Ray Smuckles Blogs

RAYMOND QUENTIN SMUCKLES 7/2004 - 12/2008
ACHEWOOD
Follow Ray Smuckles, in this 55,000-word supplement to his general intellectual methodologies, as he plans his Friday Parties, travels to Australia, mistakenly visits an Oriental hair loss specialist of the wrong variety, grouses about his lackluster sex life, and otherwise exhibits the proclivities of a man with a curious heart, a bottomless appetite, and far too much money. These collected blogs, tottled off in the wee hours during surprisingly common moments of reflection, describe a thoroughly modern creature with both traditional problems and cutting-edge weaknesses. Mr. Smuckles, a co-champion of the Great Outdoor Fight, has explored the depths and -scapes of all major forms of suffering, with the exception of parenthood and loss of a parent. Despite this, or perhaps because of this, or perhaps in order to set such wheels in motion, he can typically be found blissed to the nines on bongo sauce and lifties, usually in or near his room. CTO
FRIDAY, JULY 02, 2004
I got to get rid of some Nagels

Remember that famous artist from the 80s, "Nagel"? He did all kinds of what was considered at the time "great" art. Anyhow, I just found a bunch of my old Nagel prints down in the garage, stuff that I had on the walls back in my high school days. I need to have a garage sale. I could probably also get rid of those dumb fingerless gloves I bought at The Record Factory when I wanted to be like Julian Lennon. Oh man, I just read about Nagel on the Internet. Apparently he died of a heart attack when he was 39? How do you do that? Probably it was cocaine, but I don't want to say that until I know for sure. I would hate to think of people making up dumb ways that I had died if I had died innocently of congenital heart deformity.
A new kind of rum!

Dang, Chris emailed me about this new kind of rum he found today and I went and picked up a bottle! It's like hell of old pirate rum, not clarified or anything, and it looks almost exactly like Sam Adams but without the bubbles. It's got good nose and it's almost spiced like a cognac. It's aged in old bourbon barrels, the label says, and I ten kinds of believe it. I think what I'm gonna do is decant this action into a plain, clear bottle with no labels and just have it be my swill. Know what I mean? A dude's swill. A man got to have his swill. I think I'm gonna buy a skeleton.
Nobody around?
Damn, where is everybody? It's a friday night and this place is a graveyard! I was thinkin' of spinning some mellow old Police and maybe just keeping low court in the spa for a couple hours, followed by some 9-ball and Manhattans and Comedy Central, but damned if a dude can scare a dude up. I even called Pat, who fortunately wasn't around. Ain't nothin' lamer than hanging out with Pat and only Pat. If it's just the two of us he always insists on trying to teach me various Kanji and the tricks he has for remembering them. Why does the dude figure I need to learn some Chinese.
SATURDAY, JULY 03, 2004
Sex in the City DVDs

So I ain't never watched too much Sex in the City until I got Netflix and I accidentally ordered the DVDS (thought I was getting something with Holly Body, kind of drunk, didn't read too closely). These discs are pretty funny! There are the main four women who are like a prude, a dork, a hussy and another dork/nerd. They have some problems, but generally there is a cosmo or martini or two to go round. I could definitely hang with ladies like that. I'm gonna try to find some ladies who tell it like it is and like to throw one back, preferably a small group of them. Ray's Sex In The City Night With The Ladies Well, no dice on that finding a cool group of women, like the Sex and the City women, to hang out with thing. Ill tell you how it went down if you really want to know. So this afternoon I flipped through my mental black book and I remembered that Brittney, Amber, and a whole other slew of other mall girls get off work at 8pm on Saturdays and go get outta control at S.C.T!.s (S.C.T. stands for Saturdays Cool Too! which is kind of in response to that TGI Fridays chain. From what Id heard, the founders are doing pretty well with that idea, warming people up to the thought that Saturday can be a pretty good day of the week in addition to Friday). Anyhow, I thought Id spice myself up with one of my monogrammed shirts, open at the collar, a few splashes of Polo Extreme Sport (kind of a fun weekend cologne), and my new chunky silver chain bracelet before heading over to S.C.T.s and joining them for their first few rounds, while they were still pretty clear-headed and most likely to be sophisticated and witty. So I was looking pretty dapper, all with my mug just
trimmed three days before so it didnt look too fresh and in fact was in its prime, all with some low-rise boot cut new GAP jeans on, thick black Gucci belt, etc. I was straight up Clooneying. Anyhow, I pulled into that place around 8:20 and none of the girls were there yet. I sort of cooled it and read the kids menu and stuff, just waiting in the little entranceway on a bench. It was quieter than I had expected--there were just a few families here and there, finishing up meals with their young kids. Thats cool, theyd clear out soon enough and my brichichas would be scootin into booths, filling the air with strong, sassy girl talk. I couldnt wait. I was gettin pretty excited so I went to the bar in the corner and sized myself up for a margarita. Only problem was, there was no bartender. None of the lights behind the bar had even been turned on, and the little credit card slider was off. Man, that blew, so I stopped one of the waitresses and asked if I could get a drink. She said the bar was closed and I was all like yeah I see that but what can you do for me and pretty soon she came back with this paper cup that had some marsala cooking wine in it. I sort of sadly gave her a fiver and sat and nipped at the nasty stuff for a while, flipping through the kids menu and waitin for the ladies. By 9:30 not a single new person had come into the restaurant except for a family on a road trip whose kid had crapped in his pants, so I hit Brittney up on my cell. RAY: Hey, delicious! What you doin tonight? BRITTNEY: [loud background party music] Ray? Is that you? R: Some kid just crapped in his pants! (I had had a few more cups of the marsala by then and was kind of addle-brained, I thought it would be really funny to say that)
B: What? Ray? R: Seriously! Where you guys at tonight? Im all up in S.C.T.s and bringin the damage! B: Uh, look, I got to go, Ray. [hangs up] Long story short, S.C.T.s had lost its liquor license about a year back and no one went there anymore. I must have sounded pretty insane, like I was hanging out blasted at an unpopular family restaurant and calling women to come join me. No wonder she didnt tell me where she was. At any rate, Im gonna look on the Internet about how to make a Hot Toddy. I bet I got all the right ingredients.
TUESDAY, JULY 06, 2004
The Dude.
I try to watch Big Lebowski about a couple times a year and today was my summer cram. I had Conchita set me up a tray of Ketel, cheap-ass Half and Half, Kahlua, and ice, all with a lousy little cheap glass, and I roached up a nice J using my fingernail clippers. I was set. I even wore this old pair of sunglasses that I found in the street, and a robe that I lifted from that B-list Ritz-Carlton in Scottsdale. Man, I just had the greatest old time. Big Lebowski is so funny. I had such a great time.
What a nice afternoon.

It is such a great day around here. It is completely sunny with a nice breeze, the grass was just mowed and edged so it is all beautiful and perfect, and the spa is bubbling away all cheerily to itself. I'm still wearing that Ritz Carlton robe, which is keeping me at just the perfect temperature. I had some Pappardelle con Gamberoni from Luigi's for lunch, and it didn't sit too heavy at all. I'm having a cold Amstel Light right now and am just ten kinds of blissed. I wonder how long this perfect feeling can last. Answer: about three seconds, because I just saw Pat walk up my driveway. Crap, there's the doorbell and his knocking. Why does he always knock AND ring the doorbell at the same time, it really gets on my nerves.
That douche.
Okay, so what Pat wanted was to tell me that he just got his driver's license renewed and wants to take me along with him to the DMV headquarters in Sacramento so that he can lodge a formal complaint about something in person. Talk about your five hour round trips in Pat's hinge old Mustang that he thinks is so precious. Plus, I would never want to do that. I don't know why he thought that would be a treat for me. I told him I had a late afternoon tee time down at Seven Pines, and he said we could go tomorrow, and I said that I had standing tee times at all golf courses for as long as he was mad at the DMV. He managed to turn my comment into a two-minute blister about how the state is going down the tubes because guys like me sit around in robes and accept the status quo. Then he left. That was nice of him.
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WEDNESDAY, JULY 07, 2004
Do I want to go camping? I ain't much of a camper, I got to admit. I don't like it if I can't take a shower right after I wake up, and I got all kinds of problems with campground outhouses/no outhouses at all. But camping is a different kind of thing, you know? You are out under the sky and there is a small square barbecue for each campground, and you and your friends just act differently because it's a totally different environment. It can be pretty wild, seeing how folks come outta the woodwork in various ways. Last time we went camping this really drunk guy wandered over to our beach bonfire and kept repeating how many bottles of wine he had drunk (2 or 3, something like that). I wanted to ditch out and maybe throw a log at him but Beef just played along with his rambling, and at one point helped him back up to the campground to his spot while consoling him on his recent divorce. Weird how some cats are. Anyhow, I can see the appeal if you got all kinds of North Face and REI stuff all kicked and crunked, just zipped and velcroed and worked down tight, total gear pro. Then you can be comfortable, all with some fine leather Nike hiking booties and black tights to cut down wind resistance, plus a ripstop wool skullcap that covers the ears, maybe with some fun dangly ear cords for pulling it down. Like Sting would have. You can look hell of sexy in some camping gear. Maybe I'll get one of those Thule roof racks for the Escalade.
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THURSDAY, JULY 08, 2004
Ken the Jeopardy Champion!

Man, they got this dude named Ken Jenkins on Jeopardy these days and he is like a 26-day champion, winning over eight hundred grand so far! $800,000 of the flattest! This has never even come CLOSE to happening on Jeopardy before. Amazing. The dude has great strategy and timing, but he also just knows every damn fact in the world, from old sports questions to foreign politicians to like The History Of The Patent Office. Incredible. I usually play along with Jeopardy before dinner and hit a few streaks myself but this guy has such a pattern, no one can even touch him once Double Jeopardy starts. He usually wins by five figures. Funny thing though, 'cause he's Mormon he has to give 10% of his winnings to the church, 50% to old Govvy-D, and then he can't even have any Scotch while he laments their cuts (whiskeys are the best liquor for when you're cold lamenting, ain't they!). In fact, he always gets all alcohol-related questions wrong. I was thinking I could take this guy if the categories were like: * Scotch Producing Regions * Bar Measurements * The "Proof"'s In the Potable (knowing %s of various types of liquor) * Country of Origin (where was it brewed/distilled/vinted) * Blind Tasting (they pass around shots and you name them, kind of a new thing) And instead of the Daily Double they could call it "Make it a Double For a Dollar!" You know, like you see at airport bars. OK, Ken's on! Got to hustle.
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UPDATE: Ken got 4 of 5 liquor-category questions right tonight. I guess he's been boning up on the cocktail menu at the Chili's in his Radisson.
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It's Friday Night at Ray's!

Man, did we set us up a good one today! Dimitri came by with some new stuff he's carryin' at the distributorship, including this hella delicious white beer called Hoegaarden (got us a keg of that), and a bunch of nice old vine zinfandels that are sweet and fine to drink all by themselves. Not that they won't go real well with these fly Michael Chiarello mail-order ribs I ordered outta his website, plus some insane pierogi that Todor's workin' up down in the kitchen. He loves comin' over to cook since we got that whole stainless steel viking setup, 20,000 BTU burners, double deep fryers, the works. I don't let him do the meats, though. Meats are my territory, no one cooks meat at my house but me. You can cook smaller side dishes which incorporate meat at my house, but you cannot cook larger meats, such as entre portions. You can cook a hot dog, sure, I don't care about that, but you cannot cook tri-tip or roast a bird. That is my job. I cook the meats at my house. Todor can put beef or crumbled sausage in his pierogi, but he cannot for example grill whole sausages and present them to guests. I do that, me. I cook all meats over three ounces and above a certain level of quality.
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SATURDAY, JULY 10, 2004
What a damn fine day.

Feelin' good today. Since Molly and Beef stayed over last night I had Conchita make us some eggs benedict and home fries. That plus a tasty bloody mary had me on my feet and ready to take a big bite outta the day, which is sunny and warm and just generally damn fine. I think I'll get the clubs and head on down to the Hidden Hills driving range, maybe see if Paul can squeeze me in for a lesson.
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SUNDAY, JULY 11, 2004
I got to improve my game!

Daaamn, I invited Cornelius over for some pool tonight (I discovered that he likes to play over a couple Hoegaardens yesterday) and he cleaned my clock! He had some pretty lucky runs last night, and I sent a couple bucks his way, but I figured I'd make it all back today, you know. Old Ray knows one end of the cue stick from the other, and has made some mighty shots in his day. So C. shows up and since it's pretty early on (not like last night) we're on a level playing field and all of that, and I'm feelin' pretty sharp. Right away I start noticing a couple things I hadn't seen before. First of all, his break is insane. He doesn't move too much or put too much heave into it, but damn if every single one of the balls doesn't make one full trip around the table! They end up dispersed pretty nicely, and he starts pickin' them off one by one, always having a real good leave for the next shot. Then he'll like sneeze and miss a shot, and I get to lay into it, but I'm usually in a pretty bad spot and can't do too much. Then he goes on another run. But it's like, he's just as amazed at his own good luck as I am at my bad luck! We're just hell of congratulating each other every time we sink or miss a shot. Overall, I think I lost a cool $1300 tonight. I got to stone-bone study my rhythm. I'm gonna spend a few hours down at Clancy's Billiards And More, they got a resident pro and this video camera system that tapes you from all angles, so you can know what you're doing wrong. I can't believe I didn't sink a single ball tonight. I'm gonna get the table checked out too, it can get kind of humid in that room.
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MONDAY, JULY 12, 2004
I don't think too much of that dude down at Clancy's.

It must have been their fill-in kid giving the lessons today, because he wasn't too great of an instructor. He kept trying to get me to play like a little old lady. When the situation called for me to shoot with the cue behind my back he was all "WHOAH WHOAH WHOAH just use the bridge!" Yeah, right. I don't touch the crutch. I just needed a little fine tuning here and there, not a total rebuild of my already solid style! Heck of annoying. Anyhow, not a good way to spend $75, getting a lesson from the dweeb down at Clancy's. While he was mincing around the table with his carpal tunnel wrist thing on, I got to thinking about what I might be doing wrong and I think I'm ready for a little action with Cornelius tonight. Time to even the score!
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What the hell, man?

Man, last night was a hell of a burn! I thought I had my game all figured out: use the behind the back shot more often. Why? Because it's a more stable shot. I've always said this. Think about it: you got three stabilizing points of contact for the cue (two hands and a back) to totally keep it steady and shoot true. I guess I should have practiced it more before the match (Braveheart was on all afternoon, though) because I ended up losing a bit more moolah than I care to mention. I even fell down and hit my face on the table at one point. Jesus. Today my cheek and eye are all puffy. I'm gonna look around on-line and see if there are any heavy-immersion type training camps I can attend. My faith in my game is pretty shaken after last night.
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Oh yeah!
I just checked my e-mail and there are all kinds of questions in there for my advice column! Sorry I ain't got around to this in a while. I just got all of the Police Academy movies on DVD (1-7) and have been all James Lipton in my home theater. I even got blue note cards like he uses, but I didn't end up filling any of them out. I'm not even sure why I got them, really. I guess they make nice disposable coasters. I can not get enough of Hightower, he stone brings the ice. And Larvell, man, I used to spend days trying to get that good at making sounds with my mouth. No one does a better squeaky door or lock-pick than him.
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A Dream.
I had this dream last night that I was playing pool with all these Italians in this weird circus-painted room, with lots of long heavy drapes and all these different sized fancy globes everywhere. In the dream I had total mastery of the game and it was like I could think six shots ahead...when I looked at the table a map with dotted lines would just emerge before my eyes. I had this ancient cue stick, which was like a semi-transparent frosty green glass with a carved ivory grip. I think there might have been runes on it? The Italian men weren't really paying attention to me, even the guy I was playing. I remember not liking the music, which was that French accordion street stuff, but with the sound of big ocean waves crashing included.
It's a Chochacho Night Friday.

...and that means old Ray has scared up a mess of fine ideas for his guests! That sushi counter I rented last week was a big hit, so this week I got one of those Mongolian BBQ stations. You ever been to Mongolian BBQ? You go down this line and put all kinds of chilled meats and vegetables into a bowl, then you make a sauce out of like seven possible ingredients, and you give all that to the cook, who has this huge hot cast-iron drum with a flat grill top, and he dumps all that stuff on there and hits it with these wooden swords and works it all around until it's cooked. Usually they got egg rolls, too. Anyhow, I had the guys at Colonel Li's set one of those up and send over their best cook tonight. He's down there right now gettin' the thing hot and seasoned.
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Also Dimitri came by with a flat of 24s of Heinie (it's fun to hold the bigger bottle, instead of those little 12s that warm up so fast), and just a simple top-shelf spread of Tanq, Ketel, Jim, Jose, Don, etc. I made sure to get some Orangina and limes to go with the vodka so that Todor can mix us up some of those delicious Voginas.
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Kind of a burner Sunday

I got this friend from way back on the grounds, you know, Smacks Peel. He got his wife all in the family way recently and I offered up the old Smuckles support style in throwing the baby shower. We had a good five dozen over this afternoon, prowling the cold cuts I ordered from Lucchesi's while slapping their brats on the head and wiping noses, etc. I put out a mean spread, even trying my hand at making tomato roses with the vegetable peeler (like Chinese dudes do). I have to say it turned out pretty well. Smacks is a real kind guy with a good heart and he got this idea into his head that a fun shower game would be if the dudes had to wear this heavy backpack on their fronts, filled with water bottles, and run a timed course. First the dude would don the backpack on his front side, then tie his untied shoe, then run up a flight of stairs and down again, then eat either a pickle or a prune and show his tongue when it was done. After the stopwatch stopped he would choose a hand-written card from a deck and it would either add or subtract seconds from his time ("Constipation! +20 Seconds!"). (The cards had pregnant lady problems on them.) I had originally recused myself from the event since I was hosting the shower, but you know as these things go I was pretty quickly goaded into participating. Bad thing was, I had asked Conchita to get me up way too early to start organizing the shower and I had been in a pretty ucky way from the night before. I guess I cracked my first Chimay around 9am, just easing into the day, you know. By the time the crew cheered me into the Pregnancy Simulator apparatus I was pretty far gone and thin on the inside. I was wheezing as I tied the shoe, and barely stood up again to run for the stairs. When I
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did run for the stairs I felt like someone was pressure-shooting Whip-Its into my ears. Fortunately no one was following me so when I got halfway up the stairs I fell into a heap and barfed kind of a light mealy substance. After a short bit I heard someone coming to check on me so I sort of weakly scrambled up the stairs and hid in the laundry room. I was passed out in there until just a few hours ago, and when I looked around it seemed that everyone from the shower had left. Fine, good. There was even this huge pile of gift wrap in the middle of the living room that I guess Conchita will have to clean up. Anyhow, I ought to e-mail Smacks in a few and see how it went. I'm guessing I didn't win, but you never know.
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Conchita quit!
What the hell, people?! So this morning she brings me in my bloody mary and calamari, and real nice I go "thank you, Conchita!" She snaps, tears off her little paper tiara and apron, and yells "I quit for you! I no take this anymore!" Then she storms out. A little while later after I finish my breakfast and do a little light reading, I go down to her quarters to see what was goin' on and she's completely cleared out! All she left was that paper tiara, crumpled in the wastebasket. Fine, then! She's been real on edge lately anyhow, it was makin' me kind of uncomfortable. She would get especially mad when I would try to be polite to her and speak a little Spanish. I guess she thought my attempts to use her language were insulting! A sample conversation would go something like this, tell me if you can figure out what her problem was: RAY: Hola, Conchita! Como te toto polopo! CONCHITA: Hola, Seor Ray. RAY: [smiling, beaming nicely] Thanks de the sausages, Conchita! CONCHITA: [purses lips] ...de nada. [Conchita turns and walks stiffly out before I can ask her to make me eggs] See what I mean? Just all kinds of on edge. She's a little bit older, maybe she was goin' through the Change. Anyhow, I don't have time for that. I'm thinkin' of getting me a butler anyhow, that would be rad. Dude could lay all my clothes out on a dressing table, have guests
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("callers") wait for me in the parlor (I should build a parlor!), all of that butler stuff. I think a dude needs a butler, not a maid. It's more masculine. A confidant. Maybe I'll call Bono and see how he does it.
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Oh. Damn.
I was talkin' to Todor today and I got a little more insight into why Conchita quit. You see, I like to make up Mexican words. It's a fun and harmless thing I do, you know? Anyhow, what are the chances that I would make up a word that turned out to be really offensive? I guess I finally made up enough words that I found an offensive one, though...and I had been calling my maid that offensive word for the last year or so. Okay, quick language lesson for everybody: Concha: "pussy" Conchita: "tiny pussy" So every time I said "Thank you, Conchita!" it was like I was this rich man in a bed calling a servant woman of a different race a...well, I've done my damage. Today ain't a proud day around the Smuckles household. I'm serious about gettin' a butler, though.
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Who cares if this week sucked!

...because it's a Chochacho Night Friday! I got Dimitri all lined up to bring over a NASCAR party! I thought NASCAR would be a fun theme, all with kegs of Natty Lite and downmarket Cuervo shots/Mr. T. Margarita mix, etc. For food we're hella slummin' with like thirty-two Domino's pizzas showin' up around 8. Appetizers are hot dog rounds on toothpicks with cheese dip, and Frito pie. I even got these mad-cool NASCAR pit crew jumpsuits for whoever wants to wear one. I hope Pat puts one on. He's doin' kind of a vest thing right now and bringin' down the party with his whole 70s intellectual thing. People are gonna think I'm havin' some kind of vegan party where we just eat raw green beans outta a box. Oh, and based on Smacks Peel's baby shower I decided to come up with a party game. I got this piece of paper and drew a diagram of the yard, but then I couldn't think of anything so I set up all these different heights of glasses for quarters. That's kind of a game that NASCAR people play, right? Oh, I got to get down to the Sam Goody and get a bunch of country CDs. What country is good? I don't know much about it. I guess I'll just try to get stuff by guys named like Tanner Skye and Cody Flint, and they have a short beard on the CD cover.
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UNH! Yeah, you heard me!

Man, I knew it was bound to happen. I got my old game back, I found my form! Here's the story of Ray, the Comeback Kid: Old Cornelius came over Friday night a little kicked and insisted on playin' a bit of 8-ball. I could tell he was a little slowed down but I don't like to disappoint a guest, particularly when he challenges my authority at the pool table. Now, I'll admit, he's been havin' a lucky streak lately, and I'm down a buck or two. But you got to look at games like this as cyclical, being as luck changes from better to worse to better over time. Friday night was finally my "better" point in the cycle, and everything just clicked. Poor dude would go for too complicated of a shot, miss it, and then I'd just cook. I had some mad runs, and soon he was peelin' off skins! Yeah, I was in it. I even had mind games on: after he'd try a tricky shot and miss by like just an inch, I'd be all "Oh, dude! Next time! Next time!" and he would keep trying (and missing) tricky shots. Man, I am ultra-plussed. I'm gonna have him over tonight for more ball. I got to restore my rep!
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I found an old childhood game

Well, it ain't really a game per se, it's more like one of those dress-up Ken dolls that you can put shirts and pants and stuff on. Actually, it is a dress-up Ken doll. My weird old uncle Aloysius mailed it to me for a birthday present a long time ago. Aloysius was kind of nuts, and I'm not even sure if he's still alive. Anyhow, I found the doll in this old box of stuff I had stored in the garage. I set him up on his little stand and pantsed him a few times, just like I used to do. It brought back a lot of good old memories, so I think I'm gonna keep him out for a while and pants him whenever I'm feelin' bored or blue.
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Everybody Pants!
Ha haaaaaaa! Man, I am so glad I found this old Dress Me Up Ken Doll! I had a heap of paperwork to deal with today, old Sony contract renewals and stuff, and every so often I'd put down my pen, squint at Ken, and go like "Eet ees your pantss, ameego!" and just pants him without mercy. Man, I think I'm gonna start carryin' him around in like a holster or something, I can't tell you how relieving it is to attack the little guy and pull his pants down. It's grounding, you know. Like how some folks rub worry stones around in their hands, but way more funny. I can't explain it.
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Waterbury's here!
Already the dude is totally amazing! I told him about how we usually throw a pretty good dig at my place on Fridays, and he arranged an entire plan for tonight! We got a swing band, with some instructors around to give folks lessons beforehand...he's got a dude outside carvin' a big ice sculpture for the raw oyster bar, a sommelier keepin' court in front of some top-flight wines from Dimitri's private cellar (I ain't never seen a dude get on so well with Dimitri, who can be a pretty rough Russian if you know what I mean - it turns out Waterbury speaks Russian though and they're practically pals now!)...he's a real class act. He even set out a perfect outfit for me on this new dressing table he picked up at Battori's, that Italian menswear shop down in the Underground, and polished up my brown Kenneths! And tonight ain't even the limit of it. Real quick after he arrived he poured me a whisky and soda, offered me a Nat Sherman from a silver case, and hovered over me as he asked questions about things like what hour I like to rise, what I take for breakfast, how and where I like to receive guests, etc. This guy is totally putting his best foot forward. I even tipped him a twenty and he accepted it perfectly, with a gracious nod of the head and a "Thank you, sir" in his clean English accent. It's nice he has that accent. That is so classy.
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SUNDAY, AUGUST 01, 2004
Super, Waterbury!
Man, this guy is ten kinds of classic! Today as I was just comin' to he came gliding in with a hot tray of perfect calamari fritti, and maybe the best bloody mary I have ever tasted. His calamari are way crispier than Conchita's ever were, and his lemon aioli is way zingier. Plus he thought to include a small scoop of lime sherbet for cleansin' the palate. Oh, and he had brought the day's papers and a few magazines, and naturally an after-meal cigarette. When I got up a couple hours later, he had a totally classy golf-type outfit laid out on the dressing table. Some caramel pleated Barry Brickens (Sly Stallone wears Brickens), sort of a light yellow polo shirt, and some crimson Bally loafers with a matching belt. I was fit! When I got downstairs he told me I had an afternoon tee time at Seven Pines, and that Todor would be joining me, if that was all right. Damn right that's all right! Todor swings a pretty good stick, and it's always better to go out as a twosome, so you don't get stuck with some old man who just smokes and won't look at you.
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TUESDAY, AUGUST 03, 2004
Hittin' the links again!

Man, I had a pretty good round with Todor this weekend! I put the beat on him pretty bad most holes, but he ended up few strokes ahead. I think he plays pretty frequently, and I'd had a few light months lately, so my short game wasn't true. Bein' that as it is, I had a couple hours of lessons with Paul down at Seven Pines today, workin' around the green and outta the bunker. He had me correct just real slight things here and there: havin' me grip a little more lightly, adjustin' my right-hand rollover, stuff like that. We even analyzed some video so I could see exactly what was going on. I like Paul, he's a good teacher. I usually tip him a twenty and we each have a snifter of Oban outta the micro-bar I got in my bag, you know, while talkin' about tour results and new equipment and stuff. Anyhow, I'm feelin' like Phil Mickelson now, so I got to have Waterbury get me and Todor a tee time. Maybe I'll get a crew to come in and install a little chipping/putting area over by the tennis court! That'd be a perfect thing to do, also.
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THURSDAY, AUGUST 05, 2004
Man, that backfired!

I think I played Todor too soon after my lessons, because I hadn't fully internalized them yet (this is what Paul said). You know how you can have a pretty decent short game, but if you change just one little thing about your technique, it all falls apart? Like having a car, but just one tiny thing is missing, like the steering wheel. There you go, the car is useless. That was my short game yesterday, a car with no steering wheel. Fortunately the landscapers just finished building my new putting and chipping area (I even got a couple sand traps made, plus a pond with a smoking volcano in the middle, just for kicks). A couple hours on that thing and I should be Lightning Man around the greens. Ooh, but first some salmon dinner! Man, I can not get enough of this fresh salmon. I been eatin' a lot of it lately as part of my research for my advice column, and Waterbury just knows how to cook the hell outta the stuff. I think tonight he's makin' this famous old English dish, which is poached salmon with home-made mayonnaise on top, plus all kinds of fancy garnishes and stuff. A lot of folks think Mayonnaise is pretty trashy, just kind of a B-rate ingredient, but in truth it is a classic old-school sauce, and when it's made fresh it is hell of good. I mean, I never had a problem with mayonnaise, but a lot of folks are always moanin' about it and berating it. I take no part in that. I'm not above having some mayonnaise. I came up just like any other player, straight up having mayonnaise as a common dressing on my sandwiches.
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FRIDAY, AUGUST 06, 2004
Daaaaaaamn!
It's Friday, dude! What could be better. Tonight's party is gonna set the New Limits of Doggery. I had forgotten that I ordered this MASSIVE poster of Phil Collins off eBay (you know you got to bow to the Sussudio man, people of all ages), so when it showed up today I got this idea in my head. That's right, I'm gonna make a robotic papier mch Phil Collins to dance around in front of it while his Hits album plays! Sony sent me one of those ASIMO (http://asimo.honda.com) robots last year, so I'm just gonna dress that up and make hands and a head outta papier mch. It's gonna be all dancin' around, totally moonwalkin' to "Can't Hurry Love," all of that! I even have this one skinny tie with piano keys on it somewhere in my boxes. Man, that robot is gonna kick it around. Food and drink-wise, I thought I'd go 80s, since there is the robotic Phil Collins and all. Dimitri brought over ingredients for Magnum PIs, which are basically just Michelobs...I also spent some time figuring out what would be in an A-ha, and I decided that it would be shots of aquavit with a free jelly bracelet in the bottom of the shooter - sort of a treat! I'm gonna have those set out in a drilled block of ice, one shot glass in each drilled hole, with a big photo of the guys beneath the ice. Also, I kind of think that the food that best represents the 80s is Burger Buddies, those little 3-packs of hamburgers they used to sell at Burger King, so I contacted a packaging liquidator who had a crate of the old Burger Buddies cardboard boxes and had them sent by courier (fortunately they were only like 30 miles away). For the Burger Buddies themselves we're gonna make them kind of upscale, with like lime-chipotle aioli and fontina, because fun as Burger Buddies are we're all adults now.
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We're also gonna have this big bowl of Swatches for everyone to pick from when they show up, like three Swatches per person, and a little hairspray station with crimping irons. Alright, time to work the phones! Oh, and Rick James died today. Mega setback for the funk community. Too bad, they'd been making a lot of progress lately.
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SATURDAY, AUGUST 07, 2004
Damn. It turns out that the ASIMO has all kinds of optical sensors and stuff in its head, so if you put a papier mch mask on it, it can't see or hear or anything and it freaks out. I didn't know that yesterday, so my big robotic Phil Collins concept literally blew up in my face (he fell over and short-circuited or something, and caught fire). The ASIMO has super realistic movements so everyone got really sickened watching him writhe around in flames, tearing at the mask on its head, which was burning pretty good due to being paper.Todor finally wrapped the thing in a curtain and after everyone left I dumped it in the trash. Sheesh. Just tryin' to show you a good time, people! Now everyone's mad at me for making them watch that horrible spectacle, and I've got like five hundred unused Burger Buddies boxes sittin' around.
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Cooking Class
Waterbury found me toolin' around in the kitchen yesterday, making an Awesome. I don't know if I've told you about the Awesome before. It's this sandwich I invented only a month ago but it is already my favorite. Here's the stacking order of ingredients: Kaiser roll bottom aioli salt pepper sliced onion lettuce leaf avocado lettuce leaf chopped olives lettuce leaf 3 slices roasted turkey five slices spicy salami! lettuce leaf cooked hamburger patty sliced onion brie slice mayonnaise top bun Anyhow, he noticed that I have some creativity when it comes to food, so he suggested that I enroll in this Italian cooking course down at Granite, this upscale kitchen shop in Hidden Hills. They got one of those "cooking classrooms" toward the back of the store, you know, where like twenty people can watch a chef prepare things step by step, and there is a mirror above him at an angle so you can see what his hands are doing.
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I strolled on down there tonight to check the class out, since the description sounded good. They said you'd make like osso buco and fresh polenta and you could have wine and stuff. Plus, Granite is right next to Napoleon's, this plush bar, so I could just go there if I didn't like it (the class). I showed up and it was a pretty decent crowd: some young hip couples, some wealthier-lookin' older couples, single guys who you could tell were chefs, and even this one fine group of four girlfriends. I mean fine. Sweet-shaped butts, all that stuff. I was definitely gonna stay 'til at least the break. So first the teacher got into it, and I mean he really laid into it. He ran out with two big raw veal shanks in his hands, holdin' 'em high like they were Olympic torches, as this really fun, bouncy Sicilian music played. He totally worked the crowd, and we all stood up and pumped our hands and shook our hips. So krunked. Such a good start. I looked over and the ladies were totally shakin' it. As he started throwing stuff into pans and making people laugh, I got a little vibration from my cell phone. It's one of those new phones that people who are nearby can use to text you. It was one of the chicks from the class! I guess she had read my T-Mobile LocalFriend profile, because she started telling me she was into music and maybe we should talk at the break. I looked up and sure enough she was looking straight at the cat hisself. I gave her the wink and slipped the phone into my Calvins. The chef was one of those guys who likes to have audience participants. I don't know how these guys can always spot me, but as soon as he asked for a volunteer I knew 100% that it was gonna end up being me. Sure enough, he tossed an eggplant right at me and yelled Catch! I caught it easy enough and he waved for me to
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come up and "audience participate." I tossed the thing back and smoothed it up to the counter, waving at the class as they cheered, all in a fun manner. I could see the fine chica smiling at me. I was ready to crack her up, and chef had given me my stage. So we set up to braise off the osso buco, and for that you need wine, but we both noticed that there was none on the counter. He asked me to go into the wine storage room at the back of the store and fetch some Barolo. I lit off back there, but it was pretty dark. Most of the doors were locked, and eventually I found one that wasn't but unfortunately it led out into the alley and before my eyes could adjust I was locked out. It was one of those big insulated doors, so no good pounding on it. I ran around to the front of the shop, but the doors had been locked since it was after shopping hours, and no one could hear me knock since the class was pretty far back and all that music was playin'. I even took out my cell, but I was too far from the chica to text her. I was up the creek. I wanted to wait until class got out and intercept the girl, so I set myself up at Napoleon's with a double Bisquit and let the stress fall away. The thing hit me pretty hard, since I'd gone to the class on an empty stomach, so when I was done I tabbed out and decided to make for home, completely forgetting about her. I did remember that we had some new mail-order Niman steaks, so I picked up a nice red at Hole In One Liquors, across the street. The Granite class had just finished, and the chef had come out with everybody to have a smoke and laugh and talk about next time. Then he spotted me holding the bottle and held up his hand. "Thief!" he yelled. I looked down at the bottle and in an instinct from my younger days, I bolted. Hopefully the girl ain't so good with her phone that she
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has me looked up and arrested. Meanwhile, I don't think I'm gonna be shopping at Granite anytime soon. They probably got my photo up in their front door all post office style.
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Kind of a Hawaiian Thing!

