Arizona Sweet Tea

So yesterday, I was making simple syrup for the bar at work and it got me to thinking about my little brother Ralph. When I say little brother, I mean my 6'2'' 220lb college football player brother.

As we all know, simple syrup, is nothing more than sugar and water. Try and have a margarita without it, go ahead. Anywho, Ralph and I used to make sugar water and drink it all the time when we didn't have anything sweet in the house like redneck holy water, or, rather, mountain dew. It just seemed a lot faster and fatter than going to the corner store. Fast and fat? Now, if that's not an oxymoron, I don't know what is y'all. When I stop and think, sugar water is just like sweet tea, only, sans the tea. That explains fat southern, for sure.

One thing not surprising about this situation is the fact that Ralph and I wore "husky" jeans for a few years there in the early '90s a.k.a the Era of Andrea Zuckerman. Remember her? The editor of the West Beverly Blaze. That liar didn't even live in the school district! I digress. Wearing your shirt while swimming doesn't make anyone feel smaller but rather makes you stick out like a fat thumb. Thank God, he and I were able to get out of that shame spiral before we ended up shirtless in our underwear on the Maury Show, flopping around like Baby Jessica.

VW Cabriolet or 5 year old girl?

Notice the opposite use of acid wash jean shirt to pants.

Recently, a friend sold one of his paintings to someone in North Carolina looking to furnish their summer home. What a rewarding feeling to have someone wanting to purchase your art. It's much more rewarding than selling your semen but not always as lucrative as harvesting your eggs.

"I have a black tongue"

That got me to thinking of a time when I was giraffe-like, all thanks to some damn Canadian assholes that managed to infiltrate American television. I'm talking about Sharon, Lois and Bram! Who could forget that irritatingly infectious music that closed the show every episode!

"Skinnamarink e-dink e-dink

Skinnamarink e-doo

I love you"

Sharon, Lois and Bram.

How fucking stupid was that show? Seriously! I also never realized that Bram looked so much like Harry from Harry and the Hendersons! Bram's mom must have fucked Bigfoot. Anywho, one morning, when I was about five or six, Bigfoot Jr. really fucked with my head good. Bram thought it was a good idea to show the kiddies how to chew like a giraffe with the whole awkward side to side smacking. Before I knew it, I was chewing my cereral as if I were grazing the Serengeti. It wasn't just that meal, it was every one thereafter. It's like I couldn't control it. Mary did not take too kindly to that. She set out to stop me.

A few days later, fresh from school, she poured me a bowl of cereal. It's not pertinent to the story but I wish I knew what cereal it was. I digress. She sat and watched me take my first bite and immediately put a stop to it. She made it quite clear that I was not going to be chewing like a camel. This was very upsetting. I wasn't chewing like a camel. I was chewing like a damn GIRAFFE! My mom sat there and held my jaw in place as I chewed. What was she thinking attempting to tame the wild beast. Now Mary was no Dr. Spock but she sure did know how to cure a terrible case of the giraffe chews.

Take a look below at Bram's vacation photo to historic Tombstone.

Happy 225th Birthday America

The summer of 2001 was a memorable one to say the least. I had attended Boys State, a summer leadership and citizenship program sponsored by the American Legion, just as both my older brothers had done. It's a mock government summer camp. I ran for several offices and managed to lose mostly all of them due to my overwhelming charisma and wit. Although, in true political fashion, I was charged with sexual harassment. At an all boys camp no less! For those that know me, this would appear to be a scandalous falsehood. Bogus charges, they wouldn't stick. I did not sexually harass that woman, Linda Voder, the camp director's daughter. He was like 107 years old so she had to at least be on medicare.

Long story short, I was acquitted, took my defamation of character trial all the way to the Boys State Supreme Court and was awarded a $5 judgement. That was a lot of money in those days. You couldn't even pay a prostitute to do anything to you for $5 these days. But oh yes, this was going to be a great summer indeed.

One of the few positives of returning to Coolidge after camp was the fact that I was going to be lifeguarding at the glamorous city pool. For some reason, the city decided to change the official name to the Coolidge Aquatic Center. Please, it's the fucking city pool. Why so metropolitan all of a sudden? It was nothing more than a cement pond down near the Mormon church. It must have been when the city council was trying to woo the International Olympics Committee into considering Coolidge for the 2008 Olympics. Damn you, Beijing. In any event, I was happy to be on board. I helped add Latino flair. Pan dulce (pahn -dool -seh)!

It looked similar to this but simply worse.

On a late June night, behind the wheel of my sister's bitchin' Oldsmobile Omega, I headed off for a night under the stars otherwise known as night swim. Somewhere between my house and the city pool I was bitten by a spider. I didn't vex myself over it at first because I thought it was your typical bug bite. By the end of my shift, it was apparent that something wasn't quite right with my leg. For the remainder of the night, it became increasingly hard to walk let alone bend my knee. The next morning when I attempted to step out my bed, I landed face down and in complete agony.

