. Here are just three things taken at random from a list of thousands that have just driven me insane today.

#1 Red lights:

I think California, at least in the San Diego area, must receive gazzillions of dollars in federal funding for stop lights, or, the Legislature must just simply think that no one in California is smart enough to read, obey, and understand a fricking stop sign.

I live less than 3 miles from lots of areas for shopping, and I’ll kiss your ass if I don’t get caught at 12 fricking lights between here and Food 4 Less.

Now I’m not talking about just a simple red light either, and I’m not talking about just at intersections. I’m talking about full scale controlled left and right turn, put the fricking car in park, and enjoy a cigarette stop lights.

Now I live in Santee, not LA or even Down Town San Diego, but these light don’t have timers to turn them to flash at like 3am on a Tuesday morning and they don’t have sensors that might detect you are in the only moving vehicle in a 5 mile radius. Oh no, that would just make too much sense; but I’ll tell you what they do have on them, Cameras.

So when you decide to just go, because it’s the middle of the night, and you want to get home, and you have to piss like a race horse, and your hair is graying, and your mind turns to death, and you have have already had to sit at the stop light so long that you are actually wondering if you have time to run a hose from the tailpipe to the cab so you can just die, instead of live in agony one second longer, the police will have your tag number and mail you a citation.

#2 People that won’t go when the light finally turns green.

It doesn't bother me when people here text, tweet, check e-mail, make calls, write letters, watch a Netflix movie, look at porn and pull one off, place stock orders, read magazines, paint their nails, drink coffee, or just roll their windows down and visit, at the stop lights… G*d knows we have plenty of fricking time. But what does bother me is when the light finally does change they are so engrossed in these other activities that they don’t GO!

GO! GO! GO! The fricking light is green, I’m almost out of gas, my taxes are due in less than 3 months, PLEASE FOR Goodness SAKE! Can you just put the fricking car in gear and GO?!?

Alas, most times they have lost their focus, and right after the light turns yellow they will begin to go, abandoning me, along with all hope for a better life, to repeat the cycle yet again.

THE BASTARDS!

#3 The United States Post Office.

Today we wanted to send off a letter. I know it’s Sunday but the lobby at the Post Office is open and I know they have a vending machine, and I have a credit card so the Mrs. and I are off to get a stamp. 

Sounds pretty simple isn't it?

Well this vending Machine is something else, it’s about the size of a refrigerator, and has a touch screen, with what seems about a 5 minute lag. It goes something like this.

Press Start to begin.

I press start, nothing happens, I wait, still nothing, I look to the Mrs., still waiting, shrug my shoulders, wait some more, roll my eyes, waiting waiting, turn to walk away, and the screen changes.

Are you mailing a package or letter? It asks.

I choose letter, and press the screen.

Nothing… wait, wait, wait, still waiting, wait, scratch, shuffle my feat a little to relieve the risk of blood clots, wait, wait, still waiting, wait……….. and

Does your letter contain explosives, acids, alcohol, chemicals, or any other toxic substances?

Wait another half of a lifetime…. Finally.

Please place your envelope on the scale, and type in the destination zipcode.

Do you want insurance?

Do you want a return receipt?

Are you mailing more than one letter?

Would you like to send it certified?

Would you like to send it next day air?

(There are at least 40 or 50 more questions that I can’t recall. Are you imagining a 5 minute wait between each question? Because there is one. I think I started to black out a little between the questions, it was torturous, like waiting in a foxhole cramped and wet, as artillery comes closer and closer, having to maintain radio silence and afraid to stick your head up because of sniper activity.)

Finally like the pitch black sky turning a slightly less inky shade of black with the coming dawn, I begin to realize we must be getting close to the part where I can scan my fricking credit card. This laggy, appliance sized, blue, monstrous, piece of tax payer purchased, shit, has finally determined that my total bill is .47 cents.

I’m ready! We’re almost there.

Of course the machine can’t charge the card for less than one dollar and forty three cents.

“Fine” my wife and I proclaim in unison. Sell us 2 or three stamps, we will just carry home what we don’t use.

But then the machine tells us that it actually prints shipping labels and would like to know what size we would like 1.43 cent shipping label to attach to our business sized envelope.

Now honestly, this is what we pay for? This is the service that the USPO gives to it’s customers? Honestly I can’t wait until the Post Office is bankrupt, it is nothing more than an example of every single thing that is wrong with the US Government. Honestly I think I would have been doing Santee, San Diego, and The United States of America a huge service, had I just doused the building in Kerosene and burned it to the fricking ground.

Finally we just left.

This is how my whole day has been.

JS