We got this row of palms along one side of the property, and today they got me to thinkin' that tonight's party should have a Hawaiian theme! You know, these summer days don't last forever, so it's time to break out the patterened shirts and sarongs and lose it in a Mai Tai! I had Waterbury dig a big luau pit (dude can dig with a vengeance!) and we had these ceremonial Hawaiian guys come over and create luau pig (I don't know how to describe it using proper terms). So that sucker's bakin' in the ground right now, and the ceremonial guys are gonna dig him up later on (right now they're just cooling it with some Coors in the bed of their truck). They also have a friend who is gonna eat some fire and do a tiki dance. This guy also does some unrelated tricks, like make his Camaro do a wheelie, etc, so maybe we'll ask him to do that after his main tricks. A big part of any Hawaiian party is havin' drinks in coconut shells, so I got Little Nephew busy in the shop, sawin' the tops off about a hundred coconuts. He always loves any excuse to use power tools, just like his heroes (TV show guys from Monster Garage). Heh! I get a kick out of thinking that he enjoys using tools. I remember when I was his age...if you gave me a tool, half an hour later I would have created an object. Oh, snap! One thing about Hawaiian food (besides luau-cooked pig) is that it's pretty horrible. Mostly it's trashy, like hamburger patties on white rice with gravy and an egg, or else it's just Subway. Bein' that as it is, Todor and I put our heads together and created this sort of Pacific Rim Fusion menu that is just all kinds of tickling my fancy. We're gonna have pineapple-glazed grilled lamb,
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miso-honey basmati, banana-leaf duck, crab and pork shu mai, beef pot stickers, and my favorite, won ton soup with those Chinese spoons. He came over and made all that stuff earlier today. For music Todor and I decided just to play a lot of ZZ Top and Aerosmith, since ukulele music is lame. We both agreed that ZZ Top and Aerosmith is good music for parties, because even if individual people don't like those bands, a *party* likes those bands. Do you get what I am saying? When you are at a party you like different kinds of music than when you are alone and you listen to like metal or classical. That's pretty much it...I've got Waterbury stringin' my fun chili pepper Christmas lights all around, lightin' tiki torches, and setting out lots of straw hats and leis for folks. Gonna be a lot better than last week, there aren't so many things that can possibly go wrong (i.e. no part of this party relies on a robot). Oh, and maybe gonna meet Todor's new girlfriend! They're goin' on a date beforehand and he said that if it went well he'd bring her by. I'm glad that people can use these parties for things like that. It's nice to create a haven for romance. It's all for the common good, and everyone gets fed. Mahalo!
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Damn, Todor!
Man, one thing that sucks is when a friend has his heart broken. I'm talking about Todor here, my friend Todor. He is a good dude, and I would never want him to have a bad experience. Yet, because of me he has had a bad experience. I will explain. You see, I throw my events every Friday night, and lots of types come over to make it tight with the drinks and the dance floor. A lot of women show up, and I can't vouch for them all, since the gates are wide open, you know. I often do not know many of the women at my parties. Lately Todor got the Lady Eyes for this slummin' childhood friend of Boriqua (Boriqua is a nasty-hot Samoan mamma from the L'Oral counter. Boriqua got the kind of rumpus that God writes braggy poems about, you know) ...anyhow, her friend was this skinny nerd with I guess the kind of "alternative" look Todor falls for. Todor is super mushy and romantic and he can just fall in love in like a second, completely having ideas about permanent feelings. Anyhow, they had a date down at Grass, but I guess it didn't go too well because he showed up at my place pretty early without her. He kicked around pretty moody for a while, not socializing at all, but before I could talk to him he took off. I called him on Sunday, maybe to hit the links or something, and he broke it all down. He was feeling pretty sour, he said. Damn, I hate to see a brother go through this. What can you do, though. You can't do anything. Nothin' you can
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do. Not a thing. Life is...life is dirt sometimes.
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Operation HOT S.A.U.C.E.

Man, I am already excited about tomorrow. I figured out tonight, the theme of the party is gonna be Hot Sauce! This is mainly to imply that people will have a hot time doing the various hot activities I have planned, but also that spicy foods will be served, all of which feature my custom hot sauce. Did you know that I have a custom-labeled line of hot sauce? Waterbury actually thought this up as an idea for a party, to expose people to more of my merchandise. He's a pretty swift kitty, you know. Got a lot under the hood. So for hot activities, there's gonna be a kissing booth, and I rented these two hot people to give kisses. As part of the kissing (a $5 upgrade over the basic $5 admission) you can each do a shooter of my hot sauce over an oyster before you kiss. That is so brilliant. The man is this hot cut dude who looks like he plays a lot of volleyball, and the lady looks like she could be on a TV show, like as the hot neighbor who plays a lot of beach volleyball when she's not being a model. The other hot activity is a dance floor. I got this band, Paprika, who agreed to come play. Their website said they do this "erotic zydeco" type stuff, "ga-ron-tee" to make the people grind 'em if they got 'em! On the phone the guy said something about mardi gras, and that's all I needed to sign on the dotted line. Oh, and as potentially a third hot activity I am going to write on a piece of paper that the pool shed is a make-out room. I will put a bowl of Durex and little single-serving packets of lube in there, along with a scented candle and a clearly marked trash can (the last thing I need is a bunch of Banana Slugs on the floor).
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Food's gonna be awesome! I hired the guy from Sedona Mona's to bring his bbq trailer up, and he is making a special sauce based on my hot sauce. Also I got the guy from Fat Stan's to come and cook up some crawdads, gumbo, mashed potatoes, asparagus, all that crazy stuff. Should be a good time! We're gonna have tables with my hot sauce for sale at all the exits, at a slight party discount.
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MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 2004
Dang!
Dang, people! What with me havin' a bad case of Olympic Fever, I nearly forgot about this little bloggity-blog! Okay, so here is what I am gonna run down for you all: 1. The Olympics, so far 2. Operation HOT S.A.U.C.E. 3. Maybe some stuff about my mom coming to visit The Olympics! Man, when it comes to the Olympics, I don't think anyone follows closer than me. I ordered USA team gear from each sport, and I put on the appropriate outfit when each event comes on (during the women's events, I dress like a male coach). So far the US is totally dominating pretty much all the sports, with huge wins in swimming, volleyball, running, and gymnastics. A Japanese lady won the women's marathon, but right after she finished she puked up like this Elmer's Glue stuff, very uncool. Operation HOT S.A.U.C.E. It was pretty good! Folks showed up in a pretty sexy state of mind, wearing all kinds of low-cut snakeskin dresses and other hot club outfits, and they just ground to the music. The Zydeco band was steamin', the hurricanes and long island iced teas were drainin' by the gallon, and before too long it was "show us your tits!" all over again. Fortunately Waterbury had thought to order a crate of beaded necklaces, so the economy was in order. I even saw Molly drag Beef into the Make Out Room (the pool shed, which I had decorated by supplying lube and rubbers and a scented candle) at one point, but when
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they came out Molly was kind of sour looking and Beef went and played pool by himself. I was too busy chargin' Boriqua to ask him what went wrong. All in all there were only three banana slugs on the floor at the end of the night, so I just left the pool shed door open and raccoons ate them. My Mom Me and mom really cook it up when she comes to visit! We'll go shopping, and go to brunch a couple times, and probably hit Seven Pines and the Cathcart Gardens, and have some of my friends over for a nice dinner together. Mom likes to keep up with my friends, and always makes sure to mention their names when she calls. She always tells Roast Beef that he is so handsome, and he just blushes and can never handle it. She'll be pleased that he's seein' Molly. Anyhow, she might come visit in a couple weeks, after the Olympics. Alright, I'm out. Men's airgun is about to start, and it takes a while to don all that gear.
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Just kind of a regular party

Whew, I almost forgot to plan tonight's party! These Olympics are really wearing me out. Let's see, what to do for tonight's party...can't sell hot sauce again. First of all, we sold outta both pallets of that stuff, and secondly I don't want people to think these digs are just commercially motivated. I want folks to have a good time, that's the main thing! We ain't on this rock for too long, so we got to share the love while we can. Let's see, maybe tonight we'll have a hippie party, "share the love" and all, and have afro wigs and big peace necklaces. Nah, that's dumb. Hippie stuff is so tired. Maybe it'll be an Elton John party, you know, where when things are going good I come out in a huge fur cape and star-shaped sunglasses. No, that's not a good theme. Maybe the theme will be that I have been watching the Olympics all week and people can come over. There, good. I'll just get a regular DJ and have a guy in charge of grilling burgers and chicken. Plus, I will tell Waterbury to plan the party, because there's some Women's Track and Field about to start. Gotta go.
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SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 2004
Waterbury=Swiss Army Knife

Damn but that dude took care of Friday's party! As you may have read I was not too pumped to prepare the festivities, and when I called on him he manned the plate like a pro. He had the dudes from Kayashi set up a custom tempura bar, which is kind of like an omelette bar, except you tell them what things you'd like dipped in tempura. That was a huge hit, and they had even unorthodox kinds of things to make tempura out of, like thick avocado slices, chicken breast tenders, hash brown patties, olives, string cheese, corn dogs, even those Hallowen-size candy bars. They got really experimental towards the end of the night, particularly once the guests started pouring those sake-boxes for the cooks, who could not decline (dishonor). I think at one point somebody deep-fried my leather Raiders hat. That old Cornelius has really got his cook dog on for this goliath-type broad from the Russian women's volleyball team (silver). Weird! Anyhow, he was pretty much a fixture in my living room the past two weeks, constantly trying to catch a glimpse of her. I think her name is VOLLEY ZILLA or something. Dude, I can understand a guy who's a romantic, since I'm pretty much a heart-on-the-sleeve player myself, but this is like more of a perversion. Kind of gave me a bad feeling to see him put his imaginary coat over a puddle for her, so to speak, right on the tails of Todor's big heartbreak with that lawyer skirt. Oh well, bring it, fellows. Old Ray has had a soggy shoulder or two in his day.
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WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 01, 2004
I like wine!
It's been a while since I had some wine! I got to tell you, I been kind of avoiding the stuff lately, since I think it kind of gives me a little gut. They got these new Bacardi 0-0 posters around lately, where Bacardi and Diet Coke has like zero carbs and zero calories. I been mainly in that scene. I ain't a carb person, no, I am more in it for the zero calories. Been feelin' pretty lean lately because of it. However, tonight I had wine! Man, it was nice to have a glass of the rich stuff. I dug into the cellar and got a bottle of Old Vines Zinfandel to go with this punishingly spicy spaghetti e polpettone I was cookin' up. I make a damn fine meatball, old family recipe, and no you can't have it. Anyhow, I liked the wine a lot. After dinner though I walked up and down the stairs a few times, just to get the metabolism up. I want to get back down to my 2003 weight. I'm currently at my 2001 weight, a little high for my tastes.
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FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 03, 2004
Tonight's party, kind of a new thing

Me and the fellas got kind of exclusive last night over at Todor's, and we came up with this really incredible, experimental theme for tonight's party. The theme is cones. Yeah, cones. Think about it: cones are a pretty basic part of geometry, and therefore a fundamental part of the world. Martini glasses are cones, party hats are cones, bottles are kind of cone-ish...there are more, we made a list (but I lost it I think on the way home). We went on-line and ordered everything we could think of that is cone-like, and then thought up cone-style food. Spicy tuna hand-rolls are cones, ice cream sugar cones are cones...an almond is kind of shaped like a cone... Oh, Jesus. Now we've done it. Dammit, we can't have a party based on cones. No one's going to care about that that is clever. Maybe if tonight's party was like a Beatles cartoon instead, but it's a real party where people don't want to wear cone hats and watch Conan O'Brien loops on a big conical pile of TVs. Crap. What am I gonna do with all this cone stuff? And what am I gonna do about tonight's party? I better hand this stinker off to Waterbury, he's pretty good on his feet.
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MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 06, 2004
A damn relaxing Labor Day weekend.

Waterbury totally rescued us from throwing a "cone" party! Man, with like just six hours to go he rallied up and rented a huge flame-throwing mechanical scrap iron dinosaur from this local artist. He also rented this local circus act called Trompe L'Danse or something, which I was massively skeptical about, but they put on a half-hour acrobatics and magic show that was loot. For food he put out all this "munchies" type stuff, which I think was his way of winking at me and silently saying "I know that cone idea was because you were totally high, and this is my dig on you." Touch, Waterbury. All the same, we burned one and tore into the buffet: chocolate fondue with cheesecake balls and snickers on skewers, a calzone bar, Funyuns, Beef Jerky, milkshakes, Skittles, Tom's of Maine salt and vinegar chips, macaroni salad, Dove bars, chow fun, potstickers, Chicken Tenders, the works. There was even a Coke machine. Damn, it was a good time...until all these dread-lock hippie kids showed up. I know they just like peace and want to be happy, but I don't like dreads on hippies. My posse played it hard and cold and pretty soon they dug the vibe and hit the gate. It has been a damn while since I smelled so much b.o. and patchouli oil. For the three day weekend I mainly played it close and did a lot of swimming. I had Waterbury dress up in a navy blazer and deck shoes and blow a whistle, and I would dive into the pool and do a couple laps. He disqualified me in the last heat for crawling into my Floatee Lounge and cracking a Coors, but that was cool.
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FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2004
Damn but am I brewing fine beer!

Okay, so as you might have read, Waterbury turned out to be a spy and he ain't around anymore. That's cool, because it was getting to be about time that I organized my own parties once again. I kind of needed to prove to myself that I didn't need his help to run my life, you know? If you always let other people do things for you, you kind of turn into the soft calamari. So! Tonight's party theme is BEER. I have been putting together a pretty substantial microbrewery toward the back of the property, just straight up making ales, stouts, pilsners, all that good stuff. I flew a guy down from Oregon to help with the fine points, and WE HAVE (sorry, caps lock) we have a nice little lineup for people to try. They can have the six-beer taster, 2ozs. of each, or just straight up try a pint. I think our best one is a Belgian Christmas Ale, which has just mad amounts of subtlety. It's about 6%, so folks should be hell of pantsy without too much encouragement. To go with all this we got tons of grilled sausages on this special Eastern European grill that's the size of a hot tub. Potatoes are baking up in foil, the meats are sizzling away, peppers and onions are wilting, we even have a cotton-candy machine and a little booth that sells amber jewelry. The old dude that is in charge of the grill straight up sticks his thumb deep into the cooked potato and then pushes a tab of butter all down in there! It is going to be a real old-world night for folks. And if anyone's low-carb, I have this little table where you can mix Bacardi and Diet Coke instead of beer.
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SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 2004
Back from vacation!

Damn! Chris took off for the last week, stone cold lying on various sides of his body on the beaches of Kauai, and right before he left he told us to shove off and take vacations of our own! I did something really unusual for myself: I fired up the Escalade, filled the back up with all kinds of hardcore gear from REI, and headed to the hills late last Friday night! No one else could come at such late notice, so it was mano-a-solo. Before too long I got up to this place called The Sonora Pass, which is pretty rugged terrain on the way to Nevada. Lots of cliffs and rivers, perfect for my new rappelling and kayaking equipment. I couldn't wait to scout out some good rapids and climbs. Say what you will about Ray Smuckles, but I do enjoy pitting myself against the elements now and then. It's invigorating. Remind me to tell you about the time we went waterskiing. First things first, I hoofed on up to a nice secluded place where I wasn't gonna be seen by backpackers, and set up base camp. I had the new VikingXtreme ultra-lightweight 20,000 BTU cook stove, a fold-out chef's prep table, a mini set of Wusthof chef's travel knives, a snuggly North Face sub-zero chef's jacket and windproof toque (it had a chin strap and super-warm ear flaps), and a travel set of infused olive oils. All I needed was to provide the meat! I figured I'd shoot a rabbit or wild boar or something, or at least catch a wild trout or bass, so I set out with Tic Tac and this lightweight little telescoping Fenwick fishing rod (I also had the toque strapped on since a wind was pickin' up). I saw a rabbit run across the trail on my way down to the river, but I was takin' a blast from my travel flask at the time and couldn't get the gun out fast enough to drop the hammer. That was fine, though, as I was gettin' into the idea of some fresh fish with rosemary oil and crisped potatoes.
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I had on these new Scarpa Freney XT boots, which the salesman had said were pretty much the best, but they didn't do too well on this big loose shale hillside I had to traverse in order to reach the river. You ever been on anything like that? It's like a 45-degree slope covered a couple feet deep in broken dinner plates, and when you step on it, you immediately start sliding. You kind of have to ride it like you're skiing: just go with the momentum and stay alert. I got about halfway down when my boot snagged on a piece of wood and I took a tumble. The first thing you do in this situation is cover your face: shale is sharp enough to turn exposed skin into deli meat. Pretty soon I had come to a stop, and I carefully took a look around. Damned but if my entire outfit wasn't shredded to ribbons. I looked like a spent piata. Remembering the flask in my chest pocket, I took it out and drained it before trying to stand up and see if anything was broken (they used to do this in the Civil War). It hit me pretty hard since the altitude was so highthe last thing I remember before passing out was burying myself under more rocks in case some hiker came along. I don't know how much later I came to, but I'm glad I did because water was crawling up my sides! The river had risen a few feet due to a rainstorm, and I was in serious danger of drowning. Something in the Jameson must have given me unusual strength, because one of the rocks I had hauled over my legs was now too heavy to move. I was like, crap. That hiker in Utah cut his own arm off to save himself, and here I was, wastedly pulling heavy rocks onto my legs and passing out in a river. No wonder Brokaw doesn't call. The water was halfway up my body when I went all lucid and devised a plan for getting myself out of this tangle. Long story short, I used the telescoping fishing rod
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against itself, gaining a mechanical advantage from the reel, having replaced the 12-lb test line with my carbon fiber boot laces. After a little bit of cranking, the rock had risen enough that I could wriggle free. As I was getting up, a big fat trout swam into my open boot, and half an hour later he was sizzling up in a single-weight Calphalon with home fries, crumbled andouille, and wild mountain thyme! I sat with a glass of '97 Cinnabar zin and reflected on the events as the morning sun rose. After a good nap I loaded back up and headed home. I figured nature was trying to tell me something, and I was all ears. I spent the rest of the week watching Curb Your Enthusiasm DVDs and working on my new line of lagers.
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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 2004
Saw Tina.
Damn, you know how it is. You are just out, having your day, maybe shopping at the shopping center or walking down a lane, and bang. There she is, your ex, totally unexpected. Your mind goes blank and you don't know what to do. There is that paranoid silence while you both gather your thoughts and wonder what the other person is thinking about you. This is how it went down with me today. There is this new product called Komfy Kuddles, it's this self-adjusting pillow system that helps you be more comfortable while you're lying on the couch watching TV. It's kind of like a large robe that you get into, and as you move around and try to get comfortable it senses the areas of greatest pressure and inflates a little bit there, to give you more padding. If you move around some more, it readjusts. Anyhow, they sell it down at the A Dansk shop in Hidden Hills, and I was on my way to pick one up after a pretty long week of watching Curb Your Enthusiasm and Sopranos. I was walkin' along, on the way to the shop, just lookin' in the windows of various vacuum repair shops and soul food places and dessert-catering companies, when out of a doorway steps Tina, all by herself, headed in my direction. We stopped in our tracks and kind of did the look-on-down and tried to think of what to say. I kind of wanted to do the hug thing, you know, since we shared so many sheets and laughs back in the day. Clark Gable or another classy man would have done that. You know, decorum and manners. I kind of made like a millimeter of a move toward her and my hands started to go up for the hug and suddenly she just jumped all in my arms, giving me this big old embrace and even that half-meaningful kiss on the cheek. She had on that 273 perfume that I had gotten her for her birthday a couple years back, the
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one I picked out specially for her, and damn but she felt so soft. I just did not know what to say after we let go. She was holding both my hands and giving me this really tender smile and my first instinct was to take us out to Luigi's for a meal together, even (seriously) imagining getting us a hotel room for the night and falling back on the old ways. I got a little bit of control over myself and suggested that we have dinner sometime, you know, just to catch up. It may have been going a bit far but I even suggested a time and a place (tomorrow at The Chophouse, a high times place we'd been once or twice before). She smiled and said she would love to. Man, I know me. I'm gonna be all nervous up until I get there, then I'm gonna have some Ketel, then I won't be able to help but charm her in the ways I know she likes. Like a train with a devil brain, like a machine, we're gonna wind up in the sack. And the weird part is, I can't do anything to stop me. It's like Odysseus, he had no choice.
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THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 2004
Dinner with Tina.

I did it, my doggies. Everything I said. Met Tina at the Chophouse, gave her a little orchid blossom to tuck behind her ear, had a white zinfandel waiting for her at the bar, complimented her arms, all of that. It was like we were on that little automatic thing at the carwash that pulls you along, so smooth did it go. After the meal we walked outta the restaurant and just kind of fell into a big hug and kiss right on the sidewalk, consumed with the old passions. We were a little outta bounds on some '98 Cakebread sauvignon, and we fell into a cab headed her way. Soon her little black dress was sliding down and we were in the throes. My Barry Brickens were draped carefully over the dressing-table chair. I had expected to want to leave immediately after the deed was done, but it was nice to be back in the old familiar situation. We talked all about this and that, stuff we remembered about each other...she even pointed out how I always like to make sure my shoes are pointing the same direction before we hop in the sack. I pointed out the old B-52's postcard she still had on her mirror and settled back down into the fluffy pillows and big down comforter. Tina always has kept a good bed. A little while later she poured us some wine as we sat at the breakfast bar. She looked good, with her bed-hair kind of falling in her eyes, all with the same cute old smile. It was that bad kind of comfortable, where you just might stay. Fortunately my cell rang and it was Todor, telling me that he had just recorded some new songs he wanted me to consider for Prime Time. I gave her a full kiss and pulled out, one more kiss in the doorway as it closed.
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I walked home smelling the back of my hand, which I had sprayed with 273 when I was in the bathroom.
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FRIDAY, OCTOBER 01, 2004
Friday Night's Party - Get Into The Gnome

Okay, so tonight's party has a Gnome theme. The people don't got to dress like gnomes, nothing lame like that. The thing is, there are various gnome-type concepts going to be scattered throughout the party, there for people to enjoy. In one corner I put a little gnome figurine lying down against a tree, smoking a small pipe and napping. Under the little bridge that connects the lap pool to the main pool, I suspended a watchful gnome in a kind of straw and leather "aerie." On the buffet table (the food theme is choucroute garnie, which goes nicely with my newly expanded line of Belgian lambics, all of which are on tap) I had a local meat artist build a gnome out of various sausages, slab bacons, kielbasas, frankfurters, and other cured meats. He is totally styling in his little structured prosciutto Tyrolean and leberwurst lederhosen. He is even carrying a little bag of sausages! I love a good meat artist, someone who really uses his imagination. Anyhow, some other gnomes are hidden in the Japanese garden, in the bushes, around corners, all the places it seemed like a gnome would want to be. That's not all. Each of the gnomes has a clue, and if you can put the clues together and figure out the riddle, and you are the first one to tell me, you win some treasure! Hopefully someone will win the treasure, but I may have to give out hints (the treasure is the big new iPod, a bunch of fancy canned and jarred food, and Bo Diddley's first Gretsch, which I just bought at auction last week). I'm not going to blog about the clues until after the party (I've said too much already!), so go on out and then come back later! Gitcha.
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SUNDAY, OCTOBER 03, 2004
Gnome Party clues (SPOILER: read previous entry first!)