Fluff your pillow?

I was fucked. At this point, I had ooze coming out of the wound and my leg my plumping up faster than Carnie Wilson after her lap-band failed. I cried out for help but I was home alone. I had to crawl down the hallway and felt like James Caan from Misery. And of course the cordless phone was in a high place! 35 minutes later, my stepmom Gloria showed up and whisked me away to Dr. Francisco Amaya's Family Practice where they made me WAIT another 30 minutes. I'm pretty sure I mentioned I had bloody ooze pouring out of my leg so you can imagine my surprise that this didn't alarm tweedledumb fuck at the receptionist's desk. Finally, nearly 2 hours after waking, I was admitted to the hospital. All that pain but instead of a 200lb. woman wielding a sledgehammer, mine was inflicted by a miniscule but deadly brown recluse spider.

Are you there Rod, it's me an asshole spider!

They let me keep my leg.

For the next two weeks, Casa Grande Regional Medical Center was my home sweet hell. My leg looked like a giant hotdog except when you squeezed it, it resembled a stress release ball. There were a few pleasant people to mention. There was John, the funny physical therapist, who rubbed my leg back to health and Roxie, my dad's favorite nurse. I thought I was on the brink of having a new stepmom. As the Fourth of July rolled by, I still lay in my craftmatic adjustable bed hoping for one that included being out with my friends, drinking and watching fireworks. In lieu of all that, I had nurses, painkillers and the sound of fireworks in the distance. God Bless America.

And The Winner Was.......

On May 19, 1994, Jackie O died in her Manhattan apartment. I learned this as I sat at the foot of my luxurious twin bed watching the details unfold on my 13 inch TV. I cried a little. Its safe to say, I was most likely the only 4th grader in Coolidge, if not Arizona, to do so. It was a Thursday.

one of my favorite photos of Jackie O

As a child, I had a crazy obsession with dinosaurs and the Presidents of these United States. Naturally, this obsession included the First Ladies. I had somehow convinced myself that I would meet her one day. As if one day she'd be passing through town and I'd see her leaving the Gallopin' Goose on my way out of Shope's IGA and we'd exchange double kisses. She was one classy broad. Sadly, Nancy Reagan still trolls the earth.

The next day I managed to pull myself out of bed and start a new. It's no wonder I'm an alcoholic. After a grueling day of 4th grade coming to a close, it was time to kick off my shoes and have some fun, so to speak. This wasn't just any Friday, it was Miss Universe Friday! The World Cup of Hair Extensions for crying out loud! Before the pageantry called high-waisted early 90's bikini bottoms could begin I got sidetracked in neighborhood shenanigans. This ain't a stickball in the streets kind of story.

Across the street from my house, beyond the giant open lot, there was a sea of concrete pipes, dry grass and tumbleweeds. It was a young boys ultimate playground. Actually, when I stop to think about it, that place really could have been a vagrant rapist's Marriott oasis. We used to play like gerbils there and that day was no different. Along for the fun times was my little brother Ralph and Carlos "Hondo" Ybarra, the funniest humpback I had ever known and trust me, there has been some stiff competition over the years.

Like any sensible idiot in a field of dry grass, Hondo was brilliant and brought a lighter. We took turns lighting patches of dry grass and nothing would seem to remain lit. Before I know it, we were all standing around a large tumbleweed singing O Christmas Tree as we tried to burn it. I don't know what the hell we were thinking. Who the hell does that? I blame Ralph. For some reason, that damn tumbleweed just would not burn. You have to understand my shock when Ralph picked up that tumbleweed and tossed it over a patch of dry grass. That's when the shit really hit the damn fan.

We tried to light so many different patches of grass and sort of given up on the idea but when Ralph threw that tumbleweed the grass burst into flames. Now, Hondo wasn't the smartest guy I had ever met but he did give me some sage advice that day that I chose not to take. He simply said RUN! I decided to stay and try to put the fire out. So like I said before, I decided to kick my shoes off to have some fun. By fun, I mean taking my shoes off to beat out the fire. Seemed like the thing to do. When the fire got as big as my front yard is when I decided to run. We were so close to getting away but the fact that we were only 4 blocks from the police station really didn't help our flight.

Next thing I knew we were standing in front of my house with a police officer and Miss Congeniality herself, Mary Reyes, emerged from 408 N. 1st St. Her look said it all but in all actuality her words did. I will always remember what she said to that cop. It still echoes in my ears. Officer, you can arrest me now because I am going to beat these kids black & blue. With that, the officer left without saying a word. Lucky us. We got told to go to our room. We all know what happened next.