Okay, so I mentioned that each of the gnomes hidden around my last party had a clue on them, which would lead to treasure! This is how it worked: each of the ten gnomes was wearing a ring on one of its fingers. Each of the gnomes was wearing the ring on a different finger. Each ring had a different letter of the alphabet on it, which, when put together in order, spelled something. The left pinkie ring was the first letter, and the right pinkie ring was the last letter. What did the ten rings spell out, when put in the correct order? tellray27! That was the clue to come up to me and tell me the code word, "27"! Did anyone get it? Oh, hell no. A couple of the gnomes got thrown over the fence, one of them got tied to a 25lb. dumbbell and thrown in the pool, and this other one had his face all burned up with lighters. Most of them had their rings stolen and taken home as party favors. I guess I could have provided some sort of instructions that the party had a hidden theme-riddle based on the gnomes. Bad move on my part. Next time, people.
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THURSDAY, OCTOBER 07, 2004
Time After Time

Tina and I went to see Goonies down at the Guild tonight (the Guild plays older flicks, you know, just for fun - last week they were showin' Superman, for example). She saw that it was playing and said it was her favorite movie, in that way that means it's not really your favorite movie but you really like it and have good memories of it, so we went. I always like to see that Japanese kid with all the inventions in his shoes. She laughed way too much when the fat kid did the Truffle Shuffle (I kind of slunk down in my seat so no one could see me), but it was still a pretty good time. After the flick we went to Toshi's for some nice sushi, tempura and sake. I wouldn't have chosen Toshi's if I had known she was on Atkins, but she was a player and just picked the seafood off the rice, scraped the batter off the vegetables, and had lots of miso. We talked a little bit about Atkins, and I do notice she is lookin' pretty trim these days. I don't think I could ever do a diet which doesn't include Round Table Italian Garlic Supreme, but it's workin' for her, and that's all that matters. She used to be a little thick around the middle, you know, like it would bunch up when we were in missionary position, but now that's all gone and she feels a lot sexier. Since she's feelin' so good lately, she is a lot more forward in the sack. That don't do me no harm, but since I found out she was on Atkins I think I notice that her breath is always sort of funny, like kind of oily, like a little light puff from a can of cooking spray-oil. Maybe we need to experiment with positions more. I don't know. I shouldn't blog about this. Not really sure where all this is headed, but it's good to be with her again. It's like, we've both been down all
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kinds of roads and found each other again, maybe a little bit wiser but also a little bit more vulnerable. I tell you, there is never any one point where you understand how this all works.
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SATURDAY, OCTOBER 09, 2004
Country-Western party!
Damn, I forgot to tell everybody about what I did for Friday night's party! Sorry, all. I was bidding on these old board games on eBay right up until it started. (I got an original 70s Mousetrap, the old quality piece construction, before they replaced all the plastic and metal parts with cardboard, and also an old version of Monopoly from 1935 where the "Chance" cards say things like "Your negro spilled soup on a Senator!" and "Your only son is a confirmed bachelor, pay $50 to finance his musical.") Anyhoo, the theme of the party was Country Western. I saw Urban Cowboy earlier in the week and it was straight-up blumpity, so I went to Salvation Army and bought them out of old yoked western shirts, tight jeans and cowboy hats. Then I stopped by to see the guy who sells flags down by Samoleans' BBQ cart, and he set me up with his cousin who operates a portable mechanical bull, so the main event was locked. Dimitri set us up with a few kegs of Michelob and Michelob Dark, plus Ten High whiskey, and I contracted a guy called Danger Chuck's Cooking to serve chuck wagon-type cowboy food from his special old-fashioned cart. For music, I got the guys from Black Irish to come pick some rockin' lowhills bluegrass. Todor and Lyle showed up kind of early so I dudded them up and had them start drinkingthis way it would seem like there were already rowdy cowboys at the party when folks showed up. For about an hour while he's gettin' plowed Lyle likes to be real chummy and optimistic, so he was all about helping Danger Chuck get his rig set up (Lyle occasionally works in food service as a cook). They finished off some real nice dutch oven pot roast, simmered the chili beans, baked up scrumptious
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biscuits and cornbread, basted the rotisserie chickens, and even made mile-high apple pies for dessert. The chow wagon was lookin' good when folks started flowin' in. First to arrive were Molly and Beef, and I don't want to be a gossip but they were having some kind of dispute. They got into the costumes alright, but they were pretty steamed and couldn't wait to get some beer and separate from each other. Beef went to help Lyle and Chuck with the cart, and Molly cooled it with Todor, who had set some bottles up and was throwing baseballs at them, like a carnival. Meanwhile, folks started to stream in and get into the duds. The Black Irish struck up and it was all of a complete, promising scene. Some guys I wasn't expecting to see showed, like old Smacks Peel. I blogged about his baby shower a little while back - you might remember. Anyhow, his wife apparently kicked him outta the house and told him to get lost, so he came and wound a couple on. Turns out he is not happy to be a dad and she has postpartum depression and he wants to die. I know when Smacks says stuff like this he'll get through it dude is a straight player. I slapped a straw Stetson on him and poured out a Dark faster than you can say Raymond Quentin Smuckles. Over in a corner Todor was setting the bottles up for Molly, and when she pitched a ball that took down his pyramid, they hugged. Beef had been watching all this from the sidelines, and then he tried to do that thing where the country guy pulls the country girl off the premises by her forearm. Molly was having none of it and kicked him across his butt cheeks (Beef! Dude!). Anyhow, the guys in Black Irish got all into it and started to defend the lady, and before you know it Beef was fighting the Black Irish. He banged one guy over the
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head with his own mandolin before the rest tackled him and forced him into a pretty bad position. I had to go in and bail his ass out, and let me tell you, I was none too pleased about it. I love my friends, but a dogg does not have to be a dirt dogg at his friend's party. About this time the mechanical bull was getting pretty heavy use, so folks started lining up to take rides. Damn but if Lyle isn't a dynamo on the mechanical bull! He didn't fall off once, and by about eleven he had the whole crowd cheering for him. I know the dogg has seen some serious days, but I never thought he had experience in honky-tonk pastimes. He kept going beneath the base of the mechanical bull and cranking up the difficulty level, and this had the crowd hooting and hollering. He'd get up, it'd throw him around for all it was worth, but he never let go. He'd be a little dizzy when he got down, but he never fell. People were all over him, slapping him on the shoulder and getting him beers. I thought he had the thing cranked up as far as it would go, but then I saw him talking to the bull operator, who nodded and gave him this special red metal key. Lyle went under the bull, pulled up this sliding door, stuck the key into some kind of lock and gave it this really hard turn. Then he got on the bull, cinched up his glove, and raised his free hand to signal that he was ready. What happened next kind of confused and scared me. I guess that red key-lock thing is like the turbocharger for the bull, because it started bucking so fast that the whole thing pretty much became a blur, whipping Lyle around like a rag doll. At first people tried to cheer, but then they just became slowly concerned, and then genuinely terrified. It looked like Lyle was having all his bones broken inside the sack of his body. There was no way his spine was handling all the heaving and dropping and whipping and turning he looked like if you've ever
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dropped a raw chicken into a laundromat washer when it's on spin cycle. I ran up to the operator but he just set his jaw and pointed: Lyle was still holding on. I guess that's part of the honky-tonk credo: if the cowboy is still holding on, you've got to let him ride. People were starting to yell things like "Call 911!" and "Oh my god, make it stop!" and a few women (plus Smacks) started screaming and crying. The bull has an automatic shutoff feature, so it won't keep going indefinitely. When the bull finally shut down, Lyle was leaned over, limp in the saddle, his face resting on the foremount. His left leg twitched once, and then he lay still. No one was sure if they could go near him, or if the bull was still dangerous. The operator got up, walked over to him, and took the key out of the lock. He whispered something in Lyle's ear and then, lifting his head up by the hair, poured something from a small flask down his throat. Lyle fell back down onto the chassis, but then, ever so slowly, his body seemed to draw back into form, and he began to sit up. It had been dead silent all this time, and now people started to cheer and holler with a passion. Lyle squeezed his forehead, spat, and stood up on the bull, his fists raised in the air. The crowd was deafening. At the back, I saw Beef and Molly turn and fall into each others' arms. Later on I went up to congratulate Lyle and he was standing alright, but he wasn't making too much sense when he talked. I asked him if I could fill his beer and he said things like "a muscle in a poke, baby strawberry pie!" Not a good sign, but probably temporary while his brain settles back down inside his skull. If there's one guy I don't worry about after physical torture, it's Lyle. So, a pretty good party! I nibbled on some chili beans while Danger Chuck and the bull guy wound down their operations, and soon all you could hear on the property was the low buzz of the floodlight.
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What's goin' on with Tina, etc

So I guess it's been a while since I last blogged. Sorry, blog. I was not mad at you. I was living my life, so I would have interesting things to say in you! Do not be mad, blog! Okay, sorry, just being silly. Silly's the thing, though. I guess it's the main of what I want to talk about today. Tina and I have been spending just a ton of time together, and it's been a kick. We'll walk past, like, Primo's Pizza, and just instantly we'll have the same memory of the time we had the waiter who sat down in the booth with us and made us uncomfortable. Sharing even the littlest old memories with her really made our dates special. We went golfing (she loves to drive the cart), out to all our old haunts (Napoleon's, the Red Room, Smith & Wollensky), a few movies...we even took this pottery class together (she had read in Cosmo or someplace that making pottery is supposed to be sensual, but I just ended up ruining a really nice pair of Herms sandals). I even stayed over at her place a couple nights, and she made me coffee in the morning. Sure it was instant French Vanilla, but I wasn't complaining. Just a couple little things have been getting under my skin a bit, though. First of all, I mentioned that she is on Atkins, and at first it seemed like no problem, but over time it is a huge, I mean HUGE pain in the ass to put up with. About 99% of restaurants are off-limits, she always drives the waiter crazy when we do manage to sit down, and whenever I cook anything for her she tries to be nice but just ends up making me mad. Like the time I seared us off a couple filets mignons and set them on a little
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cloud of mashed potatoes with veal/Port reduction, she took the meat off the potatoes and sliced off the part that had been touching the potatoes, and then sliced off the part that the sauce had touched (I guess Port has carbs! I guess I should be on the lookout for low-carb Sandeman's!). That made me pretty bonkers, I don't mind telling you. Plus wine apparently has like one carb in it, so she didn't want any of the '97 Cakebread Pinot I had decanted, instead asking me for a vodka and diet tonic. Fortunately I had some diet tonic around from that time I was testing out my new shotgun, so I mixed it up, careful not to add a lime. I didn't even bother mentioning that I had some baked Alaska in the fridge, because I think the only part of that she could have eaten would have been the flames. That's just a fad, though. Atkins ain't something you can do full-time, and I could wait for it to pass, but the main thing that bugs me is that she just doesn't "get" me. You know me, I'm a silly guy! If someone at a party dares me to eat a jalapeo, I'll eye the little sucker, hold it up to the light, pause, pop it into my mouth, chew, and then fall to the floor holding my throat as I convulse. A few seconds later I'll stand up and laugh with everybody. Whenever I'd do something like that with Tina around, though, she'd get embarrassed and say that I was "random." One time after a date I came into the bedroom with whipped cream on my nipples...she just looked up from Vogue and went "oh no you di'in't" and kept reading. Also, she does not at ALL appreciate Ren & Stimpy. Man, there are about fifty more instances I could give, they keep popping into my head. OK, I'm done whinin'. I got to get plans for tomorrow's party together. I'm thinkin' maybe the theme will be carbs and 'toons.
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Tryin' to make this work.

I been really tryin' to make this work. Tina is lookin' good, and it has been really sensual to revisit all the old feelings we had for each other and kindle them, etc. This Atkins thing shows no signs of abating, though, and she just seems to be an even bigger jackass every time we go out. Let me let you in on a little history, here. Last time we broke up was because despite whatever good times we had had, we hadn't really seen all that many other people and I think we both were havin' our curiosities about what it might be like out in the open market. I played it pretty free and had a decent time, and she sprung for all these dudes who were one shave away from shakin' change cups at you on the sidewalk. Pony tails, problems with credit, unable to lease a car, all that crap. I'm talking about guys who crashed at friends' houses even though they had mustaches. You know what I mean. A couple nights ago we went out to Naomi Sushi (yeah, she had the miso and salad with dressing on the side) and a flick. When we were pullin' on our coats and tyin' our scarves, she notices that the busboy is this guy she dated a little while back 7-balland they say "hi" and all that jazz and pretty soon we're in the alley behind the restaurant and he bums a smoke off me (plus two more for later). Of course I ain't any part of the conversation and they are swapping all these names like T-Bone and Terry Chrome and I am picturing trucks with Raiders decals and Calvin going to the bathroom onto the Ford logo or whatever. I do not doubt for an instant that 7-Ball is going to go home and mainline Chinese hot mustard while he gets laid off from his job creating random words for Spam emails. Finally I hit Tina on the shoulder and
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leave and a little while later she comes and finds me in front of the theater. Long story short she needs to go with 7-Ball to help this one guy yadda yadda and can she borrow fifty bucks. Yeah I loaned her the fifty and I don't expect it back at prime. I stuck around through the first ten minutes of this Chilean art movie about a man who was trying to start his car and then I bailed for home. I was too steamed to call any dudes over so I just sat and made stinky lines rise from my head while I fumed. That's where I'm at.
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Tonight's party is gonna SUCK!

Just kidding! Man, tonight's party is going to tear six kinds of new ass. First of all, the theme is Machete Madness. I have all these machete-based activitites: a timed contest where you hack your way through a length of simulated forest, a doner-kebab where you machete your own meat off the wheel, a machete arts teacher, a booth where you can buy all sorts of machetes, and a performance by Machetes de Fuego, this awesome machete performance troupe outta Quito. Since machetes seem kind of South American, I had Dimitri drop off a couple pallets of tequila, cachaca, rum, and all the fixins. Gonna make us some mad mojitos and caipirinhas! Also this mornin' in the Tasting Lab I worked up a recipe for a new drink called the Piso Mojado, which has three kinds of mezcal and icy grape pure. It gets you donked in a hurry.
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MONDAY, NOVEMBER 01, 2004
I should have seen that coming.

Okay, sometimes certain ingredients shouldn't be put together. In this case, the ingredients are two pallets of tequila, inexpensive machetes, and a Friday night crowd. In retrospect, I should not have had a party with the theme of tequila and machetes. Looking back, I know that now. First of all, a machete isn't as easy to handle as Michael Douglas makes it look (Romancing The Stone, 1984, Zemeckis). The incredibly powerful performance by Machetes de Fuego made good machetemanship look so simple and easy that all the dudes in the crowd were convinced that they too could juggle six machetes or fillet a giant salmon in two lightning-fast strokes, if given the chance. Extremely unfortunately, this was not the case. Since machetes were for sale at the party, and that performance was so inspiring, pretty much everybody shelled out for their own machete, and soon all sorts of challenges and contests sprang up. Two dudes staged an underwater machete fight in the pool...have you ever had a lot of liquor and then tried to do strenuous underwater activity? Let's just say that it makes you pretty "seasick." Before too long their little battle turned into big surface slicks of half-digested doner-kebab and mezcal. That was a lame thing to be skimmin' outta the pool come Saturday morning. More serious damage was yet to come, though, as the night wore on. This guy Supreme, one of Lyle's buddies from some old kitchen job of his, decided that he could do the machete juggling thing. Before too long a mis-timed machete had sliced his right thumb off at the base, and he fell to his knees all screaming and crying
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and holding the stump like Luke Skywalker. This was just a sign of things to come. Another guy, some mechanic dude I had invited from earlier in the week when I was pickin' up the Escalade after its 500-mile maintenance, decided that he could swallow a flaming machete. The doctors say that he'll never speak again, and I say he's damn well never gonna work on my car again. What a bonehead. Sothar, this big silly dude we always been kinda chummy with, got pretty jerked up on the mezcal and started mocking the guys from Machetes de Fuego. They are a real serious bunch, and they were not into watching some chubby guy in Lakers shorts and a "Got Blumpkin?" tshirt making fun of their craft. He stepped over the line when he grabbed one of their sacred machetes and hacked up one of their prop saguaro cactuses, so they took him out behind the garage for this ancient form of machete torture. I don't want to say too much about it, but it involved horizontally slicing every inch of his chest very slowly with machetes. When he finally passed out, they put a weird green beetle down his throat. I didn't watch the rest because I left. I don't usually do this, but I ended up calling the cops on my own party. Sgt. Bill don't do me no harm, and his officers just came and broke it all up and confiscated the machetes. There were some pretty bad wounds, and there was a lot of property damage (all the plants in the yard had been hacked down to the root, including my nice Japanese maple), but on the whole...well, next time I throw a party I am probably gonna run the concept past a few dudes beforehand.
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SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 07, 2004
What Did Ray Do!

Heh. Oh, man. This week was definitely not a repeat of last week's disaster. Let me tell you why. Did you hear about how a couple of months ago, Oprah gave a brand new Pontiac to every single person in her TV audience? The whole thing was staged as a surprise, where audience members were told that under their seats was a little box, and that one of the boxes had the keys to a new car in it. They all got their boxes and then, on Oprah's cue, they opened them. Every single box had a new car key in it! The place went nuts. Extremely average women were crying, hugging each other, jumping up and down...Oprah had engineered one of the biggest media coups of the year. I thought, hell, if Oprah can do it, so can Ray. My portfolio has been performing like a stallion this year, and the music royalties have been particularly pleasing. Why not spread the wealth a bit? I'm never gonna use half of it. On that note, I decided to stage an Oprah-type talk show as my party, only instead of seats it would be general admission, so folks could mill around and dance and stuff before I took the stage. I had the local theater union come and build a proper talk show arena, but with a couple excellent fast food options around the perimeter. We got booths from "Hot Baked Potato, A Concern," "Steam Dog" (a franchise of hot dogs which are cooked using only steam, ensuring a better skin snap), "Aussome Lamb" (grilled Australian lamb by the chop or by the rack), and "The Wurst Men" (excellent German-style sausages cooked and served by guys dressed as famous criminals, such as Al Capone, Jeffrey Dahmer and Ed Gein).
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Oh, it ain't lost on me that a lot of these shows secretly create crowd enthusiasm by handing out tons of stuff to drink. To get folks most peppy we had a few counters that served Jack and Coke, rum and cola, and vodka with Red Bull. No beer kept them from havin' to go to the bathroom every five minutes and missing any part of the show. Anyhow, it seems like every time you turn on Maury Povich or Jerry Springer or whatever, they're showcasing some run of the mill white trash problem, like morbidly obese parents who are upset that their estranged daughter is marrying a rash model, so I took my cue from them. The guests on my show were this local East Achewood family that was all pissed because the mechanic dad only made thirty bucks a day but spent twenty bucks a day on smokes. I told them I'd pay them fifty bucks each and they were primed. You may be asking yourself how a big audience prize giveaway fits into all this. Hold on. Well, we got the crowd goin with some AC/DC and Boston, and before too long they were ravenous for entertainment. We trotted the guests out one by one, announcing who they were, and each one got huge applause and hooting. There was the chubby slut daughter, the fat son who only played video games, the fat mom with the carpal-tunnel wrist things and a foam neck support, and then the dad, who came out smoking and pumping his fists in the air. He looked lean and tough, his shop sleeves rolled up to reveal several tattoos. They took their seats, each one separated by a standing bodyguard. I had everybody raise the roof for a few and then got down to my intro. This was a family torn by an addiction, I said. A smoking habit of four packs a day is driving a financial stake into this familys well-being, I said. The
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dad pumped his fists again and the crowd went wild. The slut daughter and the mom folded their arms and glared at him, while the son just sat and looked at his own shoes. I asked the crowd how they thought the family should deal with its problem. One by one I walked along the front of the stage and took opinions. At first I got the usual stuff, like he should quit smoking and care about his family! Real obvious. One guy said that the dad only smoked as a way of dealing with the stress of being a parent, and this got a pretty good round of applause. The mom even started to clap for a second, before she folded her arms again and renewed her glare. We did a few more audience Q&A and then I knew it was time to let the bomb drop. I was juiced. I had been waiting for this moment all night. We had all the people in the smoking guys family stand up, and we asked the audience to be silent while I made a very special announcement. Folks hushed real quick and the spotlights danced around the stage, one fixed on me. I took a pause, and then, in a clear voice, I asked it: Ladies and Gentlemen, you have a choice tonight. What would you prefer: that this family is sent on a two week intensive family bonding and therapy session, or that one of you gets a grass-fed, sixteen-ounce Omaha steak? I pointed the microphone at the family, and the crowd went silent. Then I pointed it at the crowd, and they went wild. Back at the family; silent. Back at the crowd; whooping and deafening applause. Ladies and Gentlemen, I continued, Your choice is clear. Each of you received an invisible stamp on the back of your hand when you arrived tonight. ONE of you received a stamp entitling you to the free steak. Variegos, hit the lights. (Variegos was the union kid who was running the lights.) At this point all the lights cut and
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a blacklight went on. I asked everyone to look at the invisible stamp they had received on the back of their hand. Just like on Oprah, the crowd went crazy: they ALL had the winning stamp! The bodyguards escorted the family offstage while a new crew put charcoal Weber grills where they had once sat, and the crowd went to claim their steaks. Soon folks were grillin and swillin and just all kinds of pumped to have won. It was a great night, and the beautiful scent of charred beef filled the air.
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FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 2004
Fine, then.
I guess kind of by my own intentions and also Tina's intentions, I ain't seen her in like two weeks. I think we sent this one back to the kitchen, folks. No dice, no go. It ain't surprise me, really. I knew when we were havin' all the fall-back-into-it rush that that was the only thing we were really enjoying about it. That rush. The rush. You do what you can when you feel that rush. It's a free drug, and it's made of sex. It's made of loins slowly sliding over each other, and maybe shit is unprotected. Sorry. My shit was unprotected. Yeah, it was. I am ten kinds of anxious while my double-blind HIV test comes back tomorrow. I played it all clay dick and now I'm payin' the price with worry. Man, NEVER let yourself slip like that. It ain't worth it. I'm tellin' you this here now.
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SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2004
Good news! I ain't got junk funk.

Man was I sweating as I waited for the STD test results. I was doin' that thing where you keep pickin' up the phone to make sure the dialtone is workin', which is damn stupid if you think about it. I'd slam the receiver back down all quick, but then get paranoid that I'd slammed it down TOO hard and check again. Anyhow, Doc Andretti finally called (on my cell, actually) with the results of the test and they were all negative. I ain't got gonorrhea, I ain't got syphilis, I ain't got the 'chlam, and nor does Mr. Ray suffer from the big grand-daddy, the Hi-Five. Phew. Man, I always get so worked up over medical tests. I always think that the same day I get any sort of test done, they're gonna realize I only have fifteen minutes to live and ask if I've made any arrangements. I watch too much ER, is what it is. In celebration of of my sparkly-clean blood and urine, tonight's party had the theme of Sexual Health Awareness. I had big bowls of contraceptives and lubes and plugs and stuff, and I hired the Trojan Girls, a crew of models in these awesome clear bodysuits. They went around and passed out Jger shots and pamphlets about STDs that are asymptomatic. A spoonful of sugar, you know. I've always said that. I couldn't really think up a food and beverage theme that went along with the safe sex concept, so I just had a burger bar and a sushi guy and a Belgian french fry stand. Real creative, I know. Big counter with about twelve of our brews on tap and six gals pullin'. Just a normal straightforward party. Got some local Neil Diamond cover band called Neil Before Us, folks dug that alright. No major incidents, a real pleasant time. I'm
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gonna watch some ESPN and hit the hay. Got a big day tomorrow: I'm cookin' my practice turkeys for Thanksgiving!
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WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 2004
What's Wednesday for?

What does a dude do on a Wednesday? They're doin' that Monopoly thing down at McDonald's, maybe I'll go try my luck. Last time they ran this contest I just won a Big Mac and some small computer speakers at Best Buy, but that don't keep me down. Maybe I'll get Todor to go with me and we can hit the driving range later. But what if Todor wins a huge prize that could have been mine if we'd bought our food in a different order? Here's what I'll do. I'll call Todor now and ask him to meet me in an hour at Battori Uomo, to help me choose fabrics for new suits. He has to walk past McDonald's to get there, and I'll flag him down, food for two already bought and all the game pieces removed. I'll give him a story about how I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was (maybe act kind of high) and can he help me out. I hate to see McDonald's food go to waste. I guess I should smoke a little now just to make the situation more believable.
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I forgot to tell you about what happened at McDonald's!

Damn, cookies! I went to McDonald's like I said and ordered food enough for me and Todor (two Big Mac meals, super-sized, each with apple pies). The first Big Mac had the Monopoly Park Place playing piece, and the second one had Boardwalk! I was a little high (like I said, I had smoked to make it seem believable that I would order that much food) so I immediately got all paranoid that I was gonna lose the game pieces and the million dollar prize. I wondered if they could take the prize back if you were high when you won it, and if I was so high that I was gonna leave them on the table when I left, all that stuff. Real carefully I tucked them into my wallet and consumed the food at a normal speed. Todor never showed up to eat his half, so real carefully I started to eat that stuff too. By the time I had polished it off I was feelin' pretty sick and had to put my head down on the table for a second. Next thing I knew I guess a couple hours had passed because I was completely dehydrated and there was this big puddle of drool on the table. My coat felt pretty funny apparently teenagers had wiped ketchup on the wax paper burger wrappers and stuck them all over my back and shoulders. These had dried pretty well so I couldn't pull 'em off without a lotta pain and maybe some hair loss. Plus, they had smeared mustard all over my glasses and I couldn't see too well. Like a flash I checked for my wallet: you guessed it, the little bastards had boosted it. The winning game pieces were gone! I felt like I was gonna puke, and lord knows I had the ammo, but luckily I held it down. I sat and caught my breath. There is a right way to get smoothly out of any situation if you think hard enough, and I applied myself.
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I decided that the first thing I needed to do was go to the bathroom and get cleaned up. The men's room was out of order so I knocked on the ladies' room, which was empty. I soaped and scrubbed the sink and made a little warm bath in it, and had just started to clean my glasses off when a lady barged in with some kid. She started screamin' and I bolted, burger wrappers still all stuck to my body. I guess the manager had finally gotten around to calling the police about the passed out, trash-covered bum in his restaurant, because when I ran out I got intercepted by two badges who wrestled me to the floor. Needless to say, they didn't buy my story about getting the winning game pieces stolen offa' me by some kids, and they certainly didn't believe that I played golf with Sergeant Callahan. Pretty soon I was downtown gettin' booked, and a wino with real bad snot runnin' outta his nose was completely staring at me. After about two hours Bill (Sgt. Callahan) walked past the holding tank. By this time I had managed to remove all the wrappers and pat my hair down, and the wino had let me wipe my glasses off on his shirt, so I looked more like a nice guy who'd maybe had too many the night before than an insane high maniac who wore garbage and attacked women in the bathroom at McDonald's. Bill took one look at me and gnashed his teeth. "Those morons," he growled. He unlocked the cell door and I strode out. "I told those clowns," he said, "to call you about the wallet we recovered off some skater punk who got hit by a truck. Looks like they thought you were the driver." He made his old "aaargh!" sound and raised his fists in the air, the same thing he does when he misses one of those two-foot putts of his.
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"Oh," I said, "no trouble, Bill. You're buyin' on Sunday though!" (we were playin' in a foursome with Mayor C and Leo who owns the Caddy dealership, and those guys like to get pretty lit up after a round.) Before you could say Rusty Nail I had the wallet back, game pieces intact! Bill even had an officer drive me back to the pad, and I found five bucks tucked between the seat cushions in the cruiser.
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SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2004
Thanksgiving blessing.
"I tell you, I got nothing but thanks this year. The good Lord has kept my spirits up, my friends healthy (except in a couple instances) and the reaper at bay. The sun shone, the sweet cream rose, and we woke anew each day. Thank you Lord, for this greatest gift, the gift of each new day. Many types do not think how lucky they have it just to open their eyes and take in the air. So on that note, let us enjoy this feast of your bounty, Lord. Amen. Thanks, man. Cool." That was the toast I said at Thanksgiving. I don't usually trot out all the religion because I know lots of guests would get uncomfortable, but I was moved this year. It has been a pretty hard couple years to be an American. We live in constant fear of every building exploding and every bridge being hit by a 747 the moment we are going across it. Plus, earthquakes, E. coli, cross-contaminated chicken-prep surfaces, more than 2.5 drinks per week, secondhand smoke, salmonella, mad cow, limp-leg syndrome, and torqued-up gangster kids with puberty lip. You see how it is. Maybe we read too much news. I doubt French people walk around thinkin' that their chicken coop has two pounds of grey lightning hooked to a trip on the cage door latch, or that some dipshit from Fremont is gonna come over and ice 'em because he listened to too many Eminem mp3s. Anyhow, I meant it, you know? I'm glad we have these holidays. Helps us think of other people. Speakin' of other people, we had a pretty mellow little scene at my place this year. Lyle is in Scotland doin' some research, Pat is on the lam, Cornelius was in the hospital because of Pat, and someone said they thought that Todd might be dead. It was just me, Todor, Roast Beef, Philippe, and A-nu$$$ from the Sexual Homeboys, that band that
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used to be on my label. Apparently he had a falling out with the S.H. That's cool, because I always thought he was the real talent. Glad to have him back in my corner. We had a brined, deep-fried turducken, a regular roasted Willy bird turkey, oyster/sausage dressing, whipped potatoes, sweet potatoes, green goddess salad, a Smithfield ham, puddings, a Cornish game hen bar, bacons, brown and white gravies, prime rib, savory mince pie, sweet mince pie, pumpkin pie, ice creams, a taffy-pulling station, two chopped up pineapples and a chocolate fondue with various dip-ready cookies, candies and fruits. To drink we enjoyed a couple cases of '97 Mayacamas Pinot. Delicate enough to go with any dish. We finished with this port that turned out to be pretty hinge so we set the extra bottles up on the lawn and had a little firing range while we smoked.
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SATURDAY, DECEMBER 04, 2004
I don't usually do this, but...

Damn, you all know I wear my heart on my sleeve. Well, today I was down at Victrolo's for brunch, havin' my special Metallica Cakes (two pancakes, each wrapped around a sausage, and the chef draws a little ketchup electric guitar on each wrap using a squirt bottle), and I finally did it. I asked Zochelle the waitress out. I can't tell you how long I been watchin' her fine rumpus walk past my table...they make them wear these tight black pants at Victrolo's, and these white blouses that you can usually see the bra through...Zochelle got that action goin' on. Girl is to sexy what crime is to jail: the reason. I mad want to bump when I see her. So today I'm sittin' there munchin' on my tasty little Metallica Cakes, and she keeps walkin' by and fillin' peoples' water glasses and coffee and stuff, and I'm havin' my bloody, and I decide to step up to the plate. It was one of those moments where you kind of step off the bungee platform, you know? You think to yourself, I've just got the one life and I sure as hell want to go for broke. So I decided to attempt to get those chumptylicious thighs into my bedroom. She was walkin' past, and I was looking pretty good. I'd done myself up with a slick a.m. getup and was sporting a sick Movado chunky silver bracelet. I held out my hand and intercepted hers. She wasn't really ready for it, you know, kind of jerking it away real fast (I let go, you don't want to seem like a rapist) but then when she got a look at me she stopped and smiled. I put it on the trowel and spread it heavy, fellows. Turned out she was off for a half hour pretty quick, so I wolfed down the Cakes and closed the tab. We met around the corner at Tabla Hawaiiana, this fun
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Hawaiian-Mexican joint that specializes in eye-openers. I got her a Banana Sunrise, and I had a 7&7, and before too long her tight blouse and mad thighs got me cookin' up a banana sunrise of my own, in my pants. We got poverty-style pretty quick and before long she decided to quit her job and come screw at my place. I was all ears for that and ten minutes later we rolled into the crib. She did a sexy little walk as she slid outta her black pants, and then in front of my bed she undid her blouse, button by button, totally staring into my eyes as my banana sunrise rose once again. Damn, but sometimes you run into a liquor nut. Right in the middle of some pretty givin' slippy, she bottomed out and changed her tune from ooh ahh and started railin' about how rich guys like me keep her class down. I got to tell you, this came outta nowhere. I was lovin' this woman like a derrick and all of a sudden she starts showin' teeth. Before you could say Dry Rubbah she had run off to the bathroom and locked herself in there. Once she started retchin' I voided the Lady Privacy rule and unlocked the door with the skeleton key. She was buck nude in the tub and blowin' chunks, so I did the right thing and sat it out, occasionally wiping various things off. I pumped up the little aerobed mattress and set it right by the front door. I figured we didn't want to see nothin' of each other after this, so I put some Odwalla C-Monster and aspirin by the side of the bed. Soon she was all tucked in and she had left by about 7am this morning. I think I'm meeting Todor for golf this afternoon, and maybe gonna go pick out a Christmas tree. I hope the Christmas tree lot doesn't try to force that damn free coffee mug with their name on it on me again this year. That is such a damn ugly mug.
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MONDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2004
Roast Beef, Housemate.

It's kinda fun havin' Beef as a housemate! It's like old knucklehead times, straight back into the days when we skated curbs and tried to learn Axel F on the piano. Doggies get up around 11, shuffle through the delivery menus (he's been gettin' the Oprah lately, which is this mad meatball calzone from Pizza Ciao, but I been deliciously in love with the Hot and Sour Noodle they do down at Seven Flavor Kitchen). We play some pool, crack some brew, and pick a flick for the afternoon (today we watched the whole Fawlty Towers DVD set, so funny). Then we dude out for a couple hours, checkin' email or readin' or swimmin', and decide what to eat for dinner. It is mad simple. Tonight we roasted this big bunch of partridges that we saw Emeril make; it was scrumptious along with his mushroom bread pudding. I opened some Cakebread and the flavors sailed on up. It's kind of like the Odd Couple, you know, except I don't know which of either of them to compare us to. Anyhow...tomorrow we decided to buy remote-control boats at 75 Hobbies, and we're gonna make little jump-ramps outta floating styrofoam wedges.
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THURSDAY, DECEMBER 16, 2004
Holiday-Themed Party!
Damn, the holidays really snuck up on me this year! I been pretty busy (readin' a lot of the magazines that have been pilin' up around my place this is something I do at the end of every year) so I didn't even start plannin' my big holiday party until yesterday. Even still, it's gonna be a real class act! Now, my holiday party isn't a big blowout like what I usually do in the yard on Fridays. It's a classy indoor event, and I only invite about twenty of my closest crew. I don't go so far as to make it black tie, but I do ask that the men wear coat and necktie. Also acceptable is a sport coat with a nice turtleneck, since that is what Pat always wears. He refuses to wear a necktie (which if you ask me is kind of childish since a man looks damn good in a tie) because he says ties are symbols of oppression. Maybe when he sees the rude orange Herms I'm gonna full-Windsor-up tomorrow he'll change his mind, because when I tie that one on I look nothing like oppression. Food-wise, I got all the holiday classics. Big old pepper-crusted prime rib, roasted goose, stuffing, Yorkshire pudding, green bean casserole, cream-corn casserole, figgy-dowdy, and that nasty rock-hard spumoni like you get for dessert at bad Italian joints. I know everybody hates it, but it's my tradition, like how some folks always gotta serve fruitcake. For whettin' the whistle I'm gonna spring a few cases of 1972 Chateau Mouton Rothschild I won at auction last August. Sure, it's a pretty pricey glug, but as the old man used to say, "It don't do anyone no good in the bottle." Word up, Ramses Luther Smuckles, wherever you might be. Peace. Anyhow, before dinner there's this nice string quartet gonna play the classics (Greensleeves, Jingle Bells, Red
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Toad Holler) while everybody dips into the eggnog and Hot Toddies and chats about the year. After dinner we're gonna just stay and mingle for a spell, and then I'll hand out my gifts to everyone in front of the tree. In the past it's been Segways, kitchen remodels, Ski-doos... somethin' nice tailored to each person's interests, you know. This year I'm pretty excited to give Todor this big copper Turbot poaching pan I found at WilliamsSonoma, along with an imported Turbot. Damn, that's an ugly fish. I was lookin' at it earlier. Alright, if I don't see youhappy holidays, all. Nice. -=Ray=-
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WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 2004
Christmas!
Damn! I did the most unusual thing for Christmas, but I felt pretty damn good about it! It was a couple days before the 24th, and I was just plannin' on havin' the regular old time, you know, fuckin' around with the boys and getting dumb on brandy and champagne, opening gifts and stuff, but then on Bravo I saw this show about moms. I was like, Ray, what have you done for your mom lately. I ain't see her much, and I know I should call more often, and dammit, this woman carried me around in her belly and gave me love when all I could give in return was a load in my pants. Ray had to do somethin' for his momma. Next thing I knew, I had booked us into separate suites at Napoli, that swank new J. Vincent J. Lemoni hotel-casino down in the Vegas underground. I met her at the NSTL line just outta town and got us a limo to the hotel. I had the works lined up for her: fancy lunches at Spiedo (even one time at the chef's table in the kitchen so she could meet Vonrieght Auf Den Krightenmueller, her favorite celebrity chef and the owner of Spiedo), massages, an after-hours tour of the Frank Sinatra museum, and the black-tie Christmas dinner at the Algiers followed by the signature Bellini brunch at Bel Forno. Lemoni himself was at the dinner, and we traded some market banter before I noticed mom gettin' bored talking to his wife, so I had to cut it short. Too bad. It'd be nice to get in with a whale like that. I bet that guy plays golf courses that even the CIA doesn't know about. Like, on Mauritius. Oh, and her Christmas present? You guessed it: shopping spree in the Napoli Premier Shopping Concourse. She was so thrilled, but I wish she had picked out more stuff. She is so humble about presents
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for herself. I had to kind of force her into getting every little thing, from a new scarf at Prada to a new pair of sandals at L'Imaggio. She would always be like "Oh but Raymond, it's so expensive." I told her that anytime she mentioned the price of anything, she had to choose something additional from the same store that cost more than or equal to the thing she was looking at, but it's hard to change people's ways. Especially if that person is a mom who is used to commenting on expensiveness. Fortunately, I made mental notes of stuff she acted silently interested in and went back later to have it shipped to her house. I got her this one freestanding green marble globe with gilded latitude and longitude lines that is gonna look mad-dope in her little parlor where she likes to sit. For her present to me, I gave her my credit card and told her to pick something out for me from one of the shops while I had a Whangee Breeze at the Whangee Blenderdrinks, Esq. cart. She was so cute about it. Half an hour later she showed up with this little two-pack of short socks they had on clearance at Foot Time, saying how she always thought I could use more warm socks. I talked her into an Amaretto Whangee and she told me a bunch of stories about dad that I had never heard before. It's cool what your parents will tell you when you get older and they think you can handle the information. It turns out that dad was a pretty slick dude and a real ladykiller, and that he had a motorcycle. Huh. Looking back, I guess that isn't too much of a revelation. She also said that he had a hat. I don't even know what kind of hat. She thinks it might have been brown. Anyhow, I could tell that mom was touched that we spent this special holiday together, and I feel pretty great that it all came together. Guys, if you have a mom who is alive, or even if she's dead, do somethin' nice for her. Ain't no
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other person in the world who done for you like mom has done. Mom lived to make you, and wiped a million different things off you, and acted like it was a big deal when you fell on your knee, and buys you socks so your feet can be warm even if you have sold thirty million albums. Alright, time to plan my New Year's party! Out, chochachos.
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THURSDAY, JANUARY 06, 2005
What is it with eggs?

Man, have you ever really thought about eggs? I have this hunch that eggs are like the explanation of the universe. Not only is the egg the most versatile food in the world, but it is also the vessel of life. You can do anything with an egg, from whip up a tasty souffl to incubate a chicken that will be perfect for roasting. Did you know that some native cultures use egg whites as a base for face paints? I have been doing massive research on Google. My interest in eggs started earlier today when I was makin' some hashbrowns. I wanted to think of what style of egg to have with them: Eggs Benedict (which also has a sauce made out of egg), fried eggs, scrambled eggs...damn! This helped me to realize what a talented little fellow the egg is. Eggs are used in all kinds of baking, in meatloaves, in pasta...it kind of makes you wish that as adults we had to do reports on stuff, because that would mad motivate me to put together a binder on egg information. School's funny that way: just about the time you start to get interested in stuff, you graduate and people stop askin' you questions. Maybe I'll hire a teacher to require me to do stuff.
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FRIDAY, JANUARY 14, 2005
Time to Pah-Tay with Ruh-Ay!

Man, it's been a while since I had a really big do on a Friday night. I think folks are all back from New Years' stuff and ready to drain the brain, so this should be good. Oooh, pappy! I am thrilled to sink my fingers into the Yellow Pages and start workin' my magic in '05. The first thing I need to arrange is the food. I'm pretty down on Asian lately (ate somethin' that disagreed with me earlier in the week) so I'm thinkin' either Tex Mex or Mex. Are there other kinds of food besides Asian and Tex/Mex? Oh, Italian and Indian. Duh. Well, Italian food ain't no good to party on, so I guess Indian. That's cool wait, no. Indian food is always all like really wet stews, and parties need finger food. No wonder people at Indian-culture parties are always sittin' around with some paper plate that is slowly bending in half in the middle, wondering why nobody is dancing. Damn, planning the food without Asian options is harder than I thought it would be. I'll do this part later. Hold on, I have to take some medicine that Doc Andretti gave me to help me sleep. I was havin' kind of bad dreams lately, he thinks it was brought on by the food poisoning I had earlier (the Asian thing I was talkin' about). Ok, popped two down and I have about an hour to plan this party before I fall into some restful-ass sleep. The meds plus this tasty double Ketel Kat should have me snoozin' like a baby. After planning the food comes music. Now, it's kind of cold out so
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My health was bad but now I'm ok! Please Read This. Damn, I went through a spell there. I was pretty bent outta shape from some Korean food poisoning from this damn Korean place we ate at, and I actually had to have my 'tomach pumped. After that my internal systems (digestion, chemistry, hormones) were all outta whack and I was having mad trouble sleeping and even lost a little weight because I had this weird phobia about food. A hamburger was not at all appealing to me, and even a simple soup contained problems, as far as I was concerned. I couldn't even eat clear stuff (Nutritionists classify this level of phobia as type 1-A) so I was in a pretty bad way. The only thing I would take in was Tums chewables, so for about a week there all I got was antacid and calcium. Have you ever taken a perfectly cylindrical pink poo? I did that. Twice. About three inches, each time. Perfect as day. Then I decided it was time for a change. If there's one thing that resembles a phone call from the person who is in charge of the day that you die, it is the nature of your bad stuff. You know what I mean. We got to be honest with ourselves and interpret these "tea leaves" a little smarter, 'cause they're the only "e-mail" that we get from our internal organs, man. Put some stock in that poppycock (true definition - look it up). That's why I'm thinkin' about starting a brochure about diagnosing your own tank 'kank and learning more about what your pancreas, liver, kidneys, septulum, and stomach are doing to contribute to the nature of your taddle. Do you follow me? This may be the most important letter you ever read. Ray Smuckles Achewood Estates January 24, 2005
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FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2005
Man, what was I talkin' about?!

I ain't been around this blog in a long time, and just now I remembered about it. Man, last time I blogged I said I was gonna write a brochure about analyzing poop! I...what the fuck, man? I remember I was in a pretty bad way after some food poisoning, but I barely even remember goin' through the eating disorder stuff. I was probably exaggeratin', anyhow. I was probably eatin' steaks and delicious fries that whole time, and just acting like a wimp for attention. Shame on Ray. So, needless to say, if you were waiting around with five bucks in your hand waiting to buy my upcoming brochure Understanding Poop, you can put that five bucks away, 'cause it ain't happenin. Well, what's new? Had a pretty big wingding lately, and ended up wreckin' the Escalade. That's one thing that kind of blows about drivin' - if you wreck your ride, you just gotta leave it and bail, and the humans tow it away and you can't get it back, or even your CDs. I was miffed 'cause I left my new Sugar Loadzz demo in the car, and they don't have enough money to make another one, so I just have to sign them and hope for the best. I remember thinking that I liked the drums. Also, in other news, it is raining pretty hard, so I'm inside checkin' out the new Escalade ESV Platinum Edition. It's got some pretty nice features the base model doesn't have, like heated exterior door handles for those icy days, and plus it's 1/2" lower than the standard edition, so it presents a smaller aerodynamic profile, and probably gets better gas mileage as a result.
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I got some art supplies!

You know how you kind of have a fond memory from childhood, like about a wheel-eraser or a little stump you used to blend up pencil lines? Like that you probably found in the desk of a teacher or old school principal? I had that feeling the other day when I came across this Pink Pearl eraser on the checkout counter at Heigenmann's Car Audio. I was signin' the receipt for the sound system on the new Platinum Edition Escalade and I saw it there. Instantly I was transported back to a time of simple things, when I could spend all day just scribblin' and figurin' out how to draw a porch or a belly. I immediately went home and ordered a ton of art products on-line. I also went to Purple Gypsy Art Supplies and picked up a few paints and sketchbooks and stuff, since I really couldn't wait to get back into the art game. I was debating between this one oil paint set and this other oil paint set, and just like outta the blue an employee came up and we hit it off real well, we were completely connecting. She had this fun scarf tied around her neck and she was completely like that fun chick in Fisher King, kinda kooky but really intuitive, you know? It was like, I didn't know anything about art supplies, but I had the basic language and mindset so that we made art-concept sense to each other, and it was like there was this chasm between us, but we both wanted the chasm to be smaller! Anyhow, I got her number and we're gonna make bread together on Sunday. I know...bread! Man, that is killer. I was totally unprepared for that. I'm really into this chick. Her name's Scarlet.
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TUESDAY, MARCH 01, 2005
My date with Scarlet.

So, I don't think I told you about my date with Scarlet from Purple Gypsy Art Supplies! Well, now I will. Okay, blog? Okay, good! Anyhow, it was on Sunday, so naturally I called her the day before to confirm and ask if there was anything I could bring. You got to do that, if you ever want to get anywhere on a woman-hosted date. Also, always be exactly seven minutes late. Trust me, fellows. She said everything was on and that she even had some "sourdough starter" ready for our bread-making activity! Well, I knew what else was on. That's right -- I used some of the art supplies I bought at her store and made her a little painting! It wasn't too much to look at, just a little watercolor of an orange sitting on a plate. I had forgotten to paint the background first, so when I did it kind of "bled" into the orange pretty bad, but I figured it would seem "cute" and like she had a lot to teach me. Some women like that. I got there wearin' some pretty fly new Uomo dungarees and this hot cargo shirt like Jeff Probst from Survivor wears, you know, all with this leather necklace that had some kind of little artifact hangin' down in front. Totally Probst, man. I figured she'd have an apron or something I could use to protect the duds. She answered the door and was still kind of scattered. Her hair was completely wet and there were wetness spots all on her shirt, and she didn't have any pants on. Yeah, the shirt was kind of long, but not so long that a pair of pants would have been obscured. She worked in an earring while walking back towards her room and said to make myself at home. Since I knew that she didn't mean to fire up a joint and call in some Waiters On
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Wheels, I set my bottle of '02 Cakebread on the counter and opened it for us. My nerves weren't bad, but I poured us out two glasses anyway and by the time she had finally finished gettin' dressed I had drained mine, so I quickly filled it back up again. She said "Ooh, wine!" in this excited voice and sucked down her glass. That got me kind of pointy, you know, totally interested. Here was a woman who knew how to throw down and have a good time! I did the same and pretty soon we were laughin' about how funny it was that we were makin' bread together. Man, she had this great sense of humor; it was like, everything that I did totally cracked her up and kind of broke the ice between our two completely different worlds. Since I was so happy, I usually laughed at what she said and tried even harder to be comical. When I gave her the painting, she totally cracked up, and that got me goin' too. It turned out that she worked at the art store part time and also had a job doing some bookkeeping for her uncle's apartment complex. I don't know why, but that got me kind of hot. I could picture us sneakin' up into some uninhabited apartment and just goin' real quick and hasty in the middle of some plain brown carpet in a big empty room. I was thinking about that idea when all of a sudden I tuned back in just in time to hear her say that her mom had died last year in a car accident. I filled our glasses and offered a solemn toast "to your mom." She really liked that and we drained our glasses yet again. I think she may have been touched; it was definitely the right move. Before long the Cakebread was gone and all she had in the house was Everclear, which she used for "painting dry pigments onto fondant," which is some kind of way of coloring a hard type of cake frosting. I think maybe like that marzipan stuff. Apparently the high alcohol content in Everclear helps it spread quick and evaporate fast or
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something? Anyhow, we didn't want to drink that stuff straight so we looked for a mixer, but all she had was little Strawberry Kool-Aid packets. Troopin' on, we mixed it all up with some sugar and ice and made a pretty passable punch. She even had this fun ice cube tray where all the cubes looked like little Jesuses, so pretty soon we were drinkin' Strawberry Stigmata (her idea; I laughed) and getting ready to make bread. It turned out she didn't have any aprons, so she loaned me this old women's denim jacket that was about three sizes too small. I didn't want to ruin my new Probst shirt with flour so I took it and put it on. It was so tight that my arms stuck out to the sides and I had a hard time bringin' 'em down, so I just let them stick out that way, and we both laughed. She put one of those silly-straws into my drink so I could take hits. I really liked the way she was taking care of me, I think that is definitely one quality you look for in a lover. Pretty soon she's got the dough mixed up into a lump on the counter and every once in a while I kind of swing a stiff arm over and move my whole upper body so that I can bring my hand down and slap it. We crack up every time I do this, and I take a big sip of SS. I got to tell you, that stuff had me pretty looped pretty fast, and judgin' by how skinny she was, she wasn't going to hold out much longer either. At a breaking point in the bread prep, I approached her as smoothly as I could and leaned in for a kiss. She totally came back with some mad passion. I couldn't put my arms around her and carry her to the couch, so we just stood there makin' out for a little while. It was kind of crazy, like that S&M stuff you hear about. You know? Anyhow, pretty soon she starts walkin' backwards and motioning with her finger for me to follow her to the couch. I'm only too happy to oblige, and my mind is racing about what she has in store for me in my kinky
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condition. She pushes me backwards onto the couch, and it's kind of deep, so I can't get up and do anything while she walks kind of sexily back to the bathroom, working her pants down a little to show me some thong! Then the door closes and she's in there for a while. I'm kind of looking around, taking in the fun ironic modern advertising posters and wine bottle-candlesticks...bored. I'm kind of losing my pointiness, if you know what I mean, and I can't get to my drink. Like a coked-up turtle I finally worked myself off of the couch and onto my knees, and had a hell of a time getting to my feet what with all that Everclear in my gut. When I finally did I went over and swung my hand at the bathroom door to knock. Surprisingly, it opened, and there she was, completely passed out on the floor in front of the toilet. Dead to the world, as they say. At that point I wasn't feelin' too sexxed up anymore, but I didn't want her to be in a bad way, so I managed to lob a plastic bowl and a bottle of water from the kitchen at her, and even pulled a towel down over her exposed legs. I thought I'd look pretty dumb walkin' back to my place like that, so I voice-dialed 321-CABS on my two-way and yelled for a pickup out front. I had the driver undo the jacket, and tipped him a twenty before we even got started. Pretty soon I was on my way home, more than likely never to see old Scarlet again. She's probably alright.
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THURSDAY, MARCH 24, 2005
I am a good gardener!
A lot of people think they know that I am a pretty bad gardener. Well, in the past, they would have been right. Every spring I would get pretty serious about growing my own celery and green beans for bloody marys, but then a couple weeks after I did the planting my little backyard planterbox would look like Night of the Triffids, all with mad weeds taking over everywhere and if I was lucky, a single small green bean hanging off a dead brown vine, kind of dangling like the thing a butterfly comes out of. It was never the kind of thing you would want to put into a bloody mary, at all. Lately though I have been doing pretty well in the garden. The main thing, I think, is to hire a dude to take up all the weeds. I hate pulling weeds. I'm kind of like Monet, you know, just wanting to have everything ready for me so I can concentrate on my vision. Picasso was also much the same way, as was Einstein. For as mean as Einstein was to his wife, they definitely had some awesome situation worked out. Anyhow, I hired a local botanist to weed all my gardenand flower-beds. Usually she's done before I even get up and put on my slippers to walk outside, which is basically fantastic. I ain't got to feel bad that she is doing all kinds of crappy yard work, and I am free with my blank canvas. I think I'm gonna plant a lot of thyme and rosemary, you know, herbs that get on real well with a naked chicken. Lots of herbs. Gonna do a French thing, all with tarragon and lavender. Ray gonna start an herb colony called the Succulent Tongue. Crossin' the line between fragrant garden greens and hot thighs rollin' in thick crunchy duvets under afternoon springtime sun. Ray is gonna get it on with his gardener. Ray is gonna bring the sex act.
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SUNDAY, APRIL 03, 2005
No luck with the gardener lady.

So I was pretty sure I could move the beans with my gardener, who is this cute young chick that comes and handles the basic maintenance of my bloody mary vegetable beds. She's kind of intriguin', in a not-Ray's-typical-date type of way. Sorta mousy and skinny, like vegan-lookin', but with real worn-out overalls and real plain hair and Ben Franklin glasses. I don't know why that turned my motor, but I guess I'm just a sucker for the female in almost any form. She has this special quality of a real nice ass, I should mention. Despite her mad-skinny and no boobies frame, she got some phonky hippo buns jumpin' in the back of those overalls. It is crazy that a chick who is so skinny could have such a luscious-seeming ass. I guess that's one of the main deals in life, though: there is often a good surprise. Anyhow, I managed to get up before she left one day, and I sauntered out with a nice little pitcher of mimosas and a few Atlas flutes on a wooden tray. I was all about quenching her thirst as she finished her shift, and I was decked out in a pretty fly Brooks Brothers spring tennis sweater and slacks. I was an ad, basically, for the high life. Right there by the vegetable beds. If you showed a person me, they would want the high life. So I set it all down on the teak picnic table I had installed by the garden and sat down to light a Nat. Soon she sees me there and I wave and say "Come have a tipple with old Ray!" She stands real quiet for a few seconds, then points at a little jar of sun-tea she's got brewin' on the birdbath. Now, I felt like she might be just feelin' shy, and not want to interact with the master of the house. I assured her it
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was okay to join me, wasn't no photographer watchin' in the bushes. She came over to the table real business-like and asked me what I wanted. I am not usually accustomed to someone doing that. There was a tray of cocktails, and I was decked out, and it was a lovely springtime day, and there was a seat for her. It was like watchin' two Hydrogen molecules not bond with an Oxygen molecule. Rules just wasn't bein' followed, you know? I could tell this was gonna be tricky, so I asked in a real polite voice that she have a seat. Any decent person has a seat when offered, right? Not this dame. She said "No thank you, I think I'll stand," and crossed her arms. What did I ever do to her? Would I act that way down at the dump co-op she lives in with a bunch of gutty old hippies and 19 year-old dudes who throw nails on the highway? You bet your ass not! Ray Smuckles is the cream. He has decency. Since she was standin' there and it seemed like we were about to have a conversation of official sorts, I collected the situation and said that we had no choice but to let her go. She did kind of a vegan snuffle-type thing and turned and walked out. She banged the gate real hard and yelled "capitalist pig!" at me. In my mind, as I sat there with my mimosa in my fresh-pressed sweater, I thought: if I am a pig, they why did you come and do what a pig wants. Why did you do work for me. What does that make you. If you are so principled, then why did you take bucks from a pig in order to make him happier and I suppose more pig-like. Also, I am sad I never got to press my junk between your goddess ass cheeks. As it was, I went inside and fried up an awesome piece of leftover Easter ham and did a pretty fine Eggs
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Benedict with a ton of french fries on the side. My drink? You guessed it! A fine bloody mary. Life is good on my terms...that's the only way to live.
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SATURDAY, APRIL 09, 2005
I am horny.
Man, lately with my crud luck and the rainy weather, I am basically a member of the Klondike Club! I said that phrase earlier to Beef and he didn't have any idea what the Klondike Club was. Basically, the Klondike is like this area of Alaska or somethin' and it was mainly an area without women, mainly bein' explored by extremely grizzled dudes who had no outlet for sex for months or years at a time. That is what I meant by that. Beef said he understood and said something about Jack London and a mink pelt, but I didn't catch most of it 'cause he was mumblin'. You know how he is, all intellectual. So what's a fellow to do? I'm probably one of the few guys who doesn't j/o, and I ain't that into the idea of a plain old alley b/j from a chick who just ate barf on video tape for heroin, so I'm thinkin' maybe a high-class escort is the name of the game. I met this player at Seven Pines who rolled cognac large, usually with a posse and always travellin' to St. Moritz or Bath. You know the type. I hit him up for the lowdown on how to get in touch with a classy escort and cool as day he flicked out a business card and wrote a private phone number on the back with a delicious Mont Blanc fountain pen (yes, diamond on the nib, tha Qnky). Dude gave me a wink and said to use his name when I called. Twenty-four hour service, anywhere, anything. Then he and his dudes smoothed off and got into this sick Bentley, his man at the wheel. I tucked the card into my pocket and privately canceled that afternoon's round. I sent Little Nephew to the arcade with a little roll of Jacksons and poured myself a glass of Mot. I wanted to be primed and in the luxurious mode. I put on my Prada sandals and sprayed some Tom of France.
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Here's how the phone call went: RAY: [dials new Nokia hands-free] [RECIPIENT OF MY CALL]: This is Treasure. What can I call you? RAY: Hey sweet thing, this is Ray. Imaginationn sent me. TREASURE: Aww, that's nice. He's a real good friend of mine. RAY: Maybe you and I could get to be friends? TREASURE: You sound like a real nice man, Ray. I'd like that. RAY: So, is there a hotel where we could see if we are friends? TREASURE: Your choice, player. [giggles] RAY: [EXTREMELY horny at this point] come to my house TREASURE: Ooh! I'd like that. I'll be there in half an hour, Ray. RAY: I'll ice the Mot, Treasure. Wear something black that shows you off a bit. TREASURE: My pleasure, Ray. Byyyyyye. Five minutes later she called back to get my address and that was that. I'm expectin' her any minute now. I got another Mot on ice and a couple jimmies slipped in convenient places around the bedroom (under pillow, under glass of water on nightstand, hidden in sock on
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floor by dressing table, taped to bottom of Aveda soap bar in shower, etc).
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Treasure.
Dang, I nearly forgot to say anything about Treasure, the high class escort I had recommended to me by Imaginationn, that dude at the club. Last week I called her up and we arranged a little rendezvous at my crib, and I was six kinds of ready to mack. I was Clooneying in this crisp new Battori Uomo and my classic Tom of France. I guess I was expectin' kind of a Tina Turner-type black stockings chick. Treasure was this little tiny person who seemed like a teacher who was real anxious to get done and leave. She was already taking quick glances back at her car while I said hello and let her in. Her enthusiasm did not improve. Her car was this kind of bad purple Ford Tempo with minor sun damage to the roof and hood paint. When I suggested we have some Mot and cool it on the King-Size she got real nervous and said she didn't know about that. Now, I am not a stone cold psychologist or anything, but I could tell right away this wasn't the same chick I had talked to on the phone. I took down a few suds and said as much, in a pretty nice way. I slapped her on the shoulder real friendly and said, "admit it!" Since she obviously wasn't a pro she broke "character" and started to cry a little bit while she held her purse real tight against her chest. I handed her my handkerchief and said we could talk. I like when afternoons get weird, and I was ready to roll with this. Apparently Treasure had been double-booked (she was having a bad time with her new scheduling software) and
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so she asked if her cousin, a third grade teacher (!) would turn my particular trick. She (the cousin, my guest) had never done that before, but her class was on a field trip with a different class, and since teachers get paid flat dick, she acquiesced. Turns out she don't drink and she only ever been with this one guy who left to go into the Army and he was coming home in six months and he had proposed to her on AIM during a latrine break. I ain't a homewrecker, so I swilled some more Mot and gave her all kinds of pep talks about life. I said it was great to be a good person and obviously she had what it took because she was even willing to help out her cousin Treasure. We even laughed a little bit about how Treasure might have made some bad decisions in her life. To keep from having to do awkward kisses or hugs or even any contact at all when she left, I carried down the mostly empty Mot bottle and both glasses and also this one couch pillow that I said I had been meaning to wash. I showed her to the front door and said Good Luck In Life and that Treasure didn't need to call me back. She kind of said a small squeaky "Bye!" and walked with her head down toward her car. I closed the door. Through the door I could hear that the Tempo's starter was bad. Her engine didn't turn over for about ten tries, then she gave up. I watched out the window and about a half hour later this AAA truck showed up and gave her a jump, and she drove off. I think her crappy little car even left an oil stain on the flagstones. Oh well, every idea for a good time can't necessarily turn into a good time. As for me, I ain't plan to call Treasure anymore, 'cause that was a wack-ass move to sub the lay out to an untrained amateur, so I guess I got to head down to Napoleon's or the mall and see if I can't bungle up some thonky bootay.
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FRIDAY, APRIL 29, 2005
Gettin' back into the advice game.

So, I had a couple old advice letters that never got answered in 2004 (I'm talking about my once-defunct advice column, Ray's Place, which you can find on the Achewood website). They'd been kickin' around in my inbox for a while just doin' no one any good, so the other night after a little Braveheart and Blue Label I was in kind of a noble mood and decided to take a stab at them. Funny thing is, I really got a kick outta it! Guess I just needed a little time away to help me realize that I really do enjoy tacklin' the messy situations folks get themselves into. Some tips for writing in to Ray's Place: 1. Brevity is best. I got like a five page email from some dude with fifty thousand details and I could not read it. If it's too long for me, then it's definitely too long for someone who doesn't want to help you. Try to write about a paragraph. Don't know what a paragraph is? It is three sentences maximum and none of them involve a self-estimation of your particular level of "skill with the ladies." I'll decide that, Mr. Writes-to-a-Cartoon-Cat. 2. Have a clear problem. This one letter I got was all about a long-distance relationship gone sour, trouble getting baseball tickets, and car trouble based on snowy weather. In the end the guy just thanked me for reading and signed off. No question mark anywhere. What? 3. Don't just copy-and-paste the latest Letters page from Nugget Magazine, Mike from Seattle. Okay, I got a pretty good bag of questions this week and I think I will use some time to answer them soon. But not here. You have to go to Ray's Place for that.
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-=Ray=-
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SUNDAY, MAY 01, 2005
I ain't gonna lie I need to get SCREWED, man!

I ain't need to tell you what this is like. There's nothin' in the oven, there's no bread on sale, there's...aw, this ain't gonna wind up as no kind of good poem. You know what I mean I am stone cold in need of some pushin'! It's been too damn long! I don't know how I let my Needliness go unattended for these many months. How did I do this? What the hell is the matter with me? If I want a meal I make a tasty hamburger or I arrange to have one made. If I want a shirt, either Battori Uomo or Hermes.com can provide. Ray got to take a nap? Ray goes to sleep. I been thinkin' about this, chochachos. It's like a snowball: the longer it rolls, the bigger it gets. In my case, the longer I go without some pushing, the more it's like "why ain't I getting any of that sweet pushing? Is there a problem with me? Maybe I finally got to that age where the women just don't stop by any more! Oh no, man! I'm like George Costanza's dad!" I got to stop the snowball. Maybe I got to lose some of this winter weight. That would put some spring back in my step and pretty soon I'd be sporting a sick new Fila track suit, open at the collar, chunky old piece on my wrist, just a hint of Gucci Rush around my edges. Or maybe I shouldn't lose this winter weight. Maybe I'm meant to carry a few extra pounds! It all comes down to confidence. I seen a heavy dude like James Gandolfini just wielding so much power, I oughta explore that route. Ray likes Ray. Ray likes the good life. Ray likes women who appreciate a man who likes the good life. Marlon Brando was extremely heavy.
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MONDAY, MAY 16, 2005
Did I get a job at Taco Bell? Yes.

Yeah, I got a job at Taco Bell. I applied for the job, and I got the job, and I did the job. If you want to read the story, then you came to the right place. I was puttin' a few back at the Smoke with Todor last week, and it was one of those lazy afternoons that turns into a crazy-amped night. By about three we were into the Jack and Cokes and just all kinds of muckin' it up silly. Pretty soon he dared me to get a job at Taco Bell and I cold took the bait. We walked two blocks to the Taco Bell and I filled out an app. Three minutes later the manager was puttin' some purple uniform shirt in my arms and sayin' mad stuff about bathroom cleansin' schedules. I acted like I took it in and I waited until he was done talking so I could go into the bathroom and put the outfit on. I looked like a complete idiot! It was hilarious, and Todor was gasping as he took pics of me walking around behind the counter and touching different parts of the food-cooking machines. The crazy thing is that none of the five other food-cooking employees acted like I was out of place, and every now and then I would electively squirt a dollop of sour cream out of the caulk gun onto a Taco or Bean Burrito. It kind of got me respect, in a way, to be the guy who controlled the upgrade item and used it at will. After about a half hour the manager figured out that I was just fucking around, and Todor had slipped me a little of his voddy flask, and I was feelin' no pain. The manager tried to corner me by the hot metal tray that keeps the Churros warm, so I pulled my sour cream caulk gun and drew a nice white-outline necktie on him.
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One of the workers, a skinny boy, laughed at this but for the most part it didn't cause any disturbance on the line. We jumped pretty much immediately and walked on back to my place. I guess that I am fired from Taco Bell but perhaps I will get a bonus or a lawsuit settlement when the union does its annual union stuff. Ray.
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TUESDAY, MAY 17, 2005
Poetry from Ray's Collected Stickies.

Yo, so I had some poetry published in the Achewood strip a little while back, and Chris asked that I pony up some more lines since folks was askin' for more outta my collection. I went through all the stickies on my desktop and got some of the better poems. HOW HANGS YOUR DIRT I wear my current dirt to Brubeck; I wear my current dirt to John Alveoli. My dirt goes to the Italian restaurant with me. I have soft white ankle socks; I just sideswiped you and made you think I am a rich girl. I wear my deodorant one wipe at a time I apply it in terrible cheap moments as the water drains through my cast synthetic sink. I am a moderately aggressive man. The raiment of man is dirt, in the guise of wool or cotton We wear things, and we dust for prints, and in the end we are worn. Because in approximately a thousand years whatever molecules I was my electrons they will be redistributed. So no, I am not going to return your email, because I am depressed. Ray Smuckles May, 2005
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THURSDAY, MAY 26, 2005
Ray's Collected Stickies Poetry, No. II.

Dang, this one guy bought my "How Hangs Your Dirt" poem for two hundred and eighty bucks! It kind of tickled my fancy for posting more of my poems, so here goes. This is the second poem I ever posted here, as far as I can remember.
ALL THE HAPPY MEN Here come the happy men up the escalator from the subway. They do not keep floating up when they reach the top, however. They do not/keep floating/at all They disperse wide and to the left and buy a Wertzel's Pretzel with Jalapeo Cheddar or also consider looking at the orbous Mexicana at the jewelry cart where no-one ever goes. There go the happy men They blew through this place The Mexicana has been looked at; The gourmet pretzel sits on wax paper, half-eaten, on top of a trash can near the exit. It looks like a sad greasy mess. The morsel left behind Unloved and unfulfilled in purpose Who will care about the morsel left behind.
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Who? The sad men. ------Ray Smuckles.
So, I wrote that one afternoon when I was down at the mall and it was around five fifteen. All these workaday dudes, from lawyers to bankers to students and clerks, got off the subway and kind of whipped through the joint like a ripple of nature. I people-watched for a while, and when I was on my way out I saw this one five-dollar pretzel half-eaten on top of a trash receptacle. For some reason that wasted food became the emblem of everything that is wrong with America. I ain't a big America-hater, but I do know that we could do a little better about wasting stuff. I felt kind of a pang when I realized that the pretzel was just going to sit in a landfill until diseases and a hyena ate it all up. A pretty sad way to go, if you think about it. Okay, I will probably post more poems later. I've been going through them and I have some stuff that is sort of meaningful to me. Contact me about purchasing these poems.
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SATURDAY, JUNE 11, 2005
Back in the Party Way.

So, doggies, you must have noticed that I ain't been writin' up too many of my friday parties lately. In truth, I been kind of in a different place lately, not really so much into the friday party. This ain't to say a friday party ain't been happenin', but rather to imply that I ain't had much of a hand in planning other than handin' the budget and checkbook over to Todor. I knew I could trust that dude to get the bevv and the dance music on, and also look after the food angle. From looking at his receipts this last quarter, I trust he done alright. In the third week of April he did up some Russian-themed party, complete with catering by some company named Ucszero, which came in pretty steep at $2,325.04. Itemized receipts show expenditures such as cabbage, potatoes, ground beef, sevruga, squab, imported herring...not to mention some seriously unspellable vodkas and beers. They got that Russian alphabet all goin' on, where it's like they took the American alphabet and commissioned a smartass to make fun of our letters. I know the Rooskies can spin a seriously dishonorable transaction, but I'm just gonna go with this one. I heard good stuff about the late-April party and apparently even Spongebath ended up getting a tugjob. I mean, that ain't the best thing about any party, but it is indicative that a dude in a Lark scooter who is in a pretty bad way could work things such that he got tugged. I have a good feeling after I analyze evidence like that.
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I'M throwin' the party this week!

I ain't mind to tell you, I was a little concerned that Todor was gettin' taken for a ride by some of the catering/beverage vendors he was usin' to run my last couple parties! I still manned the books on all that, and this one company alone, "Ucszero," was way outta line in terms of charging the right price for things. Therefore, proven thus, and in all kinds of sincerity, I bestow upon you the fact that I am once again running the Friday Night Party at the Smuckles Residence! That's right. I been away from the game for pretty long, and I guess like the farmers say, ideas been all fallow in my kaboggin. It is High Time this sucker punched the clock again, much like the time Elton John took over six years off yet still came back to work after then and donned dalmatian-fur shades like the way a rejuvenated Rocky would come back into the ring, all bouncing around and cocky. What kind of theme does the hidden master throw down from the yew tree? (this is an Asian reference.) Yeah, of course you have no idea. The master, of course, throws down a concept that you might not at first think is anything to do with a party. In time, though, you will come to see that I was all-knowing in my exact concepts. And that is why I leave you with this teaser, this single thought, as to what tomorrow's party is all about: The Rock Star Died at 27. Nice. Check you later.
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The Rock Star Died at 27!

Dang, I forgot to post about this for like three or two weeks! I am such a knucklehead sometimes, I swear it. Anyways, I took the party-plannin' reins from Todor because I was concerned that a Russian outfit was rippin' him off when it came to catering our parties, and I got deep back into the swing of event cordinating. Since it was my first time back in a while, I threw myself an extra-curvy curveball in terms of a theme, just to make sure I was on my game: "The Rock Star Died at 27." Now, how you gonna party around that sentence? Not many, and indeed perhaps less than one man in ten thousand could get action going around such a concept. First of all, I set up all these big glass cases around the property, in both dark and light areas, which contained completely animated life-sized mannequins of all the main rock legends who died at age 27: Jimi, Janice, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Kurt Cobain, even old seminal bluesman Robert Johnson. Folks could press on a button at the base of each display case and the mannequin would spring into action, saying a little bit about the circumstances of their death. For instance, Kurt Cobain by default was in this indian-legged sitting position with his Fender Mustang, but when you pressed on the button he sheepishly stood up, pulled the hair outta his eyes, and said, "Hello, I'm Kurt Cobain. I blew my head off on April 5th, 1994. Would you like to hear 'Smells Like Teen Spirit,' the hit single that many consider my rock-and-roll masterpiece?" At that point Kurt would freeze and the button would blink to let the folks know to press it to continue. Naturally, there was a guard at each booth, who could unlock it so that you could have your picture taken with the star. This was real popular, except for the Jimi Hendrix one, which was having electrical problems and sparked this one dude
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pretty bad. In addition to that "meet the stars" lineup, I also had the crew build little sets of where each star had died (i.e. the bathtub for Morrison, the swimming pool for Jones, with the appropriate music from each artist) so that guests could live the death out moment for moment. Talk about your conversation starters! "So, what went through your mind when you were lying on the carpet next to the puddle of chewed carrots and sleeping pills?" It's not like folks get a lot of chances to compare such experiences. I noticed a lot of new couples forming in the little areas between the sets, talking real excitedly to each other and just laughing in that way a guy and a girl do when they both realize that they are excited to meet each other and have something to actually talk about. For beverages we had some pretty rock'n'roll stuff: Jack and Cokes, 7&7s, Jack, brew, cheap jug wine with a pinkie ring, even some Ripple (they still make a version of it in Chechnya that Dimitri from the distributorship found for me). Food was a design-your-own-sausage bar, where you went down a line of meats (ground pork, lamb, beef, veal, rabbit, boar, venison, etc) and then added spices, herbs, and fats. At the end of the line a couple of professional butchers would grind your stuff together and shoot it into casings, which a third dude would then throw down on the grill. I was pretty proud of this concept, and although it has nothing to do with rock and roll, it worked really well. The trick is knowing how to prevent bottlenecks (in this case, the two butchers instead of one, and posting basic recipe suggestions along the meat/spice bar). The whole night went pretty well, and had a great carnival-type feel, except for one incident. Round about a quarter of midnight the party was going full steam, with people crowding the dance floor, giddy couples running off to darker corners, dudes inside playing Grand Theft
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Auto blazed outta their minds, and full-on vodka pong over by the hot tub. Healthy lines were still forming in front of the mannequin cases, which pleased me because I had been particularly proud of that innovation. Gradually, though, I noticed that a larger than usual group had formed around the Hendrix case, which was unusual because I thought it had shorted out earlier in the evening. I strolled over to see if one of my technicians had managed to revive it. It was kind of hard to get to the front of things and see what was going on, as a large and noisy crowd had formed in front of the case, but bit by bit I managed to worm my way through and eventually I had a view of the action. It looked like Sothar, this big dude we always been kinda chummy with, had broken his way into the Hendrix case and tried to take the mannequin's guitar. The mannequin was writhing and fighting back, trying to push Sothar off with pretty realistic anger. This was weird, because the mannequins hadn't been programmed with artificial intelligence or anything. If anything, it should have just shut itself off, as per the First Law of Robots. But no, it seemed genuinely pissed at him and when it finally got an edge up, it knocked him to the ground and hit him real hard on the head with its Stratocaster. Sothar went limp like a rag doll and crumpled into a heap. This is when things got kind of weird. The mannequin started lurching left and right and emitting all these howls, like a sort of primitive victory dance, and I noticed that all the lights on the property had started to slowly dim. Pretty soon it was completely black, and the crowd got that hush over it like it wasn't sure whether to watch or run. Then, from outta nowhere, a light inside Jimi's case started to glow and spin in all these psychedelic colors, and he launched into a blistering instrumental version of Purple Haze, so loud that all the muscles in my face kind of involuntarily went
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to one side. The crowd stood rapt at attention, all eyes on the case, caught in Jimi's sonic tractor beam. Purple Haze melded seamlessly into Foxey Lady, which he then whipped with much madness into Fire. After about thirty seconds of riffing on Fire he dug his pick into All Along the Watchtower with such heft and blast that off to the side you could almost visualize a Jumbotron video of The Edge, back at home in Ireland, scampering under his bed in a pair of Robin Underoos. The crowd was transfixed, frozen to the spot. Jimi didn't give a damn about any of that, though he went on ahead and nailed us extra with a Star Spangled Banner so pure and loud that you could hear every coil on his low strings fit to bust. As the tune rose to its highest point he doubled his picking and then quadrupled that, until it seemed like we were all being shot through the head with pure lasers of American sound. Just when we thought there was nothing more that a man (?) could do with a guitar, he tore his shirt open at the chest, smashed his Strat all around until it was in kindling, and screamed, "NO EARTH CAN KILL ME!" At that, the case burst into flames. Folks cleared back a few feet to make a perimeter, and we watched as the rubber flesh melted off the Jimi mannequin to reveal the simple aluminum armature inside. It fell to its knees, then forward against the glass front of the case, then slid down, leaving a trail of polymer slime with a bandanna stuck to part of it. By the time some dudes got to it with a hose, the whole unit was pretty much a heap. Everyone who had been watchin' kind of tried to believe that it had all been part of the show, but I hadn't been privy to any such plannin'. A dude here and there slapped me on the back real falsely, and would say things like "amazing, man," but I knew everyone just wanted to get pretty much away, because everyone knew that a mannequin wasn't supposed to have maliciously maimed Sothar
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(who, incidentally, had been pulled to safety by a couple of guys before the pyrotechnics). The party cleared out pretty fast after that. I like to stroll the grounds after the last guest has left, and I took a careful look at the melted Hendrix case. The extension cord ran from the case, under an insulated runner which took it through a rose bed and a hedge, and then to the stinger, the power hub where the gaffers plugged in all the powered units. Oddly, I noticed that the Hendrix cord wasn't plugged into the stinger. In fact, the prongs had been clipped entirely off. I know it doesn't mean anything, but I went into the kitchen, grabbed a bulb of garlic, and scattered it all around the burned-out case before I went to bed. The next day, the crew came and took the cases away, and in this weird way they didn't take my deposit for the ruined Jimi unit. There wasn't even any mention of it. I just signed on the dotted line, they smiled and shook my hand, and then all was gone. Just to be safe, I'm putting all my Jimi CDs into a drawer in my tool shelf in the garage, where I am unlikely to find them for a while.
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I hurt my foot, man.

Serious times, dogg. Paul down at Hidden Hills was helpin' me with my short game a bit earlier this week, showin' me how to blast outta sand with a little more conviction than I been showin' lately (hint: don't stand anywhere in any direction from me when I'm hittin' outta the sand trap, because you are guaranteed to get smacked by my ball). Anyhow, you know me, I can't resist a little fun in the cart, so when we were headin' back to the clubhouse (we were both pretty lit up from takin' blasts of Caramel Riyadh outta my hip flask) I took the wheel and we tried to see how fast I could drive it between these two big old lava rocks they got just off to the left of the seventeenth green. Turns out you can't drive between the rocks at any speed, 'cause that shit is like a foot and a half too narrow, but whatever. There's the answer to the lava rock/rate of travel question. Anyhow, my foot got stuck in the steering wheel as I was ejectin' through the front of the cart, and it got all twisted to hell. Paul straight up hit the roof pillar and has this huge bloody line up the middle of his face, which serves him right because as a resident pro he should damn well have known that you can't fit a cart between those two rocks. I mean, seriously, what is he doin' there all day? So Doc Andretti's got me in this ginky old cast (I chose the hot pink tape to go with this ill black Fila track suit with pink piping) and says I got to wear it for damn weeks! It ain't crampin' my game too bad though, since I just been mostly watchin' a lot of TiVo this summer and examining the products of a lot of mail-order food retailers. Tonight instead of hangin' down at my party I put Todor in charge of logistics and am holding court up here in my khrybb, you know, my box, and it's low-key
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with cigars and some plush chairs for just a few dudes at a time, a little Santana played real quiet on the Bose. Beef and Todor were up here for a while but they got into this heated discussion about "graphic file formats," (Gif? Ping? You know, jay-peg stuff.) and you could tell they both wanted to "honor" the other guy's opinion, you know like how dorks act, but you could also tell they were not going to change their opinions, so I got damn tired of that and told them to go down and send somebody else up. No one's been up in twenty minutes, and I bet they're both just continuing their dumb argument on the other side of my door, so I am typing on the computer. Alright, maybe this cast is crampin' my style at least somewhat. I mean, I am using a computer while at a party. No one should use a computer while they are at a party unless that computer is a pacemaker which is running their heart.
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Good help is hard to find, chochacho.

Damn. So, as you know, last year Conchita quit on me, and even the chick who was tendin' the vegetable garden ended up gettin' herself fired at the peak of vegetable season. Not to mention Waterbury bein' a famous spy or whatever and then leaving. Between these three, I been havin' a pretty bad run with the help lately. Today was no different. For a couple months I been havin' this kid Darius come clean the pool, and he's been doin' a fine enough job. He gets all the maple leaves out, and disposes of the dead potato bugs in the incinerator like I ask, and even is careful about scrubbing all the grout. The problem? He usually comes around 9am, and I been real weird about wakin' up early lately (I still can't bring myself to get the diabetes test), so I always see him, and he smiles WAY too much. The kid smiles even after he says "good morning!" and gets back into his work. I'll go back inside while he's smilin' at his scrub brush or whatever, and maybe get some fresh shorts outta the dryer, then look slyly out the window and he'll still be smilin' away like a nut. Shit drives me crazy at 9am when all I want in the world is to be left alone with my Bloody Mary and morning calamari. To have a young man constantly smiling at you is no way to live. So, I gave him his notice this morning. He wandered into the yard, and I was standing there with a hardhat and a couple rolled-up scrolls of paper, looking extremely tense. He started to smile and asked me what was goin' on, so I laid it out real simple for him: I said I was tearin' out the pool because historical maps revealed that there used to be a graveyard where my property is, and I was worried about skeletons and the spirit world and such. He smiled real big and said that if I ever needed any
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help around the yard to give him a call, and then he gave me a smile and left. Shit almost destroyed me.
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SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 03, 2005
The world was made for me!

Seems that way sometimes, huh? On Friday I told myself that my Labor Day weekend resolution was to burn at least five jays a day, on account of I been a total old lady in the weed department lately. You ever go through those phases where you practically never burn one for weeks at a time? It's crazy, since the first instant you bite back into that smoke you're like "man why did I ever quit oh ha ha hee hee oh meeee!" [spins in nutty-ass circle on one foot]. Anyhow, I mucked up a c-bag, rolled some tasty tips with my little machine, and laid in like a soldier come Saturday morning. (I did not get high on Friday night because we were doing a vertical tasting of the current Grgich Hills lineup and if I'm stoned, my notes are completely meaningless. I'll write stuff like, "'99 Cab. brilliant! Main flavor, if likened to sun, surrounded by hazy corona of phosphorus and emergent dry straw. V. emergent.") I was feelin' good like you do if you just stick with wine the night before, and around 10am I hove the knuckle, you know. I sparked the first of many mean ones. First order of business was to feel the rush of cool, then look around me and go, "why in hell ain't anybody ordered decent breakfast around here?" It was only seconds before I had the Tiffany all ablaze, Niman sausages on skewers, hella grizzlin' up over the flames. I kicked on the pool house door until Beef answered, and put on my meanest Jamaican landlord voice: ME: Wot you do, mon! It make me crazy you no cook de breakfas' egg! BEEF: Oh uh hey uh oh I got to uh listen man I
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ME: You no gon' cook de breakfas' egg you gon' talk til de donkey he lose he back leg mon?! BEEF: Dogg I got um I got a MOLLY: Beef? What's going on? Is that the guy you called to fix my ten-speed? ME: Whoah, sorry man. I didn't know you were ballin'. BEEF: Jesus man don't be crass I mean I uh we uh ME: Molly! Cook me de breakfas' egg, white woman! MOLLY: Beef? What's going on? Is everything okay? BEEF: I'm not sure yet babe ME: [noticing huge spiderweb in plant by door, with enormous alive spider in the middle] Fuck, dude! Fuck! [jumps back] BEEF: Oh yeah uh that's the spider ME: Well no shit, man! Jesus! Hold on, I'm gonna get my shotgun. BEEF: [slams door] [yells] GET DOWN! ME: [goes into garage to get 12-gauge]
I got distracted on the way to get the gun and wound up spending most of the morning eating the sausages on the living room floor and listening to old Police albums real, real loud. I didn't remember about Beef and the spider until later, so I gave him a call but they weren't around. Oh well. If I've done my math right, and who cares if I didn't, it is once again time to apply the flame to
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the drug that absolves all shame, or however that line goes.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 01, 2005
Some critical news about my ding dong.

Just kidding! Hi, man. Thanks for dropping by old Ray's blog for some news that is definitely not about my ding dong. I mean, unless you want to write in and ask me what's the latest haps with that little sucker. I ain't at all shy about that stuffI think it's ridiculous to act like this one thing that all dudes have is like completely weird and different between each guy and needs to be hidden, both mentally and physically. Who's Wes Craven, again? A guy's ding dong would be, like, if Wes Craven [I think it's Wes Craven] made a movie about a man who had this terrible secret and always wore a lead codpiece and at the end, during the heartbreaking final scene where he is on stage and a famous doctor removes the codpiece to show what made the man so insane all these years, the audience would see his ding dong and go "ah, so that's what it was. A blasted ding dong!" You know? The people could be like turn-of-the-century English. I'm real glad we got silly words like ding dong and ding-a-ling to sort of take the seriousness out of the subject. I mean really, people, why all the fuss? You'd think the little thing could glow and pass laws, everyone's so up in arms about the peter all the time. That actually reminds me of some news about my ding dong. The other day after I got out the pool I noticed a grain of sand on my ding dong, and I tried to scrape it off but the shit wouldn't move. I was immediately all like, "aw crud, a herpe! What did I ever do?!" but then I remembered that herpes are concave and so after a little more examinin' and some time spent pressing my bozack into the Google search field, I discovered it was
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just a little old ingrown hair. Tweeze, tweeze! No more "fool's herpe" for Ray. [dramatically pulls burgundy velvet cape back across self, hiding ding dong] AND THAT...IS ALL FOR THIS WEEK!
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TUESDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2005
Should I do a ding dong update? I got a lot of good mail.

Did folks like my ding dong update? I mean, I got a lot on my plate already what with updatin' Ray's Place all the time and keepin' Prime Time on the rails and all that, but if people were interested in a side project where I regularly said what was new with the ding dong, I might be into that. Will have to wait and see how it plays out. On a more serious note, I would like to take a look at some problems that I have with the United States Constitution. In Article 14, it clearly states that...heh, I really had you goin' there, didn't I!? Today in the shower the ding dong looked pretty normal, and the water ran off it in wonderful ad hoc rivulets. (I been thinkin' of studyin' law, hence the legal terminology.) Had some good corned beef and fries for lunch, on down at the Gate. My Prime Time artist Curmudgeon was in town, and he straight-up loves on some pub food even though he is cOld World Queens. Funny how a dude is, but then again, I dig on sushi despite that in Japan they eat vending machine underwear instead of Starbucks. Or is that too old of a funny reference? Might be. Peace though.
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I guess I'm havin' a bad week!

So, bad week two ways (doesn't that sound like the name of a Chinese dish?!) 1. A woman wrote in to tell me that she hated my ding dong updates, and to stop them! Honestly, why do people think they should tell you what to do? Maybe I should write her back and say, "don't read my ding dong updates, instead!" If you know you're going to get a face full of my swinging, blinging ding dong when you come to my opinions website, then maybe it is YOU who is making the bad decision! My decision to run this website is great (and so is the ding dong! No instances this week!). 2. My Halloween costume got shot down by Beef. Dudes, I spent the better part of eight hundo getting this fancy custom Italian silk Harlequin costume made, and Beef goes and doggs the thing immediately! What kills me is that he was right, I didn't look too cool. I had been up super late lookin' at some old Picassos and I gradually came to see the Harlequin as a beautiful, tragic figure, and before I knew it I was like, "Hey, it's daytime in Italy, I'll call 'em up!" Significativo Doctore, a specialty art/clothing house, FedExed the thing the same day, and it was on my doorstep by the time I woke up later the next afternoon. Anyhow, I got to re-think up some Halloween costume ideas since I ain't going to get it on the waist-line dressed as no clown. I might be James A. Folgers (of Folgers coffee fame - I been into the idea of havin' some muttonchops lately), or just maybe a topless steelworker with a couple Tecates in his toolbelt. I already got most
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of that stuff lyin' around I'd just need the safety helmet, tool belt, and weathered work boots. Oh, and the leather gloves and safety goggles. Pants and Tecate: check! Alright, I better get on down to this shindig of mine and throw my hat into the ring. I been pretty Klondike lately and I got some designs on Boliqua, this bubble-butt Haitian on from down the bar at Rodrigo's that I invited. Daaamn but she got some bubble butt! Peace logo with peace finger-sign flying wings, -=RAY=-
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THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 03, 2005
I got a cold, but I did not get bubble butt. Unfair.

Man, I just got me the nastiest old head cold this fall season. I think it came from usin' the vanilla powder salt-shaker they got on the Starbucks straw/napkin/spices counter. I think a dude sneezed on that, and got his infected snot molecules down in through the holes, into the vanilla powder, where his germs could roam free, thrivin' on simple sugar structures. I ain't never again goin' on into that place and usin' their publicly shared ingredients. My nose is all swole up like the ass of a baboon watchin' his first stag loop, and it itches to all hell besides. Man, SCREW that I got to feel this crappy! My eyes also are itchy. So, what's new with me...I didn't get any play at my Halloween party, mainly because Boliqua didn't show up. There were some skinny chaliquas down from the Stila counter tryin' to mack it up, but I was holdin' out for the bubble butt. When, by 1am, the bubble butt did not arrive, I just laid into the gimlets with my fellows and ended up doing a brief Google search for "bubble butt" before hitting the hay. (I know that I tried to do a Google search for "bubble butt" before turning in because the next morning my browser was still open and it turns out I had typed in "bubble boot," which had resulted in lots of pictures of Popeye's shoe and the shoes of other characters like Popeye).
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Friday party, naturally!

Man, you know how this crazy big world is. At all times, while it spins, there are dudes dotting the surface of it, completely doing the best possible job at their respective tasks. There are always dudes out there who are giving not just 110%, but, at times, 100% factorial (do not challenge me at math concepts, I have Toilet Tim's Big Book of Manageable Math, and I am owning at all ways of thinking about math). Tonight, while planning tomorrow's week-ender bash, I am one of those dudes. Sure, a man is probably sitting in a computer laboratory somewhere in Wisconsin, completely jazzed that he figured out how to create a computer code that automatically reduces the amount of computer code it takes for itself to exist, but my party plans are also humongous. For starters, I have Zen-embraced the basic idea of the party. In the past, I have just made available a lot of things that partygoers like to enjoy, but I have not given any deeper thought as to the complex reasons why they enjoy them. Sure, if you put a drop of blood on a microscope slide and then on Friday evening around eight o'clock you put a drop of Bombay onto that blood, the blood will be observed as having more fun, and listening to Aretha Franklin and The O'Jays, but there is more to it than that. There is also the romance of the animal brain. Stay with me, people. A man goes to a party, sure, he likes that he can put on the booze bag and eat snacks of delicate cheeses and teriyaki drumettes. But WHY does he do that? It's because he wants to find a lady (or, in certain cases, a playful dude). Now, here's where Ray gets a bit outta' town: why does he want to find someone?
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It's life, man. And I don't mean life how like a distraught lady takes over her dead dad's established chimney sweep company and it goes bust because all his old-school customers don't think a female can do that kind of work. I mean life like this basic signal in all our cells that says GO GO ON GO MORE FUN GO I guess that's my way of sayin' that life wants more life. Some old grumpies use the sentence, "misery loves company," but that ain't at all what I mean. I go against that sentence. Life, me, wants to see life, you, havin' some fun. Life wants to share. Sharing is the essence of life. A party is the essence of sharing. Hello. Come to my party. I have a lot of activities where life can seek itself out. I have trampoline Twister, which really blurs the lines between contact that was intended and contact that may only have just been subconsciously wanted. I also have a crepe bar, and a place where you can change into your swimsuit such that only your head and legs show, and in the middle is a 36" plasma TV showing old workout videos from the 1950s. You know what? I forgot Little Susan's. That was my Lazy Susan-themed restaurant where each table... You know what? I'm high. I'm not kidding. This may be the first time I ever broke into a thought to relate my situation, but I am high. I've got like six guys down in the
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living room all completely amped up to watch Braveheart, and it looks like I typed over seven pages about some kind of idea about a great party, but I am high and I just don't care. Sorry if you think this is bad or low to abandon a thought like this. I kind of see it as convenient, and easy. Sure, there will be a party tomorrow, and everyone will have a great time. It only takes me like half an hour to get that stuff together, including twenty minutes where I read magazines on my bed. Oh, man. I really need to get downstairs. What if everybody's mad at me? What if they LEFT? Crap!
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TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2005
Thanksgiving wishes to all my chochachos.

Hey, all. Yeah, this is Ray, here. I got much good wishes for you all this year. I myself got much to be thankful for, including another year of good health, good business, and finally some progress with Boliqua, that bubble butt Haitian on from down Rodrigo's. We had a little chat this weekend and it turns out she told me her favorite local restaurant, which is Celia's, which is a pretty ass-crap kind of a local mini-chain with way too much melted cheese on everything, but I guess that's what powers the bubble butt. So I'm gonna hop on through there during happy hours and see if I can't catch some of that tail. Thank you, Celia's over-portioned cheese. Thank you for the bubble butt. Thank you also to the guy who takes away my trash every week. I know you don't care, but I'm glad you do a nice job of it, and shake the can extra hard to make sure that all the Starbucks cups that are stuck to Taco Bell burrito wrappers that are stuck to the inside of the can, still come out. You are good at your job, man. That is rare these days. Thank you to people who took the time to make old movies. I saw Sunset Boulevard on AMC last weekend, and it was waaay good. It was like an equation. You could see the stuff on the left of the equals sign start to pile up, and then the equals sign happened in this real elegant snap of the fingers, and then the stuff on the right of the equation started to add up. Is that a good way to describe a movie? As a science problem? Probably not. End of thought. Dash this thought to the ground. The option is yours! I am thankful for the conditions that make life possible.
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Thanks to the dude who delivered my pizza tonight. You came fast, and remembered that I like an extra package of hot pepper flakes. You were polite, and seemed like you were a PhD student during the day. I'm guessing Operations Research, by the cuffed corduroy pants. Do you have a list of things you are thankful for? Honestly, you should print one out. It'll surprise you how little time you spend thinking of things like this. Here is a handy template you can copy and paste: 1. _______________________ 2. _______________________ 3. _______________________ 4. _______________________ 5. _______________________
PhunkyListMaker template 2005 Ray Smuckles
Happy Thanksgiving, fat old world!
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MONDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 2005
A Thanksgiving call to mom.

Alright, so I didn't get out to see mom for Thanksgiving again this year, and she'd been leavin' all kinds of messages on my cell about not callin' her back, so I blocked out a good hour of time, fired up some calamari with mustard aioli, and cracked some Mot. Moms should be treated to the finest of phone calls, and if that means that the caller is lavishing calamari and bubbles on himself, then I think that just makes all kinds of sense. Getting a phone call from me when I'm munchin' and sippin' on the crispy brut is like talking to an enlivened spirit from Silk Dimension 9. You get better energy. So, I have a few bites of the hot crunchy squid and throw back a glass, just to fortify myself for the long call ahead, and then I dial her up on the speakerphone. While it rings I trundle over to the bed and get my tray all balanced on a pillow that puts it at a comfortable level. It rings a few times, so I have the chance to put a few pieces in the old boca, which makes me cough a little. She picks up sort of outta breath, and seems kind of not herself: MOM: (real strict) Hello. Hello who is calling please. RAY: ACK HACK KHACKH ACK HACHK MOM: Raymond! Drink a glass of water! RAY: HRRRHKAKH HRKHAKH HRRR-R-R-R-RHR-HR-HR MOM: RAYMOND! RAY: (tries to slug from Mot bottle, which is a mistake,
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as it explodes out of my nostrils and dribbles from my lower eyelids) SQWRF! PFFFFFFFFFFPFFFFPFTTTHTTTH MOM: Raymond, can you hear me? Are you drinking? RAY: No, mom! No drinking here! MOM: Is that Coca Cola, then? You always did drink Coca Cola a bit too fast. It will rot your teeth, Raymond. RAY: It's diet, mom! It's diet! [places hand over phone and vomits tiny piece of calamari that has a huge piece of dried chili pepper flake stuck to it] [slaps chest twice] So how you been! MOM: Are you okay? RAY: Yeah, mom! But how YOU doin'? MOM: I've left you seven messages, Raymond! RAY: Aww, mom! We gon' talk about that or are we gonna talk? MOM: I just don't see why you can't call your mother back. RAY: I am callin' you back! Right now! MOM: Why didn't you return my calls? RAY: I am, right now! MOM: I called you seven times! RAY: And I'm returning those calls! MOM: I don't see why you can't call your mother back.
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RAY: I. AM. ON. THE. PHONE. WITH. YOU. RIGHT. NOW. MOM: I just wish you'd call me back, is all. RAY: Well, maybe I'll call you sometime! MOM: Raymond! Did you just sass me? RAY: No, mom. MOM: Good. RAY: Sorry, mom. MOM: Good boy, Raymond. RAY: Did you have a good Thanksgiving? [seventeen hours of Mom talking] RAY: Uh huh. Well, I guess we all hope that the troops get home safe. MOM: That's right. Now, I have to get back to Circle. RAY: What's Circle? MOM: It's my workout gym. A bunch of ladies my age do a weights-circuit. It's all planned out. RAY: So long as you enjoy it! MOM: I love you, Raymond. Thank you for calling. RAY: I love MOM: [click]
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FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16, 2005
Happy holidays...to everybody! That's right, everybody!

Hey, there! Happy holidays to you! And you there, behind the big leather chair! Happy holidays to you too! Yes, I see you! Ha ha! I saw you peeking around the corner! Happy holidays to Brian Merriwether of 608 Scanlon, in Ardmore, Pennsylvania. I just looked you up at 411.com by guessing that someone had that name. I don't know you, and you don't know me, but that's what Christmas is all about. Good will to fellow man, be he stranger or foe. Happy holidays to the next 500 people who drive past my house. Seriously! Wave if I see you, I'll wave back. Person #501? Happy holidays to you too, but I'll probably have gone back inside. It's nippy around here at 10PM. Happy holidays to anyone who is in a CT Scan machine right now, at this exact moment. I hope it's nothing serious. Happy holidays to the dude at Crispy Wok who totally fucked up my last order of mu-shu. Rinse out the damn wok after makin' nasty-ass fish dishes! I threw that gross mu-shu in the trash. Happy holidays to EVERY Italian. Happy holidays to racists. (This one is tough for me, but I'm a man of my word.) And lastly, happy holidays to you, for readin' this. I want you to pour yourself out a Doublewide With A Foundation, which is kind of like a An Angel Got His
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Wings, except you substitute sweet vermouth for dry vermouth. I LOVE THIS NUTTY OLD PLANET! DO YOU HEEEAR MEEEEEEE PLAAAAAAAAAANET -=RAY=-
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SUNDAY, DECEMBER 25, 2005
Damn fine Christmas news!

Good news, everybody! Not only was Christmas fun, but I got a great update from a dude I been workin' with to publish a new book concept I had! Read on, but only if you hate information that sucks. So, for a while now I been pitchin' this idea to Simon & Schuster and various other publishin'-arena Daddy Warbucks. My dude at Cantnell Osovich Derillio finally bit, and this spring you should be seein' a hilarious yet important new title on the shelves: Brand New Words and the Celebrities That Created Them! As you may know, one of my hobbies is living on the outside edge of the evolution of language. Here's a little excerpt from my foreword:
Dear Reader, Somewhere between an accepted, clearly-defined word, and a total nonsense group of sounds, lies the area in which new language takes hold. Shlemiel. Shlimazel. Chochacho. At one point, none of these words was considered more than nonsense. However, today, they represent powerful concepts that all can agree on. More often than not, a celebrity brings these new word-ideas (WORDES) to the public via their great means of visibility (tv, radio, ads, etc). Their wordes may be mistakes because of a quick confusion of the mind, or they may be intentionally constructed after hours sitting at a writing desk with the OED. Either way, their flowering malaproetry deserves a showcase. This book is that showcase. Note how it is bound in "clearlamb," which is what Tom Sizemore once insisted was the word for the tanned skin of an unborn lamb, as he talked full-tilt with friends outside of an L.A. nightclub.
[...]
You and I are on a journey, and language is both our coach and
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our impossible goal. Speaking the English language is like jumping a sports car through a gap in a quickly-passing train, only to find that on the other side is a table full of girls from the Clinique counter who get quiet and then call you "random." I hope you buy this book. I know I did. Ray Smuckles Achewood Estates, California December, 2005
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TUESDAY, JANUARY 03, 2006
Crazy-ass Raccoons!
Daaaamn! I was just out on the back deck when all of a sudden, beneath the boards, something like sixteen crazy raccoons started havin' little squeaky rape-babies and growlfights! I mean, I don't know exactly what was goin' on, but that was my mental impression. I stood out there with a broom in one hand and a brick in the other and just made all kinds of sure that they didn't get anywhere near my door. After a spell a pretty fat raccoon dude charged off across the yard and up a fence, and the fight sounds stopped, and all that was left was squeaky little baby raccoon chitter. Is it a thing that the man raccoon makes fighting sounds while his little raccoon kids are gettin' born? Because I don't think he was actually fightin' anyone. I think he was just showing what a loud stud he could be. Totally low-class, you know. After a while his wife was all like "Steve would you PLEASE go get some wipes from the gas station! This baby is here NOW!" And Steve was all like "squitter squeek hell yeah I gonna go get some wipes now that I made all my badass sounds." Anyhow, I might flash my Maglite down between the boards over there tomorrow to make sure there ain't no corpses or whatever, in case I actually mis-heard a bad gangfight or weird extreme fetish group all into mortal-ponyboyin' or deathsmothers. Raccoons are real crass, gettin' into just the lowest of stuff, and almost *always* on other people's property.
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THURSDAY, JANUARY 12, 2006
Damn raccoon made a dog bark!

I was out on the back deck havin' a smoke just now when I heard another damn raccoon messin' around beneath me. Needless to say I hadn't bothered stickin' my head down there after the last time, so I never really took care of the problem, although I did try takin' a leak over where they were, to try and do that "markin'" thing. I'd been havin' Amstels, though, and my scent might have been kind of diluted, cause obviously this dude wasn't scared. I guess I wouldn't be too worried about a bunch of digested Amstel Light layin' on the dirt, either. Anyhow, I got kind of mildly pissed and yelled down at the dude. RAY: What the hell, sucker?! You KNOW this ain't your damn house! You know this is MY house! RACCOON: squitter squeek squeek RAY: I KNOW you heard me! Your kind didn't make it this far not bein' able to tell when a dude was pissed! RACCOON: chitteroo! chit chit! squiteeeek-eek-eek! RAY: Yeah, I know you only got dog-type language, but it ain't like you don't hear the tone in this voice! RACCOON: teek-teek-teek! teek teek! RAY: [alternates slapping open palms on chest, like a gorilla] Ray! Ray! Ray! RACCOON: squiteek! chitter-pik! RAY: I...AM...RAY!
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RACCOON: [chewing on something] RAY: I PEE HERE. THIS IS MY LAND. DON'T MESS WITH THE RULES. RACCOON: [silent] RAY: GO AWAY. RACCOON: squitter squeek squeek! [it sounds like he's stepping on tin foil] RAY: Damn raccoons. [goes inside] So, again, not too much progress with the raccoons, but a dog next door started barkin' at him too, and pretty soon the whole dog switchboard lit up, and I wouldn't be surprised if the whole nation was listenin' to the "dog Internet" barking five minutes from now. I bet this could be scientifically tracked, how a single dog bark in like Japan could wind up with a little Corgi barking in Buckingham Palace like six hours later, and the queen slaps him on the nose, and the Corgi is like, "Well, shit, dude. I was just sayin'." Anyhow, kind of complicated thought. Sorry. Totally 90s of me.
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FRIDAY, MARCH 31, 2006
It is a damn fine evening.

Hey, Chochachos. It is maybe not even twice in every five years a man has a feeling like this. All our spent dudes who came out to congratulate us on the Great Outdoor Fight finally wobbled they' asses home, some like T havin' actually slept less than us, and all kinds of a mess. Me and Beef stayed at the low-key festivities 'til the end, both knowin' we kind of had to wrap up and rap on it before we hit the hay. Once Lyle had done his thing with the cops, and old Cornelius made fishin' plans with somebody, we sat real calm at that boss Smith & Hawken teak I got by the pool and lit up a few quiet ones. He took off his busted-up woodshop goggles and set them on the table. It was cold Epilogue. Thing was, we neither could say the big-ass things you got to say at times like this. Ain't no eloquent-assed Ralph Fiennes gonna be playin' my part as I go, "dogg, that was a stone fuck." And ain't no war-weary Laurence Fishburne gonna be pullin' off some dusty goggles as he replies, "I ain't pooped in five days. Excuse a man." But the thing is, we stuck out and dapped and he walked kind of shaky to the pool house, which is unusual 'cause he is always so steady, and I made my way upstairs for a real hot and thorough shower. Old dust flowed down the drain in long dark streams, and I the hell felt much rejuvenated. That kind of rejuvenated where you immediately want to fall into crisp white sheets, though. I just wanted to tap this down before the moment escapes me. Tomorrow I fully expect a well-rested us will hold court a little more fully. For now, no man in the world has earned his bedtime like I have, and I am going to SLEEP.
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TUESDAY, APRIL 25, 2006
I can't decide if I like helicopters or not.

So, a little while back I mentioned this dude Imaginationn, a cognac roller with a posse who I often see down at Hidden Hills. We're kinda familiar, I'll comment on the new bespoke options for the Maserati Quattroporte, he'll clip us a couple Cohibas, you know the style. Anyhow, last weekend I'm down at the clubhouse tryin' to find which pocket of my bag I put my keys in (truth be told, I was pretty smoked up on the Jamaican tumbleweed, so it's a good thing I didn't find 'em), when I notice that a certain area of the parking lot is cordoned off and a few security dudes are at the perimeters. The cords weren't around my car, so I knew they hadn't seen me burning that bowl off the 15th and eating that sneaked-in salami sandwich, which made me feel like celebrating with some Chateauneuf-du-Pape at the clubhouse while my memory cleared. So there I am, havin' not only gone in for the wine but also nibbling on some juicy porterhouse with merchant potatoes, when the whole place starts to get this subtle rattle. Like when you're ridin' in a car that gets a flat, and you think a helicopter is above you? Only this time, it really was a huey. I went outside to see what foreign dignitary or oil executive might have been touchin' down in my back yard, and slipped a couple of my slick new "name-only" business cards in my pocket (you know, the kind where you hand-write a personal, private number on the card based on the recipient). By the time I get out there, a little crowd has formed around the landed huey and who is gettin' out of the pilot's seat but Imaginationn. Damn. That is a hell of classy move. We're talkin' next-level, here. Any chud with a couple hundred bucks can pull up in a rented Rolls, but landin' your own chopper? Stone-cold
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unquestionable. Oh, and before you ask: his logo, two roses making love to a clock, is on the tail. (It's kind of hard to describe. There's no penetration, or motion lines, but the idea comes across real clear.) Right away, I know how to play it. It's his first time landin' his bird here, and he's gonna be high on the rush. I get back into the clubhouse dining room before he can see me. Before long he wanders in by his lonesome, and I glance up from my magazine and steak. "That your bird I heard outside?" I ask. "Mm-hmmm," he replies. "Real smooth. Lovin' it. Best investment I ever made." "Maybe we take it out later and you help me look for my drive on thirteen," I say, smooth as day. (The tee shot on the 13th hole is along this huge ravine, and what with my hook lately, I been sendin' a lotta balls down that way, and a lot of people are familiar with my problem, which is becoming something of a local phenomenon.) "You got it," he says, flyin' his classic handset hand jive sign. He walks off to the bar and orders a neat Herradura and some chicken goujons. Dude's style is live. I never would have thought to pair those two, but I immediately realize that the lime-chipotle relish the club serves with the crispy golden goujons matches perfectly with the tequila. Every movement of his is a statement of proof that the dude has polish seven layers deep. The dude has lacquer. Since I'm the only other dude in the dining room he comes and sits opposite me at the table. No "may I," just an understanding between gentlemen that to have sat at any other table would have been a social abomination. Pretty soon he's offerin' to take me up in his ride and we go. He talks the talk and gets me a date at the
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dealership in Tempe. I'm jazzed. But now that I'm home, I'm...I'm of two minds about it. I won't kid you. One the one hand, helicopters are fabulous. They are like the pedestrians of the plane world, all able to land anywhere, at any small resort or rooftop party. The helicopter is basically your ticket to any gig in the world, 'cause who is gonna turn away the guy that shows up in a half-mil piece of equipment. Everyone wants to know that man. On the other hand, if a helicopter's engine goes out, you don't just float there like Mickey Mouse, all unaware that he's just walked off a cliff. A helicopter does not glide to a delicate stop. You are stone cold tuna-can meat, perhaps on fire for several minutes after crashing, your lips and ears doing that Raiders of the Lost Arc covenant-opening thing. So, at this point, I really want to consider the copter, but for some reason I have developed this itchy phobia about them. I'm not really a phobia person, but it's like a gear in my head is sticking. Normally I'd just have the thing delivered, but something is telling me, "stay away." I don't know. I need to think about this. I shouldn't just buy a helicopter because Imaginationn got one. A helicopter is serious.
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WEDNESDAY, MAY 17, 2006
My favorite personal sports

Alright, so I ain't gonna lie. I stone cold do not enjoy jogging, or distance swimming, or marathons, or most of the other main ways of keeping in shape. They are amazingly boring, to the point where someone should write a coffee table book that examines why the main popular exercises make you want to bury your feet in cement and hop off a pier. What we need in this day and age are some sports that are fun, where you don't even notice the time passing. I give you: 1. Badminton. Everyone, but everyone, can play badminton. It is like tennis, but the birdie is way less crazy and doesn't bounce all over the place if you miss it. You can almost always get to it before it lands. And the court is smaller than tennis, so you won't turn into a big grouchy jerk with spine problems, like Ivan Lendl, who is way rough on his kids. 2. Tomato Tennis Alright, so you're reading my blog, and you're like, "what is Tomato Tennis? Is that a thing from Letterman?" No, man! It's my fun sport that I invented. The idea is that you stand almost thirty feet away from your friend, and they have their mouth open, and you try to throw ripe tomatoes in. Ripe tomatoes are extremely soft, and cannot cause injury at any distance. If you get a tomato in, you have scored a Tomato Tennis Point. Three points wins the match. 3. Kites You may laugh, but a kite can be a real calorie burner. You ever get one of those suckers up into the air and then just follow it for a few hours, like a sky-dog? I'm not mainly a dude who will say to ingest LSD, but a healthy
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serving of THC will serve as a great gateway to deciding to see how a kite acts over a period of several hours. I'd write more, but I want to go downstairs and eat some fresh gourmet hot dogs that I bought today. I got these specific rolls to go with them, they are just so right.
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THURSDAY, MAY 25, 2006
I got to quit settin' myself up for a disaster.

Alright, so I was down at T.G.I. Friday's, and that ain't normally a hang for me, but I was needin' some fried artichoke hearts in a bad way, and ain't nothin' better to go with some artichoke hearts and ranch dip than some sweet-ass rum and Cokes. Yeah that drink totally cuts through the lingering fry taste, and hella cleanses up the palate for the next bite. Scientists call it symbiosis. It was around eleven-thirty, and it was pretty much all families and kid birthday parties in there, but I had a little booth to myself in the back corner and was able to read my USA Today in peace. The hearts showed up, with my rum and Coke, and I was poised. I had my fork in my hand. I hit the hearts, still sizzlin', with a dash of salt and squeezed a little lemon into the ranch. I flattened out an article about some kid in Ohio who's the national sit-up champ, so I could read it with no hands. I sunk the fork into the tender, crispy heart, wiggled it just so perfectly in the sauce, and raised it to my mouth. Some damn guy was standing there drawing my picture! He had on this Uncle Sam top hat, and a checkered tailcoat, and a big goofy necktie that was like eleven inches wide. I told him to cut it out, didn't he see it wasn't my birthday and that I wasn't five, and that I had a rum and Coke, but then he spun some bummer rap on me. He looked over his shoulder to see that the manager wasn't around, then said all these sad things about needing to raise money to finish art school and he had no rent money and even some stuff about his mom recently having passed. Just to get Whiney Dan outta my face I stuck a ten-spot in his coat pocket (still sewn shut, of course, so I had to just drop it onto his clipboard) and awkwardly ate my hearts in silence as he finished the portrait. Man, I had to strangle every damn bite down
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my throat, what with this kid obviously starin' at my face, knowing that he had just bared his (possibly fake) soul to me and I was sitting there eating a salty little treat and having a cocktail. It was real uncomfortable I don't even think I tasted the food. When he was done he handed me the sketch, which was actually pretty decent although he made my nose way too big and said that he worked for tips. That kind of pissed me off so I pointed out that the ten-spot had been his tip, and he just walked away. Just walked away. Jesus, kid, you're gonna get exactly nowhere bein' a cock to people who just gave you ten dollars to draw them with a nose the size of a baseball. I already had bad memories of the drawing, so I looked around at all that knicknack crap they got on the walls at TGI Friday's, and found a framed picture of Annie Oakley that seemed about the right size. I tore it outta the wall (no small feat considering all the screws they use to hold their stuff down), inserted my picture, then worked it back into its original mounting place. I stuck the picture of Annie Oakley (cut outta some elementary school history book, can you believe it?!) to the gum on the bottom of the table, dropped some cash, and dodged. Don't you hate it when something as simple as a lame guy ruins something for you? Man, I bet that guy didn't even work there. I bet he has a thing where he tells the manager he was hired by one of the eighty-five birthday parties goin' on. Not like a manager at T.G.I. Friday's cares about anything other than going home, doing crank and watching The Terminator DVD on 4X speed, mind you, but still. Anyhow, the upshot is that I'm gonna get a recipe about making fried artichoke hearts at home, and I already know how to make rum and Cokes, and I'm gonna hire Todor to draw my caricature while singing O sole mio.
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He may want to use Adobe Illustrator on his laptop, which is fine with me, so long as he's singin'.
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WEDNESDAY, JUNE 28, 2006
I owe the world a damn favor.

Alright, I can't even be bothered to look up when the last time was that I wrote about my regular Friday night party. Truth be told, I missed a few. I been damn busy lately, and ain't always brought any game come the weekend. Not anymore. Not this week. It is Wednesday, and I am going to put ALL of my emotions and reasoning into this bash. I may explode an actual bomb I don't know. But you can see the scale I'm thinkin' on. First off, I'm gonna call the event ENORMOUS BY RAY SMUCKLES. That will be the name of the party. There will be no small beverages. Everyone will be handed an unlabelled magnum-size bottle of whatever they order at the bar, even if it's gin and tonic (the bottle will have a shoulder strap, made out of a modified guitar strap, like a bota bag). This should get everyone enormously honked up and making bold claims by 9pm. The food will be enormous: I've got this special Japanese dude who is making "six-meter noodles," one long continuous udon in hot-ass broth. And instead of deep-fried shrimp, we gonna do deep-fried lobster tails, which curl up like shrimp, only crazy-large, and with an aioli dipping sauce. Did you say that you want Eggs Benedict? Well, ours is made with a poached ostrich egg, served on top of a ham steak the size of an LP, over a special English muffin flown in from Brazil. It's served with three pints of Hollandaise. I recommend it for groups of 20-30. "Yeah, yeah, so your food and beverage is enormous, but what else? What else can you really do that is big?" Well, read on, sucka. You know how most parties have an entertainment
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portion? And how it would be, like, "enormous" to have U2 or the Rolling Stones? Well, that's all fine and good, but it ain't enormous enough for me. No, I think a little larger. I had some of my guys at Pixar Beyond Demand (a renegade project group in-house at Pixar) figure out how we could have a massive 3D hologram of unlikely duets by famous singers who never met. We gonna have Jim Morrison coverin' "The Humpty Dance" with Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. We gonna have Sting dressed as a human-size keyboard, and he hits the keys that run up and down his body, which play the notes of his own voice, and he performs Little Richard's "Tutti Frutti" in the classic hambone body-slappin' style. Some of his slappin' gets insanely fast. Oh, and for a closer we gonna have a hologram of George Michael gettin' arrested in a public bathroom, but not for what you'd expect. Let's just say it involves Marvin Gaye and some sweet, sweet sangin'. You'll just have to attend. I'd write more but I am much into designing the outfit that I'm gonna wear. It ain't my regular Fila track suit, shower shoes, and precious metal accents. I got to go all-out this time. I may travel through the party, strapped to a gurney pushed by six hot-ass vixens, a Cristal IV plugged into my arm. Strapped down like I was crazy, you know, and I just might be, mainlinin' champagne through a very real and very dangerous direct-tobloodstream IV. I got to fly it like that, I got to flap it like that. For something to be truly ENORMOUS, something massive has to be on the line. In this instance, it's my own brain. I may hit you up with a review next week, but I may not, you know?
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What in the damn hell is going on around here?

Yeah, so last I posted, I was hosting ENORMOUS BY RAY SMUCKLES on Friday. Huge layout for food and bev, incredible entertainment, the works. I even planned it a few days before usual, so people could clear their calendars. Not a damn single person showed up. I had the roaming searchlights in the sky, the text messagin', the phone tree, the email service announcements, the works. Everybody with a heartbeat and one functioning iris knew about this party. The bartender stood there, chewin' on his nails. The udon guy, Fukuya, got pissed as batch after batch of his six-meter noodles got overcooked and mushy. He cussed real often and threw the ruined food directly onto the ground out in front of his little stand. And yeah, you guessed it, we basically tossed about two grand worth of deep-fried lobster tails. I had figured that people would be millin' and chillin' large without my presence, so I didn't have the vixens wheel me in on my gurney until about 11. Imagine my confusion as they pushed me around the empty grounds, the Cristal IV fully patched into my arm. At first I thought I was just hallucinatin' from the booze, but then I realized that the vixens were kind of acting weird, and I could tell they were not down with pushing a rich guy around his empty party on a gurney. I will be honest with you: I felt WAY awkward. Long story short, we threw away much food later that night, and I got like no idea where everybody was. Not even my bros showed, my tight crew like Beef and T. Can you believe I actually spent some time around 2am
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trying to use Google to see why my party sucked? Weird, doggs. I'm feelin' weird about all this. What in the hell?
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I'm just bloggin', you know?

Man, I am doin' this right. I got a mimosa all fresh by my side, some chubby Marvin Gaye on the speakers, and even a little snack bowl of peanuts and cashews. My fingers are just flutterin' over the keys as I type this. The window's open, and a cool breeze is helpin' me relax on this stone cold mellowed day. I am bloggin' in real-time; I wish you could read this word for word as I write it, my pacing is so smooth and even. Daaamn, I wonder what idea I will come up with to blog about? Oh, crap. That's right. Leo from the Caddy dealership just died. Man, I keep meanin' to set aside proper time to mourn the dude, but I been real busy lately. It's like, I know I got to mourn my boy Leo, and I better do it before services on Sunday, 'cause I got to give a real proper eulogy and people are gonna be able to tell if I ain't mourned yet. If I don't, my speech will be filled with cliches and lame jokes about the "big Beach Boys reunion tour in the sky, Leo all in his white shorts and favorite red Hawaii-print shirt, double-fisting Herradura margaritas." You don't say something like that if you have class. No, I got to dig down deep and wonder about the thin line between bein' alive and bein' a dead body. Anyhow, let me blog about somethin' else. Did you know that I haven't seen the Simpsons in over two years? It's like, I like that show, and I always enjoy it, but for some reason it stopped bein' a part of my routine. I wonder what replaced it? What if...what if it was bloggin'? Is that what I do with my spare time now? I been doin' this blog for over two years...damn, that's it! I'm gonna cut out this damn blog entry right now and go watch Simpsons. I hope it's that one where somebody tries to steal that janitor dude's grease and he gets all wigged out.
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Leo's service.
Alright, so like I said, I finally had the chance to mourn the dude. I ain't need to talk about it; you ain't interested. Long and short of it is that I finally got a proper eulogy together, and I gave it on Sunday, down there on the #1 fairway, with all Leo's dudes in attendance, plus some guys from the handicap trials, and his mom, Dolores (Doris? Sorry). Here is the text of my eulogy. It was hard. Man, it is a stone fuck to put a cadaver into the future with your words. I didn't like any part of it. LEO FONTANETTE A EULOGY BY RAY SMUCKLES --Leo's family came from Italy, in 1971. He was one. Their name was Fontanettini then, on the papers. Yes, his family was Italian. One imagines large dinners and the huge faces of friends, of the old country. Garlic bread. Fresh salami from the butcher. Grandma sneaks you another piece while she is cooking her famous Salami e Bruschetta. Leo was a lot of fun, and he knew how much he wanted to eat, always. I mean, I ain't gonna count calories, but the dude played it bad sometimes. Damn. Okay, I want to say some fun times I had with Leo. Fun times we had. There was that time in Vegas, with the modified automatic rifles at the outdoor shooting range. For a dude who swore by American cars, I have never seen a man blow so many holes in his rented PT Cruiser. I mean, he actually got inside and shot the
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interior of the car, then popped the hood and shot the engine bay at least fifty times. We weren't even supposed to take the rifles off the range, but as he walked outta the stalls he just threw his wallet on the ground and said, "Charge me. Like I give a shit." That was classic Leo. The dude was sure about things. I didn't edit that. In Leo's memory we have a message: love life while we have it. Do what you want. I wish every child across this land had Leo's bold approach; maybe then we would already be done in Iraq. But enough of that. Temper your approach to life with a sensibility about calories. Calories are the reason that my friend Leo isn't with us today. Damn you, Leo. Damn you for makin' me wait 'til I get to see you again. Thank you, everyone.
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Don't huff!
Damn, I just was downtown pickin' up these new pillows for my media center couch (the old ones were completely squashed and stank like a nightclub), and I saw these two "huffers." You know two dudes who live kind of in a bad mis-planned alley behind a gas station, like one that backs up against a creek, and cops can never drive back there and scare them away. They sit back there all day spraying spray paint into paper bags and then huffing the fumes, and all their teeth are gone, and they have "crazy-look" eyes, with that smile like a Hanna-Barbera dog who has *just* been smashed on the head with a shovel. I don't know how these dudes get by, but they seem to operate in pairs, like a couple of old modems that are constantly shooting streams of either exclamation points or question marks at each other, and somehow they find a balance. Well, you know me, curious old Ray. I am always fascinated by the real gone ones, the souls who looked in the gutter and said, "let's do this." Maybe you remember my old story about drinkin' with Punch Man. Anyhow, I picked up a half-rack of Molson from the gas station, and plonked on down with the Huffs. They ain't violent types, I didn't have to worry. The main huffer, who I'll call Jol, pushed his hand playfully around the base of my shoe as I sat there sipping on my Molson and trying to offer him one. He was like a chimp, playfully exploring my personal space. It was as though he had shaved about five million years off his mental evolution. His support huffer, who I'll call Pfiggin, in kind of an elf-sense, watched us both for signs of change (for example, when I would offer Jol a Molson, Pfiggin would notice, and then he would look at me).
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Jol never really got that he was supposed to take the Molson, which confused Pfiggin, who got upset and stayed silent. Jol got tired of my shoe after a few minutes and real rudely stood up, only he didn't really do it right, so he staggered to the left for about twenty feet. I wrote off the Molson and rolled. It was sad, man. Two guys long gone on solvents. Ain't no comin' back, ain't no helpin'. Man, this is like doubly depressin' after all that crap with Leo, to see actual *livin'* dead. What is goin' on here? Why am I so tormented? This crap is, like, German.
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SATURDAY, AUGUST 26, 2006
My friend made a sex magazine! Read it!

Man, I am pretty happy for Roast Beef today. Dude is makin' big strides in the publishing world, good first steps. Dude just released the second copy of his 'zine! Here's some backstory on how my crazy computer programmin' friend actually has a first love of printin' sass by the pound. First, in early days, he was always makin' small booklets of our times, like maybe just a page folded over and a fake cover with a title like "CRUDDY CHRONICLES" that had a decent drawing of him sticking his hand about halfway into a rain gutter spout and making a shocked expression. After that he did THE PRIVATE EYE in high school, and that actually got a lotta people talkin'. He would break stories the main school paper wouldn't carry, like about how the social studies teacher jacked off. He always had a flair for that stuff. Then for a while he just sent pretty funny emails to everyone, like for years, and you could tell he still liked to tap-and-sass. Me and the fellows would even talk sometimes, when he wasn't around, about his funny lines or the certain way he had used an uncommon but normal word, like "scrounge." He would use a word like this against a backdrop of incredibly simple language, kind of like the word was a lovely red hat or screaming blue policeman in the center of a pure white gymnasium. You could tell the dude liked to type and trot out words like they were unexpected steaks in a communist building. Anyhow. Now he's got his 'zine thing goin' strong and I am proud of the dude. I don't agree with the scope of his vision,
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but I can certainly appreciate a player poundin' it out even when nobody cares. Dude keeps it real, and doesn't risk much money. Dude plays it tight. That's my boy. My boy is Roast Beef, and he has so much sense he can barely get outta bed each day.
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Butter, where have you been all my life?

No, I ain't met some sex club worker named Butter, though you could believe that. I'm talkin' 'bout fat little old mister butterspread him on toast, melt him on noodles, drizzle him the hell on popcorn. You know what I'm on at, and you afraid to listen, ain't you! You see, what with the health craze of the last couple decades, butter totally got shoved aside while people pretended to eat baked potato chips and olive oil. Don't get me wrongolive oil has its place. That place is at the store, while you are buying butter. Remember how for a while people were sayin' you shouldn't eat eggs? And now they say you should constantly eat eggs or you'll die? Yeah, it's like that. You should eat what makes you happy (except fatties, who should the hell take a damn walk), and let the health press duke it out on the newsstands, which you don't patronize, 'cause newspapers and magazines have to say bad and scary stuff about everything or they'll get bought out by Reader's Digest Large Type Edition. Anyhow. Man, I been thrillin' in the kitchen with butter. And I ain't took it too hard on the waistline, either. It's like, the whiny newspapers and celebrity diet books have us all in constant confusion about food, but once in a while you get that 2001: A Space Odyssey moment, like the ape with the bone who beats the ass of an ape who had no bone, and you go...BUTTER! BUUUUTTTTTERRRRRR! I'm picturin' this: I'm an Amazonian tribesman, all in some loincloth with a snake necklace, and I'm runnin' through the jungle with this fresh grilled whole snapper in my hand. I stumble into a clearing, and rising up into the sky before me is a ten-foot tall stick of butter, the size of
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a fridge. I drag the sizzling-hot fish across the butter, then devour one side of it. As the melted butter and fish juices run down my face, I fall to my knees and scream to the heavens: "BUUUUTTTTTERRR!" You know, that sounds like a good opening to a movie. The rest of the movie could be in the present day, about this guy who believes in butter but keeps getting doors slammed in his face. At the end of the movie, he lowers his vegan nemesis into melted butter, then laughs as the hours pass and the fat sets and the vegan's body is slowly crushed.
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I forgot everything I knew about computers!

Yo, peppers! I finally did it! A little while back, I learned a ton about computers. I'm talkin' from parity bits to the delicious seven layers of a TCP/IP stack. I even was gonna meet with a guy who taught introductory compilin', a secretive master from the old school, flew by the handle of 01100001-A. I was a super-fly "houndy-ass root boy," totally setting the permissions for all kinds of stuffeven starting to pwn on some users who had gotten out of hand on my IRC. (And getting results, I might add.) One day I was buggin' on some l00p3r who'd been spazzin' out about god knows what, and I kind of had an awakening. I was like, "Hey! I ain't need no guff from some fools in this improvised fake-scape! What the?! I got to get into my yard and bust a fat jay and grill a pork medallion so tender it trembles when a butterfly flaps its wings in Japan!" (a chaos chop). I realized what a waste of time my "virtual" life was, when I saw that I was getting all my pleasure from changing "permissions" on a typing line. I could see the appeal of computer worlds, for sure. I'd got in that far. You just learn a few words and ideas, and all of a sudden you're, like, fast-tracked to a corner office where a kid named @kr0n_12 wants to repeat everything you say to everyone he knows (three guys from the WHATS-YOUR-WPM boards). Hard to ignore that kind of easy ass-jockeying. Shame on old Ray for fallin' into another easy vice. Anyhow, I been workin' with a hypnotherapist, and we got me to the point where I no longer desire punchin' in and batch-glockin' a bunch of eight-character goons with some vengeful kill -9 action. You get me down in front of
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a command line terminal, the hell I want a ham sandwich and a stroll 'round the pool. I find the whole concept distasteful, but I do not condescend. My guy is good, he has finesse. He keeps me gracious even in the face of my ghosts. Have a good weekend, everyone! It's great to be free of computers again. I may hit the links, or drive a thousand miles in a direction, or try to buy one of those golden ducks with the hanged neck like they got in Chinatown. Either way, you can bet that I will not be aware if Internet avatars of Super Mario and Rivet Soldier Masobungyi are mad at each other over "religion" in the General Discussion channel. -=RAY=-
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TUESDAY, DECEMBER 05, 2006
smallest party ever

Yo, so I'm still, in a way, gettin' over the failure of the ENORMOUS BY RAY SMUCKLES party that I threw in July. I swung so big and took nothin' but air?! Yeah, it messed a dude up. For a while I was havin' actual issues, settin' up parties that I knew were less than I was capable of. One time, a single fondue bar for three hundred people. Another, a pony keg of Mickey's and Doritos as the only food. Beer lines snaking around the property like a new ride at a goddamned non-Disney amusement park, and crap for them at the end. I was ashamed, I was low, and I did not mingle much. It was a dark time, and I think every dude has those. Every dude I care to talk to, anyway. Yeah, that's right old Ray been takin' himself through the wringer these days. But I think I worked it out last Friday night. Yeah, I threw no bash on Friday. Not for anyone else, anyway. Gates locked, put out a few calls, had Mayor C plant a few utility crews around the sidewalks of my place to look like electrical or sewer was goin' on. I was in my room, a little puffed, tryin' somethin' new. Yeah, I threw the smallest party ever. Absolutely the smallest. SMALL-N-TINY BY RAY SMUCKLES (original type was 3pt Times). I had some of those small dancing stick-figure pixel animations open in different browser windows on my monitor (no stick figure more than eight pixels tall), and I was at my desk with earbuds in (smallest way of listening to music). I had dialed in a band I found that played only one piano note every five seconds. Some college thing. So little music. So little to listen to. For food I put a cashew, a Goldfish cracker, and a Frito on a small white coaster. To drink, I had that thimble from Monopoly and I used an eyedropper to squeeze in
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Ketel One from a little airplane bottle. My one decoration was a single chili-pepper light, powered off my USB. I did not move from my chair for the duration of the party, although at certain points I would quietly let out a little "woo-hoo" or "uh huh" under my breath. The party lasted exactly one minute, which is the shortest measurable time a party can be said to last. In that stripped-down space I gained a huge new perspective on just how little it takes to have a good time. I ain't even get to the Frito or cracker, because I was cold focused on how nice the cashew tasted, all by his lonesome, with just one single piano note fadin' away in my ear. It was so...Japanese Nihongo. Minimalist. It sounds lame when I say it, but that cashew was really nice to eat, sitting at my desk with the tiny computer pictures and drop of Ketel. So I got some ideas for my next party, which will be real, real subtle, but not so subtle that it surprises you. Even the way you get told about it will be subtle. I may hire a street team to personally tail each invitee for a day or two, discover like a urinal or park bench they always use, and then, like, write "Party at Ray's, 12/15" in the grout, or Sharpie it on a scrap of paper taped to the bench. Then, when they show up, this one older Asian man each of them will have seen walk by immediately after they saw the note will greet them warmly by first and last name. Yeah, keepin' with the Asian theme. Nice. The staff will all wear white, and little islands of flowers and candles will float in the pool. Ooh, this is just too good. This is like The Game good. I am SO not giving any more away on my blog right now.
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WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 31, 2007
I am proud of that little man.

You know what? I am proud of Little Nephew. He got himself a job drivin' pizzas around (for delivery), and he has been making a good little income from it. Most importantly, though, is that he's been at it for a couple months now, and has never even gone in late, let alone missed a day of work. That's the kind of values that our grandparents used to have. Sometimes it's good when a kid goes retro in a way that doesn't involve wearing your old clothes in order to look hilarious to his friends. He's down at Colonel Luigi's, this fusion pizza place that's actually pretty all right. Couple times a year I golf with Luigi Wong (he's half Italian and half Chinese) down at the club, and he's got a real smart operation going. Clean, books are good, and damn but if it don't run like a clock. Guess that's the Chinese half. Anyhow, his pies are killer. You can order a half pepperoni and mushroom, half "ginger bee" (his ginger bees are little fried popcorn chicken in a garlic/ginger sauce) and green onion, or just a straight up fusion pie, like hot sausage and spicy kimchee (you would think this is terrible, but it's not). He even has this "crust two ways" deal, where half the pie is a regular pizza, like bell pepper and ham, and after cooking they fuse a half made outta that steamed pork bun rice dough to it. On the fusion half they got that sweet and sour pork bun filling, and they sprinkle over some sesame seeds and chives. Damn but if that ain't some tender, delicate, springy pizza. I got to talk to him about franchisin'. Anyhow, I just wanted to say that I am proud of Little Nephew. I rarely get the chance, you know, what with him always snappin' pictures of his crotch for MySpace, or lyin' about drinkin' from the Chivas I use to clean the rims on the Escalade. It's like, if I see him doin' somethin'
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actually good, I got to jump in there immediately before he starts drunkenly snappin' pics of his crotch while loggin' on to MySpace. Feel a man's pain, America. Feel a man's pain, the world. This is the situation. -=RAY=-
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I had a rad-ass day, m'buches!

Hey, you dig how I did that little African thing there, callin' you all "m'buches"? Yeah, that's a thing I been feelin' like sayin' lately. "M'buches." Rhymes with smooches, but is still just a tiny bit hard. Don't worry, you're all still my chochacho(a)s. So, why was today rad? Well, I been on a lessons kick lately. Like, I'll want to learn how to do something, and I'll stone cold ring up a private teacher and they'll come over and teach me. It's really that easy. Here's who came over today ALONE! Like I tell you, I been packin' lessons into nearly every daytime hour lately, so don't act like I'm not telling the truth. 1) Muffin lesson. Thought it made sense to start the morning off with a muffin lesson, since people always nibblin' on muffins in the morning. I asked the guy if we could work some bacon and cheese cubes into our muffins, and pretty soon we had a rockin' breakfast muffin. I made us some doubles from the Jura and we chatted about how hard it is to quit smokin' (out of politeness, I didn't have a cig until after he rolled). 2) Dumpling lesson. You know how good dim sum is, right? Well, so do I. A couple days ago I called up this guy Wayne Shoy and slotted him in for 11am-noon. We did up some rude soup dumplings, and some pork buns, and even some real tender beggars-purse type action. He was hella fun and we even grilled up some dogs before he left. 3) Calzone lesson. Ain't nothin' worse than a homemade calzone by some lousy friend who thinks they can cook just cause they bought a pizza stone. I had the guys
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from Pizza Bel Forno come on down and give me a real thorough demo of everything from makin' the dough to bakin' the show. As we were samplin' the finished product I could tell they wanted some Sambucas, so that was chill. They finally pulled out around four, which was cool because my evening tamale lesson guy needed the driveway space to set up his steamer cart. Anyhow, I'm totally blissed on education, you know. At my age, it's pretty good to think that I still got a whole lifetime of lessons ahead of me. I ain't so arrogant as to think that I already know it all. That is the main problem that a person can have.
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TUESDAY, MARCH 06, 2007
NOTHIN'!
Man, today was TOTALLY unimportant! I just did COMPLETELY regular stuff. Here, let me lay it out for you -- it's so boring, it's almost hilarious: 1) Got up. Didn't want to, but sometimes a player just has to roll with the punches. Tried to be humorous about it, all makin' a pile of shavin' cream and then throwin' Tylenols into it. Kind of made a mess. 2) Had to throw away my new talkin' pedometer durin' a round of golf at Seven Pines. Just as I was drawin' up into my backswing, the thing busted out with all this calorie analysis chitchat, and Mayor C sprayed me with his Coors. Honestly, this was my bad. 3) Saw a dude farmer-snottin' behind the bank. You know, pushin' one nostril shut while blowin' the payload outta the other one? Anyhow, I saw that. That's about it. Hope you had a good day, or are havin' a good day, or whatever (I know some people in Australia read this). -=Ray=-
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MONDAY, MARCH 19, 2007
That chump.
Yeah, Bacon of the Month Club, whatever. It's like Onstad just discovered the post office. That amateur. I'm sorry, I ain't all about hatin'. It's nice to see the guy spread his wings a bit. I say this with a tummy fulla' echidna banh mi, of course. Had my boy Vi Hao air drop 'em out by the bridge; I was coolin' it in the Caddy, watchin' for his long-short-long tailsmoke. Player even threw in some salt dung-cured Shetland short ribs. Love that guy. I know he takes a loss on those, what with all the trimming, so the gesture was super-large. Gesture was krackety. Dude has pride in those ribs. All dungy. So tasty. Good luck with your bacon, Onstad. Good luck mattering, that is. Bacon ain't exactly news in recent centuries. Whoops, there I go again. Why I so crotchety? Oh yeah, it's 'cause Onstad's frontin'. Dude has some new bacon the way a kid joins the cub scouts: just weird circumstances, no real passion.
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SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 2007
I went to a museum, doggs!

At first, it didn't seem like I was gonna go to a museum today. I got up at like 5am so dehydrated that my eyelids took literally three seconds to open or close (the eyelid pulled slowly across the gummy eyeball like a slug), then I went down to the kitchen and guzzled at least a pint of ice cold Pellegrino. Man, never do that. I nearly fell over as all of my blood dropped like fifty degrees and my organs started lookin' around on medical websites to see if they could find someone who would take better care of them. I swear, I think I almost bit the dust. After that I played it cool in bed for about six hours, just on-and-off sleepin' and tryin' to mentally plan my Saturday brunch feast. The usual calamari and bloody, of course (fish is mad-good for the brain), but maybe English chip-cut fries this time, along with my Eggs B. Nice, right? Little newspaper goin' on, some French jazz on the Bose...heaven. I got up, zipped into my dope new Fila coveralls (they even got slipper feet sewn in), and padded on down to the kitchen. I cooked that action up BY MYSELF, HELLLOOOO FOOD NETWORK, and, on a whim, picked up this cheese-ass local paper that I never read. While flippin' around in all the ads about sleep dentistry, Pink Floyd-enhanced LASIK, and eight dollar halibut specials at 3pm, I found this little "local interest" article about a general store from the 1850s that had been preserved in its original state and turned into a museum. It hit me, you know? I was like, I had this sense of if I went there, I would get an idea of how similar folks always been. They wouldn't have iPods, or even disco roller-sluts headin' south on ten kinds of Marky-Mark, but they'd have their own kind of fun. Pretty soon I was in the Escalade, and I even used my XM satellite to tune in the 1850s channel
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(Millard Fillmore, reprahZZZent!) First up, the building was in this hilly, pretty dense area with a ton of ancient oak trees, and not a lot of folks were around. It seemed very 1850s, except for this one, like, two story Lexus LX (ugliest SUV on the market, all) with a Vuitton-sportin' mom wrestlin' a half dozen brats into various types of kiddie seats. Already, just in the presence of this old structure, I thought of how it would have been in the day, some pioneer mom named like Clarabelle shovin' twenty-six kids into their two story CUS (Catholic-Utility Stagecoach) and lashin' wooden crates of groceries onto the roof. I stepped up onto the walkway that skirted the building, and it creaked in this mad-dusty Clint Eastwood kind of way. It was large, and I felt like I was there to shoot whoever was running the museum. Amazing how powerful squeaking wood can be. Eventually I found the front door (back then, front doors of shops were just like regular house doors, so to the modern eye they seem like you should not just open them at random), and it squeaked as I walked inside. That ancient smell of varnish and dusty wood filled my nose as I walked across the squeaking floorboards to the nearest display, which was a tray of old extracted teeth that the town dentist-grocer had removed for a dollar each. Not even a glass case over them! Very cool. I looked around the empty place to see who was in charge, and there was this young dude with like a real forced smile on his face, a real tight squint, standing behind some kind of counter. I smiled at him, his own tight smile intensified, and he nodded like a half-millimeter. Real strange energy from that dude. I looked at a display of old lumberjack saws (again - just mounted bare on the wall, not even any ropes keepin' you out of arms' reach), and some ancient pictures of handlebar mustache dudes cutting down a tree twenty
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feet wide. I could feel the guy squinting from the other side of the room, so I went into another room, floorboards squeaking like crazy, where there were all these ancient bottles of whisky and local wine on open display, not even behind a glass shield. There, I thought. Even before the transcontinental railroad, when San Francisco was just a few muddy streets thirty miles north, you could buy at least ten varieties of booze in this small room in the middle of nowhere, a spot that was on the way to nowhere. History, you're just like me. I perused a set of framed ledgers, but I could still feel the dude squinting, and kind of squeaking in place on a noisy floorboard. It was starting to get on my nerves, so I briefly looked at a display of historical pants, slipped a fiver into the old wooden barrel that said "donations," and squeaked my way across the threshold. I looked back and said "thanks" to the dude, and he just shot me the most intensely squinty-eyed smile I have ever seen. Really confusing. Why would anyone hire a guy like that? A museum should be a mellow place. I walked around the building, since there were more outdoor displays, and real delicately the dude came out a side door and kind of wince-walked a few steps before noticin' me. When he saw me he pretended to check the axle of this old ox wagon that probably hadn't moved in a hundred years, and then carefully let himself back inside. It hit me. The dude, workin' alone, had been in there for hours with all those bratty kids and dangerous displays, and hadn't taken a leak since god knows when. Every second I had been in there had been agony for him. There was only one right thing to do. I squeaked my way back up the front walkway, squeaked the front door open, and stood in front of his
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counter, arms crossed. "I've been thinking," I said. "I want you to tell me everything there is to know about this building. We can go room by room, piece by piece." This broke him. His squinty grin melted into a pleading, begging face, one he couldn't control. "First," I said, "let's start with the pisser." I smiled, and let myself out again. He got me, and as I was headin' to the Escalade I saw him walkin'with his knees essentially togetherto a modern outbuilding. I'll imitate it for you sometime if I ever see you at a Friday party. As I was drivin' away I saw that his car, the only other one in the lot, was a pretty bad ten year-old fake Pontiac sports sedan, all havin' some stickers about the government holding a bake sale to buy a bomber, so I slipped another fiver under his windshield wiper. I wronged the dudedidn't read the signsand even though I was kind of interested in the museum, basic protocol always comes first. Any Smuckles will tell you that.
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FRIDAY, MAY 25, 2007
I had to put the push on the guy

Man, you know how Roast Beef is. Dude has talent ten ways from Tuesday, plus he cleans up real good since he walks all the time. He's got old-wired manners in all areas and that World War-style ethic where he just does not quit until he has got it right. Main Sentence: my boy Roast Beef needs to get with his long-abidin' girl Molly. You know me, I kruck down money on escorts and chicks and basically play it single. It's my groove, and nobody bugs. I'm flappin' it that way for now. Sure, I may want the Thanksgiving table and beamin' pearl-earring wife sooner or later probably later but to each at his own pace, dig? It's different with Beef. Dude never had a Place to be from, never had a swell situation. He hella wants to nest, you can tell, but since he is who he is he can't allow himself the right. Problematic. Some types need pushin'. It ain't a Discovery Channel thing where you ain't supposed to interfere with the animals and watch as they starve to death we all wound up in each others' lives for some reason. I guess the dude's got me around at least a little 'cause he likes that I'll give him a push here and there when he needs it. Ain't nobody no dummy when it comes to their root selves, be honest. New Paragraph Anyhow, I think it's happenin' this time. Molly is stone sick for the dude...alright, maybe not the best way to say it. Molly ain't goin' nowhere, she is gone on him. Beef ain't one to play the market, and he's lucky the right thing landed in his bag on the first try. It's a match. Mega-bitter ancient Chinese dudes on blankets, all lookin' at Zodiac charts and stuff, they'd probably grin at this one. Just some time now. Ain't like people half their age in worse
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situations ain't been makin' it happen since before time began. Dude, just put the symbolic ring on. The real ring went on basically when you met. See you all at the ceremony/party. Should be big. I'm gonna insist he does it at my place I got mad plans for the catering and traffic flow. Gonna be the best Friday ever!
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Goin' to Australia.
I'm thinkin' bout goin' to Australia for a spell. Maybe a month or so. Strap on some rude external-frame pack from REI, some hella cush tennies, and a bedroll. I been watchin' all this Aussie TV on YouTube and I got to tell you, Australian people put the damn mack on. The dudes are all like the friendliest jocks you ever met, totally slapping your back the first moment they meet you, and if they've had enough lager, they'll moon you until you both god damn pass out on the floor. In the morning you'll both wake up with a bad head on, and they'll crack you a lager and go, "Aagh, crikey! After you, mate." The chicks? Man, they are harder than any American chick, even a switchblade chicaloca from raw angles. First of all, any Australian chick would shoot a goat in the side with a rifle. That's number one. I don't mean they'd do it out of spite; hell no. I mean they'd do it to kill the goat in a real quick way, just hitting the heart, and before you knew it they'd have that bad boy strung up and bleedin' for Sunday dinner. Ask some raw angles chicaloca to blow a goat away, you'll see what I mean. You can't put question marks on the table, chica. They're tough down there they all intern on farms and ranches, I think, instead of military duty (Australia has no military that I've heard of who's going to invade them, Princess Cruise Lines?). But not only are the chicks super-hard, they get up to even more good fun than the dudes. And I mean DUDE fun, not some Steel Magnolias french-braid-a-thon. All chicks there play paintball, even the quiet ones (and there ain't many of those), and they all will arm-wrestle you. Sit next to some real-estate lookin' middle-aged lady at a cafe table, plant your elbow, and you're on.
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She'll beat you with a beer in her hand. A cold Foster's. Then she'll get back to her nioise salad and cell phone call. Yeah, I'm goin' to Australia. They got this resistance swimmin' pool at the club I'ma get a surfboard and go see how well I can cut water. Build up the old triceps and delts. Been a while.
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Gettin' ready to go to Australia.

I tell you, man, I am seven kinds of beamed over my upcomin' trip to Australia. I got me some thick-ass cotton rugby shirts, you know, with the wide horizontal stripin', and Thaddeus is even teasin' my short hair out so it's a little tousled, like an Australian dude's. Got me a puka shell necklace and some chunky-punk Blundstone "Blunnie" boots, like all true Aussies wear. Hell, I ain't be surprised if people pull up alongside me on the road and ask for directions! DRIVER: Say, mate, 's the Berra Borra petrol 'round this way? We're just out from Adelaide on a driveabout! ME: Heh! I'm from America! DRIVER: [cracks a lager, hands it out the window] Crikey! After you, mate! The important thing to remember about Australia, though, is that it is some tough-as-nails country. It's, like, where all the nasty stuff from evolution went to go and live in a trailer with a shotgun. They got ants that are literally on fire, like a pilot light, all the time, and they got a kind of shark that actually says runes when it jumps out of the water. They got a type of bush there that will rustle all night when you're sleeping near it and drive you nuts. (You're not near it? It's silent. They've done tests.) Oh, and did I mention the spider that can mimic the tones of you keying your PIN number into a telephone keypad? Okay, so I made that up, but in Australia, that would be the LEAST treacherous animal. One nice thing about Australia is all the solid music they contributed to the scene in the '80s. (Before that, their radio was mostly news about light aircraft failure.) You
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can joke me for playin' outside 'a my hip-hop comfort zone, but Aussies claim much coin on Midnight Oil, INXS, AC/DC, all that proper pop/rock stuff. They even turned out Men at Work! You definitely know "I Come From a Land Down Under" they play that song at inaugurations, when the bride walks down the aisle, when they lower the casket, just any old chance they get. It's a catchy tune, I can see why. Hope they didn't waste too much money on some national anthem, all locked up in the basement of some library somewhere. Whoah, I just YouTubed the Australian national anthem! No wonder they use Men at Work instead. Hello, winner of the high school project. Your dad came, he's in the car queue outside. Damn. Maybe I can talk them into some new anthem action. I see they were actually considerin' "Waltzing Matilda" instead of this jerked-up Muzak thing. Jesus, if a drinkin' song is your anthem then you're a Parrothead, not a nation. I may bring a little lagerproof keyboard to demo some ideas to them.
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Australian Culture Lessons #1

Like I've said before, the main problem a person can have (other than bone marrow disease) is thinking they know it all. Sure, I've painted a pretty clear general picture of Australia, what with my rugby shirts and mentions of slightly unkempt, devilishly wavy hair; with dudes always crackin' lagers the size of tennis ball canisters; with girls who punch horses in the side of the head when they don't behave. That's just the basics of what Americans know about this great country, though, so I hired on this Australian guy, Roger Barnaby, to teach me the real nuances of the place. I want to enter the country with grace and graciousness, all. That's the only way a player should *ever* act as a guest. Here's how my first call with Roger went: --ROGER: [answers phone] Crikey, there's a big 'un! ME: I...Hey man! This is Ray Smuckles! I emailed you? From the thing? ROGER: Roight, roight! RAH'-dja BAAH'-nuby hea'! [Hard to represent his accent, and i won't keep doing it, but it was cool.] Listen mate, I've got a pod 'a meal wasps settin' up shop in me kitchen alcove, can I ring you right back? ME: It would be better if we just went on speakerphone. That way I could see how a real Australian handles a pod of meal wasps. Start the lesson early, you know! ROGER: Bloody good idea. Awright, I'll set me handset down, and you can listen while I work these bastards
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into a right paste. COME 'ERE, YOU LOT! ME: Awesome. Just do what you gotta do. It's all gold to me, man. ROGER: [handset clanks on table] Aye, this main bloke here's the size of a lager, he is. I've got me knife through one 'a 'is wings, and he's mad as a cut snake, I tell you. I'll be gone a minute, got to fetch me shotgun. You'll keep an eye on 'im, will you? ME: I'm on the phone, man. ROGER: Right, right. You don't hear back from me in five, call the Koolaburra Station antidote unit, will you? ME: Definitely, man. I'm Googling it right now. ROGER: [boots clomp off, huge buzzing sounds in the room] ME: [gets distracted, starts looking at a website about women] ROGER: [BLAM!] ME: Oooh! Ooh! You get him? The big guy? ROGER: Nahhh, I were just blowin' a wallaby off me mailbox. ME: You blew away a wallaby? They're hella cute, dude! ROGER: Bastard were munchin' on me mail, he was. ME: Well, I guess that's acceptable. He'd probably die from magazine cologne samples anyway. So what's up with the wasps?
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ROGER: They're right cranky, now. But I've got old Bonnie Busket full 'a rock salt and that'll be the end of it. ME: You shoot them with salt? ROGER: It's easier on the wallpaper. Me wife loves the stuff, hates when she's got to paste a new patch up. I can go two, three infestations and it's still fit for Christmas. ME: Dang. Alright, I'll wait while you take care of business. ROGER: Good on you, mate. [BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM BLAM BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM! CRASH! POOSH! BLAM! BZZZRRRR! SPLAT! SPLOT! SPLOOT! STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP *STOOMP!*] ME: Dang, dude! You get 'em all? ROGER: Aw, blast it. I've put a hole in the damned wedding photo. ME: Just put new glass on the front of it and smooth the paper out with your finger, man. ROGER: Naw, it's worse than that. Her 'ole 'ead's blowed off. Stands out like a shag on a rock. ME: That's tough, man. I ain't even think Photoshop can fix that one. ROGER: Eh, what can you do. Got time for a lager? ME: Yeah, I picked up a couple before the call. [Cracks a lager] ROGER: [Sound of a lager cracking]
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ME: So, how's the economy down there? ROGER: Bloody good, mate. Exports steady as ever. Life's beautiful. ME: What's for dinner tonight? ROGER: It's six in the bloody morning, I dunno. Steak, likely. It's Friday here. ME: Wow, it's only Tuesday here. ROGER: Big planet, innit, mate.
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SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 02, 2007
On the plane to Australia!

I'm writin' this to you on the plane to Australia! We left the gate at San Francisco around four hours ago, and we're just about taxiin' for takeoff, so I am all kinds of jazzed. I'm six gin and tonics deep, people! They say the flight will be somethin' like three days, so I'm gettin' all set up for a nice long nap, maybe a couple hangovers, and possibly a birthday or a discreet fling. There's no tellin' when you're flyin' to the land down under. Wow, we're takin' off! That's gotta be a first for United. Oops. Bad news. The plane got to the runway but the pilots noticed they didn't have readings from their "Hackmer-Preda valve monitors," so it's back to the hangar. Gin and tonic, please! Whoah, I just had a thought about Australians. Their reputation is that in, like, the eighteenth century, England sent all their "criminals" to live in Australia, and that's who Australians are based on now. Crooks. That's a rough one. I have a theory, though. You know how Australians are all about a big fat-ass crazy time, always havin' fun and crackin' twelve-inch lagers and just shootin' a gun at a big dirt hill? England exported all of its fun people! Stay with me, here. That's right - the Church of England was hella powerful at the time, and they wanted everyone to be quiet and sit down and read that poem about roses. Future Australians were havin' none of it! They were like, "Awright, mate, if I 'ave to keep me arse planted through one more go of that poem about the bleedin' red rose, I'm gonna nick that copper's 'elmet and catch me the next dinghy t' perdition. This England 'ere's a right dud geezer."
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Just like that, just like the Pied Piper, Australians got themselves taken outta' England and put where the sun does shine and you know what? Australians have never produced a single poem. It's a point of national pride. England's loss? You bet. English people are sitting around eating cold trout dishes in a room where every single surface has a different flower print on it, and Australians are barbecuing whole lambs over the fossilized bones of a fifteen hundred pound paleolithic ant. The keg? An ice silo of lager. Back in the motherland, England is runnin' outta poems, and their pasty youth are dyin' of Jamie Oliver School Dinners starvation. (That information was on TV.) Alright, Australia, here I come. I'm divin' in. I'm stoked. I got a book about drivin' with the steerin' wheel on the wrong side, and a computer keyboard that has that special key that prints out ", mate." When this 747 lands, I'm gonna open my arms during the whole descent! That's how much I'm already lovin' you, Australia. We gonna cuddle-scrum 'til the night is cashed. Uh oh...the hangar ain't got no replacement Hackmer-Preda valve monitor cable. I may be writin' to you from this plane for another twelve hours, they say! That's...they gonna need to get more gin from SkyMeal or whatever that white truck with the lift is.
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TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 2007
What the hell, brochitches?

Dudes, my boy Roast Beef has got to get action-style on a wedding plan, 'cause he stone cold blew this year's weddin' season. I know it takes time to plan and all, but if that cat had lucubrated (yeah, I'm still subscribin' to Martin Song's Word-a-la-Daaay site) a little more they could of at LEAST done some quick thing out on the beach. Waves and sand ain't so dear as pews and a band, my old man once said. What else is new...I'm hella rockin' some tennis elbow lately. I been workin' on it with Przepoc down at the club. He thinks I been servin' way too hard, and variatin' between too many serve techniques. He's sayin' all this stuff about how my serve was never properly molded in its early stages, and he may be right. I been servin' hard and loose since the first few years of my gameI'm talkin' kid ageswhen I had my own ideas about how to wallop a mofo. Toss, wait, hop, twist, and SLAM. Or...toss, slam, wait, and jump. Sometimes: SLAM, wait, think, and pivot. Ray Smuckles could bring the heat, three times out of ten. And that's just enough to keep you alive...until your body gives. It's a hard lesson, but it can and will happen. Look at me. My wild technique finally caught up with my elbow. With my damn arm. Proof enough: don't wale unless you can assail. (Don't use that line - I may need it for an album. I call on that shit.) Other than that...gettin' damn good at cookin' eggs. I kind of made it a priority this summer. On just a basic day I'll get the griddle nice and warm and rock some sunny-side up under a get this pan lid! You put like a spoonful of water under the lid with some cookin' eggs and voila, they steam so that the top cooks real nice as well. People even been commenting. Hell of makes me
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happy. I ain't even know why. Whoah, almost forgot Beef was comin' over to watch some Sopranos with me. That is a stone chill we ain't get to often enough now that he's tucked in with Molly. Got to run - we havin' spaghetti and meatballs from Spiedore's and I got a phone to find.
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Finally Airborne!
Daaaamn, people! We actually airborne and on the way to bad old Australia! United Airlines, Im gonna write a letter when I get back. This level of service is high-steppin, and I am hella plussed. I got two plus signs for eyes. Heres how the flights gone so far: DAY ONE Took off from San Francisco International Airport. At altitude I started cruisin around the passenger area, meetin people. Since its such a long flight, folks loosen up, break out the guitars and straw-bottle chianti and stuff. Turns out Im sittin next to one of the main chicks in Australia (a model? cant tell), and also this top race car driver they got named Angus Walliams. Hes totally what youd expect little, wiry, way energetic, and full of pranks. When I went to shake the dudes hand he spun around and mooned me so hard I almost passed out from laughter! That thing was like less than a foot from my face, and it had an intensity! I thought about gettin another moon goin on right back at him, but then I was like, better not have two moons dukin it out near the hot chick. Basic manners, you know. Im pourin one out for Emily Post, here. After that they announced it was time for dinner, so all of us up in first class scrambled back to our seats and hella feasted on filets mignon and whole grilled pompano on the bone. Definitely nice, and they were pourin the 93 Ptrus, so we got much classed and ended up in a circle on the floor singin a folk song. Somethin about a little Koala who goes to the store but cant produce the right change and he gets booted. I think its one of their traditionals, everyone seemed to know it but me.
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Fell asleep with my leg over the chicks leg but we didnt talk much. When I woke up, it was... DAY TWO The captain said we were well over the Pacific by this point, and that it was time for stereo music. (Ladies and Gentlemen in our first class accommodations, it is time for Stereo Music.) For about an hour and a half the first class cabin was filled with really nice stereo music while we brunched on prawn cocktail, omelettes, waffles and champagne. There was also this rad side dish of potatoes. Later in the day a couple of the guys and I started talkin about US/Australia business relations, and we came up with some bomb trade ideas. For example, Americans love the phrase shrimp on the barbie, but no ones ever capitalized on it in the US, especially where specialty grilling utensils are concerned. We blueprinted some proprietary shrimp grilling skewer/baskets, and I got to tell you, these are gonna put MAXIMUM flavor on the shrimp. After we got the sketches done and discussed the legal angles for a while, I ended up just hangin with this one guy Corwin and shootin the breeze about golf. Turns out hes in real estate and wants to open the worlds longest golf course! Australias definitely the place. Texas people think they like big, but imagine havin an empty United States to yourself...Corwins got plans for a par-9 hole! Almost half a mile of fairway woods. I ask you, why cant golf have longer holes? To hear him tell it, theres no reason aside from limited imagination. Fell asleep before the chick got back to her seat. She was on the phone a lot, but Im hopin she saw me conductin business and was swayed by my manly authority. Am I buzzed? Should I say that?
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DAY THREE Pilot says were within sixteen hours of landin. Seriously, Im startin to get cabin fever up here. We havin fun, but how many times can you say the same thing to the same guy whos goin to the same bathroom for the thirty-eighth time? Its like we basically know each other at this point, and its kind of awkward. I guess Ill start gatherin up all my laundry, Flash memory sticks, and earbuds. Time to start gettin serious about Australia. The printers onboard just started shootin out the cover stories from the Daily Telegraph, so I'm gonna get current on shark attacks and parliament and stuff.
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WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17, 2007
On the Ground in Ozzieland!

Im on the ground in Australia, and Im totally outta my mind! Everything is mad different here, and I think Im gonna rent out my place back in the States asap so I can go local indefinitely! First of all, the airline chick who greeted me as I came up the gangway was HELL of tight, and I almost went down on one knee when she clasped her hands and gave me that Gday! Weyww-km tew ausstray-weeyah! line. She was hella gorgeous, doggs! All blonde hair pulled back real simple into a hot bun, all tanned face, and you could TOTALLY tell what her dad looked like! Thats a neat thing about Australian chicks, although it can be weird at first. Anyhow, Im plopped down in the airport computer area now, lookin around for limos and hotels and stuff. I didnt want to plan any of this, in case somethin came up, you know. For example, I was gonna give it all up to the airport greeter chick just now, but she went on some kind of break and I got to tell you, when I saw her lame-ass black nurse shoes and uneven-opacity black hose, I actually fell out of love a little bit. I know she just wears em for her function, but damn, if youre gonna be fine, get a different job. Those shoes hell of put me in a bad Minnesota bedroom, like with a humidifier and a fifty year-old career waitress named Bladge. BALONEY! I am NOT losin interest in Australia already! That was a bogus blip. Looks like Im bookin a room in the Harold Holt Surf-Inn and Lodge...says its right on the beach, they got a highly suggested toast breakfast til noon each day...alright, not too swank, but its on some prime water, and I got much designs on breakin out the board. Plus, I figure if I get up late enough, I can skip the
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toast breakfast and sneak past the little guy in the office. Ill be spendin at least forty five minutes gettin my hair all tousled in the local manner, especially the first day...that can definitely buy me a ticket past noon. At that point, its just a nice leisurely lunch of steaks and crispy cold ones at a local caf, and then Im off to the surf! I am hell of stoked about sittin in the sand, crackin lagers with some of the local blokes, and pissin in areas which are behind large storm wreckage (but still pretty close to the main beach). Alright, my guy Mr. Hoshi from Hoshis Bonzer Limo just texted that hes outside with the livery vehicle. Just got to make a few stops to pick up a board, some Sex Wax, and some steaks for the hotel room, and hell drop me at the Inn. Im tellin you, the air here alone has just got me all kinds of jammed. It is SO not America. I feel like anything can happen! In America, things usually cant happen, but down here, I get a way different vibe. Maybe its because the police cars look like something your cheap uncle would rent in Hawaii. Seriously, Australia, get decent police cars and a national anthem that didnt come programmed as the demo on the keyboard. I can help with this. I am at the Harold Holt Surf-Inn and Lodge for the next month, paid in advance.
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At the Hotel in Sydney!

Alright mates, I'm all checked in to the Harold Holt Surf-Inn and Lodge, and I got to tell you, the clerk bugged me from the second I walked into the place. He's this real scrawny guy in actual prescription aviators, and he had his nose buried in this little novelty-size Bible when I pulled on up to the counter. RAY: Whoah, dude! Tiny Bible you got there! CLERK: Excuse me? I think it's a perfectly fine size for a Bible. RAY: Oh, sorry. I thought you were gonna come back at me with somethin' like, "It ain't the size of the Bible, it's the way you apply its lessons." I mean, I put that one on a tee for you, dude. CLERK: [reluctantly sets down Bible] Are you checking in, then? RAY: Hey, your name tag says Harold! You the guy this place is named after? HAROLD: It's a coincidence. RAY: Must bug you, all these folks comin' in askin' if you're Harold Holt, huh? HAROLD: No one in Australia would ever think that I am Harold Holt. They chalk it up to coincidence and then typically get on with checking in. RAY: I get you, I get you. [Unsuccessfully fishes around for ID and credit cards.] Huh, can't find anything. I called from the airport?
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HAROLD: ID and credit card, please. RAY: Yeah, uh, I can't find that stuff. [Offers handshake] Gentleman's bond? HAROLD: It is not my job to tell you this, but those things appear to be tucked beneath the arm of your glasses. RAY: [feels] Oh! Dang. I must have done that. Here you go. HAROLD: [picks up the cards resentfully, using just the tips of two fingers] You'll be staying for our toast breakfast, I take it? It's highly suggested. RAY: Yeah, uh, about that. No. HAROLD: Toast breakfast is served from seven AM until noon. Please bring your identification. RAY: You know, you're the first guy I've met in Australia who never says "mate." Even Hoshi was sayin' mate, and the dude's from Honshu. HAROLD: Here is your room key. You're in 29b, up the stairs, overlooking the beach, as you requested. RAY: Okay, then! [Pause] I'll just carry these bags myself? HAROLD: Unless you'd like to revisit the lobby every time you need a clean shirt or socks, that is probably the wisest course of action. Clearly I didn't like the guy too much, and I was pretty sure he didn't like me, so why was he tryin' to keep me around for toast breakfast so bad? Anyhow, I set up my room the way I like it, with all the clothes put in the
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drawers, the toiletries fanned out all nice on the bathroom counter, and the pen layin' crosswise on the writin' pad on the desk. Classes up a hotel room to act like a traveler of yore, you dig? Next thing I knew I woke up on the floor and it was sixteen hours later nine in the damn morning! Man, jet lag hit me like a beast! I felt great, havin' slept so hard, and realized that I did NOT want to sit in the hotel room until noon just to avoid the toast breakfast. "To hell with it," I thought to myself, "I'll just say no thanks. People do that all the time." I spruced up for a walk around town, dabbed some Obsession on my wrists, and headed through the lobby. Harold leaned out of a doorway and waved me over. HAROLD: You're just in time for our toast breakfast. Come, come. RAY: Oh, man. Dang. Forgot my identification, dude. Tomorrow, for sure. HAROLD: It's alright, I remember you. Come, come. RAY: Oh, jeez. Uh, okay. Cut me off if I start in with the sea shanties, will you? I went into the little dining-type room and sat down. There wasn't any food out, and there was just one big grumpy-lookin' guy hunched over with his back to me (I don't know how I could tell his mood, but it seemed obvious). I could hear him crunching away, so I sat and waited. Harold came in pretty quick with a big plate of dry toast, maybe sixteen pieces, and set it down in front of me. RAY: Wow, that's a lot of toast. I usually just have two pieces. You got any main dishes?
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HAROLD: We sell a very special product for your toast here. Have you looked over by the fireplace? RAY: [Looks] Huh! A little pyramid of three small jars that ain't got no labels! If I'd known THAT was gonna be there, I'd have looked sooner! HAROLD: It is a sustainable, single-origin, organic, artisan, Marmite-type product. I collect and package it myself. RAY: Marmite-type product? HAROLD: Sixteen dollars eighty. You'll be amazed. It's a revolution that's going to set the toast world on its ear. My particular product's name is Marmold. As in, Harold's Marmite-type Product. RAY: [thinks to self] Well, I'm gonna be here for a week, I basically have to buy this idiot's stuff. [Aloud] Okay, put a few of 'em on my tab. HAROLD: You won't be disappointed. [Unscrews one for me] Just spread this on your toast, and ring the bell when you're out of either. [Leaves.] RAY: [Sniffs contents of jar] Whoah, who peeled out on a bottle of soy sauce! GRUMPY MAN: This stuff is bleedin' ambrosia. Don't knock it or I'll tin your cock, I will. Okay, so now I got three jars of Marmold sittin' in my room. Maybe after my walk around town I'll see if I can chuck 'em as far as the ocean. I'm headin' out now for some steaks and Fosters and probably gonna set up shop on the beach after I make some friends.
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Beef's Bachelor Party - HARD PLANS. I wrote much plans for Roast Beef's bachelor party in this cool retro-lookin' leather bound notebook I picked up at Restoration Hardware today. I even wrote 'em all out with a fountain pen, usin' my best scrawl, in case it might be a thing I can present to him like on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Here are some of the party ideas I scritted down: THE DUDE FLUSHES THE TOILET This is kind of advanced, and it ain't for the Emily Post crowd. The idea is this: when a toilet gets filled to a certain point, it will automatically "flush" itself, because of the water levels and the siphon at the base and stuff you ain't need to pull the handle. Ergo, if a dude voids enough liquid into the toilet to make it flush itself, he will cause his friends great glee. This being the case, if we can fill Beef up with so much beer that he can "flush the toilet" without touching the handle, everyone will feel great glee and carry him around the house on their shoulders. (Incidentally, I learned this trick at junior college one night.) THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK This one is best done to metal, like Hell Bent For Leather, or the hip hop single Fuck Tha Police. This one's kind of rough on the gums. You take Fritos those rectangle corn chips half the size of a stick of gum and tuck them vertically inside his lips, in front of his teeth, so that he gets a toasty yellow grill like a boxer's mouth guard. Then, one by one, each friend at the party tucks five bucks into the guy's shirt pocket, steps back, and takes a hard open-handed slap at the dude's mouth. It's a good way to raise money for the honeymoon, and the PERFECT thing to do to this music. Replace chips
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as they break. COOKING LESSONS WITH NICK LEFABRE At the Community Center. Nick LeFabre has carved out a profitable local business by teaching dudes how to cook food that wives like to eat. In this class Nick says that wives like to watch fat and calories while still feeling special, and shows some signature dishes: cranberry preserve on lemon-rubbed toast; summer pea spoonfuls with thrice-blanched black pepper. (This would be more like one that me and the guys wouldn't go to, kind of a morning thing for Beef only.) Daaamn. Lookin' over this thing, seems all we need is a pony, a shotgun, and a place to hide the body. Bachelor party, we COMIN' FOR YA!
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Problem at the Hotel.

Man, you ain't gonna believe this. Remember those jars of Marmold, the artisan Marmite I got talked into buying last time? Well, after I bought 'em and put 'em in my room, I strutted around in town for a while, but it was kind of quiet, so I went back to the hotel to chill with a gimlet and gaze over the beach until everyone got off work. Like I said, I had made a contest with myself to see if I could chuck the jars all the way to the water, which is about thirty yards from my balcony. I set my gimlet on the railing, wound up, and let the first one fly. Pretty close -- it hit the sand about five yards shy of the foam line and sent up a nice little plume of fine-grained sand. It was kind of beautiful, in a way -- like the sort of thing a National Geographic photographer would shoot with an ultra-fast exposure: a corona of sand rising up in an amazing pattern as the shiny brown jar, in perfect focus, touches down. The second jar landed about the same distance, so I did a couple push-ups (bad idea - hella tomato sauce burnin' in the throat) before goin' for the third and final throw. For some reason, I really wanted this one to hit the water -- I guess it was my own small way of conquerin' Australia. I leaned hard into the third pitch, visualized it landin' in the surf, and let 'er rip. I guess there was a little ledge in the sand that I couldn't see, because as soon as I let go, the grumpy guy from the toast room stood up from nowhere, shirtless, and yawned. My screamin' jar of Marmold smacked right into the side of his body, between the love handle and the armpit, and I could hear the slap all the way from the
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balcony. Damn did it look like it stung. Before I could figure out what was happening, he turned, fixed his eyes on me, sneered, and started to walk real slow and angry back toward the hotel. I had to think quick. I ran into town and ducked into a bar, where I ordered a beer real quick and sat in a bathroom stall with my feet on the seat. Unbelievably, the toast dude stormed in and started knockin' open the door to each can. I was trapped. When he kicked my door and it didn't open he yelled, "CORR! MUST BE BROKEN!" and continued on down the line, kicking the rest of the doors. I nipped on my beer for a while (in my hurry, I had ordered Export Gold, which is horrible) and then eventually poured it directly into the loo, savin' my body the trouble. It's totally bad that I already have an enemy in Australia, but it's a big place. Maybe tomorrow I'll rent a Caddie and go to Queensland -- since it's their northeast, it's probably more sophisticated, like our New England and Boston and all that. The dude I hit with the jar probably wouldn't go to a place like that.
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Queensland On My Mind
Alright, so as soon as I could make out that the grumpy guy who I hit with the Marmold bottle had taken off, I skedaddled from Sydney. Locked my hotel door, avoided Harold, and rented an Enzo to scoot me on up to Queensland. Bought some Dinkie Dots and Gatorade at a petrol, set my sights on Cunnamulla, and let er rip. Once I passed the border into Queensland I felt like stoppin for some proper steak and potatoes, but there wasnt a lot goin on. I pulled into a pretty rural petrol station (the Enzo eats gas like you wouldnt believe) and started at the pump. This younger dude in overalls and no shirt sat on the porch dippin what looked like a chicken thigh bone into a baggie that had somethin like soft aspic in it (aspic is that sort of clear chicken Jell-O that happens around a roast chicken carcass if you put it on a plate in the fridge overnight). Hed suck the aspic off the bone and dip it again, starin at me the whole time. Hell of uncomfortable, and I could swear I heard a didgeridoo playin Dueling Banjos. I pumped exactly twenty bucks, tucked that much cash into the handle, and zoomed off. The next problem came when I got to Bodge Cranny Township, a little one-dog map dot maybe an hour outside a Charleville. The guys runnin the outdated pump were gassed to the nines, sittin around in lawn chairs on the asphalt, and just givin me decades of sass. One guy even said it was likely that I was an idiot, based on my shoes and head, but on reflection he was definitely in his cups and meant nothing by it. I finally topped off the Enzo, but I was outta cash, so I had to mix with them to pay. The main attendant, this dude with a sleeveless Chevron oxford under his
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overalls, spat and waved me into the office. To be cool, I bought a pack of smokes and a sixer of somethin called XXXX. I guess its dumb that they have beer with more Xs than Japanese porn, but maybe that makes them think that theyre having an incredible amount of fun. The dude let me off after just a couple more insults and I screeched away. I saw some of the smoke from my tires go into the nose of their dog, so I hope the dog got sick from that. From here Im headed to Barcaldine, which is a place on the map. Ill check in with you soon, if I can. Things feel weird up here.
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TUESDAY, DECEMBER 04, 2007
crazy bad news. can't even capitalize

Doggs, Man. This was a gravestone of a day. A tombstone. I walked down the sidewalk of life, and a tombstone popped up outta the ground in front of me. Like the numbers in one of those old-timey cash registers. I got an ice cream, but I couldn't like it. I got a pistachio macaroon, but it was pretty dried out. I wanted to want spaghetti bolognese, but I knew that wouldn't help me. I had to deal. Here's the story. I was in Thaddeus's chair. My guy. My hairstylist extraordinaire. So we start the 'do, and he's kind of stiff the whole time, kind of distant, and when he spins me around with the mirror so I can approve the back of my new haircut, I see it plain as day. I got a damn bald spot the size of a damn dime. I'm straight-up monk dimin'. Maybe you didn't hear me. I'm monk dimin'. My thoughts are crazy. I'm like, "This ain't nothin'. I can comb it here and there, the spot's small, I can cover it no problem." But that's denial. Then I'm like, "I'll shave my whole head. That's the obvious thing." But that's over-reaction. After that comes the appeal to science. "I'll get some 'a that Rogaine," you think. But you read the warnings on the side of the box and you quickly learn that it has hella dubious side effects:
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1. You won't remember math (not a deal breaker) 2. You can no longer smell artichokes (I love artichokes) 3. Nine out of ten men experienced aggressive hair loss after using this product, including on people they were merely shaking hands with Also, I can't imagine hair pluggin', doggs. I mean, if you pluggin', you always chasin' the border from the inside out, you know. Plus, I've seen lots of pluggin' photos on the internet, and the hair plugs are spaced so far apart they look like buck teeth...they look like buck hair. So obvious. I'm sorry, this was way too personal. I got to regroup. Some of the guys at the club are monk dimin' or worse, so I'll work it in at some 19th hole and see what the done thing is.
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WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 16, 2008
The deal with my hair.

Like I was sayin' last time, it's been rough. I been monk dimin' for over a month now, and my mind has been all over the place. I even uninstalled the 3-way mirror in the bathroom so I wouldn't be tempted to stare at the bald spot and obsess or fret over it. I can't remember the last time I did home improvement look what I'm driven to. Western medicine is pretty much useless when it comes to hair-regrowth technology, so I decided to go lookin' east. Just 'cause it's a little weird and different don't mean they ain't figured a few things out over there in China, you know. I cold turkeyed it, just walkin' into the first place I saw in Chinatown that seemed to have anything to do with hair in fact, this particular place showed a three-panel set of drawings where the top of a guy's head goes from totally empty of hair to completely covered again. On the classic old-school frosted glass door panel, underneath the Asian writing, little letters said Silas Dong, Hair and Skin. I was sold. I was a little nervous goin' in, since I ain't know the first thing about this kind of medicine, but right away the place had a real calm vibe. Feng-schway? That what they call it? Anyhow, this place had it in spades. Silas was sittin' in the corner of the small front room, at his desk, just Chinesin' around, you know, lookin' at Internet and stuff. He didn't greet me right away, but when he did, I could tell he greeted me at the perfect time to make me feel at home. A second sooner would have seemed anxious, a second later would have seemed rude. He played the hello to a T. Very few men can really say hello, if you think about it. I didn't even say my name or anything, he just welcomed me into this real comfy chair, kind of like a recliner with
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the top half of the back missing, and started examining and massaging my scalp. It was nice he wasn't into all kinds of insurance papers and stuff, all like havin' me with a clipboard for half an hour checkin' "no" in every single disease column (except glasses). We got down to tacks immediately, just two men with no nonsense between them. He made some thoughtful noises while he was examinin' my dime, and pretty soon he seemed to have satisfied himself. "Three hundred dolla," he said in a professional, calm way. I could tell by his confidence, and the careful way he had examined my head, that three hundred dollars was EXACTLY what he knew to charge for my precise condition. It was really relieving, because if he could set a price to it so clearly, then he must have had a solution in mind. I nodded, and he had me take my shirt off and go into a back room where I got on my tummy on a regular sort of doctor's examination table. He also had me take my shoes off. I sat in there for a few minutes and relaxed. He must have been consulting charts or something, because right before I went in he asked me my birthday. When he did come in, he had all these lit candles on a cafeteria tray, and a little jar of needles. He'd heat a needle up, stick it real delicately into a part of my foot or back, and get on to the next needle. He said the different candles burned at different temperatures, and that the particular heat of the needles was important to where he stuck them. Sounded good to me, and it didn't actually hurt like you'd think it would. Each needle brought almost a welcome release from wherever he stuck it. After about fifteen or so pricks I started to feelI don't know how to say itlike my juices were alive. Like my body had gotten an important phone call it had forgotten
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to expect? I don't want to sound like a crazy man but I even feel like my dime tingled a little bit. Dong wouldn't let me pay him after the first visit I always like that. It's one of those business features you ain't see too much any more: trust. Faith. Respect. We'll see what happens. I'm pretty blissed on the dude and his services so far, so I'm sure I'll have some updates soon. God, what if seein' Dong solves my problem? What if I don't have to monk dime?
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The Story of My Hair.

Man, what a log ride it's been with this bald spot of mine. Last time I wrote I had just started with Silas Dong, that random hair and skin doctor I found in Chinatown, and I was all jazzed about his acupuncture-type therapy and immense personal calmness. Remember that sign I told you about in his window, the one with the three pictures of the top of a dude's head, goin' from totally empty of hair to totally covered again? I read it wrong. See, I figured that Chinese stuff got read right-to-left, you know, the opposite from our way. Turns out I basically read the sign backwards, because it was written left-to-right, with the full-head-of-hair guy gradually gettin' balder in each panel. Silas Dong was a hair loss specialist, alright. A SPECIALIST IN MAKING YOU LOSE YOUR HAIR. I almost had a heart attack when I went in for my second session and he proudly showed me a clear template with rings on it. On a small center ring was the date of my first visit, and he beamed when he showed me I had "grown" two full rings since then. He got really confused when I started yellin', "No, I...naw, man! What did you DO?! What have I DONE?!" I even knelt on the floor for a second, covering my dime with my hands and wonderin' if I was gonna cry. He sized up the situation pretty quick. In about six seconds he had handed me his sister's card, Phyllis Dong. (I guess a lot of honkeys mess up when choosin' Chinese therapies, so they have these things at the ready.) Phyllis is a hair re-GROWTH specialist (I even wrote down the word re-GROWTH? on a note pad and underlined it and she smiled and nodded). Phew, man. I tried to hand Silas the three hundred I owed him, but he
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was all wise and smilin' about it, pushin' my hand back, so when he turned around to get me a copy of his card "in case I should ever reconsider," I slipped the cash under a legal pad on his desk. I know he knew I did that, so I just shook his hand and headed a few doors down to his sister's office. Her technique is basically the same, and I've already grown back the two rings I lost. Re-growing the stuff that went before Silas is takin' more time, but I'm confident somethin' will come of it. I figure, I'll be happy if my dime gets small enough so that Thaddeus can style it like a super-intense cowlick. I seen some large cowlicks in my time, and I never think the dude is baldin' or dodgin'. I wonder if Clooney has a cowlick in the back...time to get on Google Images. See you later, Chochachos, and thanks for all the letters of support in my dark time.
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SUNDAY, MAY 11, 2008
I'm Sorry.
I'm sorry, but I just been havin' the greatest time lately. I been goin' to what they call Super School, you heard of it? It's like a school, you know, like we all had to go to, but it's for adults. Instead of teachers sayin' what's important, you decide what you want to study, and the teacher has to make it fun. The teacher also has to be flexible, though, 'cause you're essentially a customer. (Yeah, it costs some pretty serious scratch, and materials can be expensive, but keep reading.) I was like, "I know basically nothin' about France, except that Napoleon got shot at Waterloo (not true), and then things started to go downhill for him, since in those days doctors were like, 'Bullets? What are those? Is that kind of a new thing?'" That made me decide to learn French history, but regular school never floated my boat too hard, so I remembered that some of the guys at the club do Super School once in a while, like to learn machine gun theory or how planes work and stuff. I made some calls and pretty soon I was enrolled. French history really ain't nothin' to get too worked up about. Basically they're like everybody else, but their homeless people wear fingerless gloves. Anyhow. After a few lessons the teacher, Mr. Flut, was like, MR FLUT: Ray, I can tell that you are not really into this. ME: What? MR FLUT: Can you turn down your iPod for a minute? ME: Oh! Uh...Louie the Sun King. Lewey?
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MR FLUT: TURN DOWN YOUR IPOD ME: [turns down iPod] Sorry, 'teach. 'Sup? We decided that my class in French history should turn into one of those classes where you train your nose and palate to identify the tastes in wine, and it got much more interesting after that. He tried to break out that chart of the different wine-producin' areas of France (Champagne, Bordeaux, etc) but pretty soon it was clear that I wanted to focus on the flavor "profiles," and not a bunch of map stuff that I'd forget or consider boring. He FedEx'd us up a Nez du Vin kit, that thing with all the different major aromas in little bottles, and we picked up a few cases of primo vino down at Cask'n'Bladder (that's what I call Provini's, the high-end liquor store over by the meat place, south of the stadium). Here are my notes from our first tasting: Pomerol - kinda black and raw, wine + cherries, invisible splash of pepper (v. faint) Vouvray - dry/wet, sweet, "outdoor" wine Amarone - wow. totally good '81 Chateau Mouton Rothschild - DAAMN this wine did a handstand in my mouth (mouth went up + down 3X while open) Gewurtztraminer - crisp apples with deprecated rapeseed Ketel One (my idea) Gulden Draak - belgian beer hella flavorful all 10.5%'n it Woodbridge Sauvignon Blanc - how did this get in here was what the hell leave it for the janitor's wedding or some shit Pinot Noir - where'd flut go that lightweight Viognier - oh he was at his car getting batteries (?) Lambrusco - flut he threw a battery at me but we were hlla. laughin all silly Nachos alla Meeting - nachos that cn. be prepared
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quietly during a meeting usin MRE technology Damn. I don't even remember leavin' school for home that night...musta' walked, 'cause I had to go back and pick up the Escalade the next afternoon. Ain't heard from Mr. Flut, I think he got kind of a head on from the Ketel. I'll call him in a week after I decide what I want to learn next.
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The Beef is back in town!

Man, it was good to see Beef and Molly kickin' around the pool again today after that long-ass honeymoon. Looks like they got a thirst on for pia coladas! They are out sittin' in my trick teak chaise lounges, still in relax mode and gettin' some rays. Maybe I'll whip up a little crostini platter lunch for all of us...I been watchin' this bald guy Mark Bittman on TV, he flies to Spain and eats really small pieces of food, and it looks damn good. I'ma do a...I'ma do...garlic shrimp on toasted rounds with olive pure and feta. They say no cheese with seafood, but they do a lotta talkin', so it's bust-out time. I will also do a thing with some three-ballin' white anchovies, hearts of romaine, and GROSS caesar dressing. "Gross" means the illest new form of kindness, all. [an hour passes] Damn, I just got back from havin' crostinis with the new couple, and Beef is hella in place! Witness: -+RAY: Check out these GROSS crostini I whipped up for us! Even did some little prosciutto roses, can you dig it? MOLLY: Wow! Thanks, Ray! This is totally nice! I love the little cocktail swords! BEEF: [has Yankees baseball cap and sunglasses on, plus no shirt] Man that is a fine plate. You are a good dogg, Mr. Smuckles. RAY: [notices that Beef is in a calm, confident place] Eat up, didgeridoo! Nice hat, by the way.
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BEEF: I been wearin' hats. It suits a man. MOLLY: I couldn't believe it. We pulled the RV into this big mall and he went right into this "Lids" baseball hat store and bought a Yankees cap. BEEF: The Yankees got much money, all. RAY: Valued at $1.2 billion, dogg! BEEF: Yep. This an anchovy? RAY: White anchovy. Not the nasty stuff. Mild as hell. Delicate. You got to try it. BEEF: [bites, chews] Damn now that is a mild anchovy. That is fine, I can see what the fuss is about with these creatures. I bite into a regular anchovy, all oily and rancid, I go into a state. Not this time. MOLLY: Oh, these are wonderful. And what's on those little watermelon cubes? Is that...tomato pulp? -+See? See? The dude is changed up a bit. His talk came from a place of calmness. It's like he found this one disc he can stand on in the universe, a place where he has some balance. Good for him. It's gonna be fun talkin' with the new Beef.
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Thanksgiving 2008. Sorry if this goes on.

Man, I had it large on Thanksgiving. The actual deal itself was small, just me and T and Beef and Molly and Lyle and lil' old Philippe. Connie was off with his dang old new somethin', and when I saw Pat and Rod at Andronico's and invited them, Pat turned to me and started explainin' their own plans while behind him Rod pretended to hang himself with a baguette. He didn't need to use the baguette, because usually the hand motion of hangin' one's self is enough. It seemed pretty amateur for a dude who is pretty much an actor. Anyhow, this is what I am thankful for this year: 1. My own awareness that most taco places ain't "green," and use tons of styrofoam, plastic cups, foil, and plastic bags for every takeout order. It helps me not go to taco places, which in turn keeps me from rockin' a sick bubble-chub at the waistline. 2. I am thankful that I have an appreciation of good, simmered-up black-eyed peas with nothing more than salt and butter. 3. I am thankful that my mom ain't been callin' too much lately. I love the old gal, but try havin' somethin' new to say every day when the only thing you been doin' is chuckin' empties into the pool and hittin' golf balls into a lawn shed ("Raymond! Do not DO that!"). 4. I am thankful that stereos have gotten smaller. Mine hasn't, but I know this helps a lot of people in apartments. 5. I am thankful that I seem to care about Prime Time again. For a while I was just lost in the woods, signing
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some pretty lame acts, doubting my taste. I'm glad to say that this morning at 9am I called VeePee An' Tha Psickeninn' Psocciety and told them that their contract had expired due to inactivity. The call actually went pretty well, and I'm going to play tennis with their graphic designer next week. 6. I am thankful that there have been no news stories about kittens bein' harmed lately. I ain't so into kids, but when you think about it, the most they should get is yelled at NEVER harmed. 7. Lastly, I am thankful that my boy Beef is comin' over for some stick in about...oh, there's the knock on the sliding glass door. Dude needs to feel comfortable just comin' in. Jesus, Beef. I am thankful that you read this! And this. -=Ray=-
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FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12, 2008
I hella like this basic Italian dude.

There's a new basic Italian dude in town! I hella love the guy. His name's Vito, he runs this kitchen at this place Tre Otto, and he rocks some nacky gold nugs -- maybe three chains and a piece on each pinkie. Hilarious, but way committed to quality. He does me up some real light-quality lasagna at lunch, you know, not that white sauce freezer crap that gets broiled under a jet engine in the servin' dish, but some real family tomato -- the sauce almost so light you want to put it in a champagne glass with some voddy D and a horseradish kiss and a staff-o-celery. You know what I mean. Dude has a touch. Dude has gentle fingers, if I can say that about a man. I ain't know the guy too close yet, but I bet I get in on tight with him. I ain't like me nothin' more than an Italian who knows you're in for the game. That's when you really eat right, when they invite you back into the kitchen, when they always doin' this and that and gettin' you a Negroni and the chef fries you up some calamari and it ain't on your tab. Next thing you know you're chillin' while they close, havin' a cig in the back door and helpin' them lose some wine that's gonna go bad before they open again. You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna go there for dinner tonight, even though I been there the last four days in a row. There's a point where you're a groupie, but there's also a point where you're a made regular, and I got to bring hard game so I don't just come off like some half-cocked hokey American suck-up who watches too much Godfather and thinks goombahs are the best. It'll be recon: I got to pay attention tonight and figure out Italian man-huggin' behavior. That shit is probably more complicated than Japanese bowin'. I really don't want to screw it up. That's like what Larry David would do, and
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that dude gives me a damn ulcer.

Ray Smuckles Blogs

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RAYMOND QUENTIN SMUCKLES 7/2004 - 12/2008

FRIDAY, JULY 02, 2004

I got to get rid of some Nagels

FRIDAY, JULY 02, 2004

A new kind of rum!

FRIDAY, JULY 02, 2004

SATURDAY, JULY 03, 2004

Sex in the City DVDs

TUESDAY, JULY 06, 2004

TUESDAY, JULY 06, 2004

What a nice afternoon.

TUESDAY, JULY 06, 2004

WEDNESDAY, JULY 07, 2004

THURSDAY, JULY 08, 2004

Ken the Jeopardy Champion!

FRIDAY, JULY 09, 2004

It's Friday Night at Ray's!

SATURDAY, JULY 10, 2004

What a damn fine day.

SUNDAY, JULY 11, 2004

I got to improve my game!

MONDAY, JULY 12, 2004

I don't think too much of that dude down at Clancy's.

TUESDAY, JULY 13, 2004

What the hell, man?

WEDNESDAY, JULY 14, 2004

THURSDAY, JULY 15, 2004

It's a Chochacho Night Friday.

MONDAY, JULY 19, 2004

Kind of a burner Sunday

WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 2004

WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 2004

FRIDAY, JULY 23, 2004

Who cares if this week sucked!

SUNDAY, JULY 25, 2004

UNH! Yeah, you heard me!

WEDNESDAY, JULY 28, 2004

I found an old childhood game

THURSDAY, JULY 29, 2004

FRIDAY, JULY 30, 2004

SUNDAY, AUGUST 01, 2004

TUESDAY, AUGUST 03, 2004

Hittin' the links again!

THURSDAY, AUGUST 05, 2004

Man, that backfired!

FRIDAY, AUGUST 06, 2004

SATURDAY, AUGUST 07, 2004

TUESDAY, AUGUST 10, 2004

FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 2004

Kind of a Hawaiian Thing!

TUESDAY, AUGUST 17, 2004

do. Not a thing. Life is...life is dirt sometimes.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 20, 2004

Operation HOT S.A.U.C.E.

MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 2004

FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 2004

Just kind of a regular party

SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 2004

Waterbury=Swiss Army Knife

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 01, 2004

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 03, 2004

Tonight's party, kind of a new thing

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 06, 2004

A damn relaxing Labor Day weekend.