With butt cheeks clinched tight, the belt went a flyin' back and forth. Honestly, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I don't think Ralph did the clinching maneuver as he cried a lot longer than me. Mary left us in the dark and told us to go to sleep. Then I heard her car start and head off into the direction of the police station. Sensing she would be gone for some time I had the common sense to turn on my TV. Perfect timing. The winner, for the first time ever, was Miss India.

YOU BUY!

Growing up, there were two Asian families in Coolidge, AZ worth mentioning, the Dongs and the Ongs. Hand to God no shit, the Dongs and the Ongs

The Ongs owned a Chinese buffet. I mean how cliche. They might as well have opened a nail parlor or some other sort of Asiany thing like a Filipino Prison Dance Camp. see below

Unlike most rural Chinese restaurant owners, the Ongs played a small role in my childhood development. Sure, their daughter Rita taught me how to stuff hamburger meat into wonton wrappers during Mrs. Frasier's comprehensive lesson plan of China but it was only a matter of time before I mastered wontonery on my own. My most memorable moment involving the Ong Clan came when Gregory Reese a.k.a "Fat Man" approached Rita with some legitimate requests outside of her father's restaurant. First he asked her to "speak some Spanish to me" and when she made it quite clear that she didn't any he threw potato chips at her. Her dad ran him off with a broom. I don't know why I was there but I was. Oh, to be in 5th grade again. I never knew what became of "Fat Man" but then again I don't read the Wall Street Journal as frequently as I should.

The Dongs owned Coolidge Market which of course was on Coolidge Avenue. They lived one street over in a green two-story mini mansion that sat on a larger than average parcel of land on Lincoln Avenue. When I was younger we seemed to go their store much more often than in my teen years. It must have been their everyday low prices on various Mexican foods and what-have-yous that kept us coming. I really did hate going into that place. It just reminded me of being poor and I surely didn't need that kind of reality check as a little kid. That dose of reality would come much later when I realized I shouldn't own a credit card or let alone an Abercrombie & Fitch card with a $500 balance.

Anywho, back to being poor. I really wanted some strawberry wafers and like most chubby children, I decided not to take "No" for an answer when it came to food. Momma Mary wasn't going to let me have them. So then I had this genius idea of putting them up my shirt. I witnessed my first successful shoplifting only a week prior when my little brother stuffed a World Wrestling Federation magazine up his shirt at Safeway. No one would ever think to look up there. Well, normally they wouldn't unless you were wearing a skin tight t-shirt with a noticeable brick planted underneath. Plus, the oldest Dong daughter saw me do it through the cleverly placed high tech convex security mirrors. You better believe I was thrown out of that place so fast the wafers hadn't even hit the ground. see wafer ears
My mom didn't spank me; however i was sure that something would ensue. It never happened. I just remember her marveling in my stupidity and my downright lack of cunning and her deriding glare as if to say what the hell was that kid thinking? when she ultimately just laughed it off. I didn't step foot in that place again until I was 16 and ready to buy cheap beer and liquor from those crafty Chinamen. Little did they know, that the little boy, who, only ten years prior, had attempted to swipe strawberry wafers was now illegally buying a few bottles of strawberry Cisco. The sad thing is that I am more ashamed of drinking Cisco than I am of shoplifting strawberry wafers and getting caught. What does that tell you of my value system?

Hiding Poop, Like a Cat Does!

Picture it, Coolidge, Arizona 1990. A sprightly young lad wearing his favorite Spuds McKenzie t-shirt, not unlike most kindergartners who enjoy an animal spokesperson for his beer, finds himself walking with the rest of West Elementary to the auditorium for some sort of performance.



It was a warm day not unlike today, with blue skies and what not. Not a care in the world, until, I felt that rumble in my tumble that let me know that this little tamale needed to hit up the boys' bathroom, stat. My blatantly lesbian teacher Ms. Herrera wasn't available to take us so we had the school's resident crone, Mrs. Reed, accompany the class. Once they herded all the kinder into the auditorium I made my move towards that old crone and asked if I could go to the bathroom but much to my chagrin, I was rejected, cold school style! She looked at me as if I had just asked her if I could use her lap as a litter box. I now wish I would have, right down to throwing kitty litter in her boobs and using her face as a scratching post.

Rejected and despondent, I returned to my seat. To my left sat Juan, a quiet boy that was not unlike a moth. To my right sat LaWill, who, was really proud of his mother's gold teeth. He wanted me to be jealous but I refused. Who doesn't want gold? Not I, especially if it meant looking like a crack addict but I digress. I disliked both boys for separate reasons. So I guess I didn't feel as bad as I should have when it happened. Like many a pregnant woman and those sentenced to death by electric chair, I lost control of my bowels right in the middle of that damn auditorium.

To think, the same year that Nelson Mandela was released from prison is the same year I released myself onto that upholstered seat. I panicked. How does one escape such a precarious situation unscathed and undetected? Light bulb! I would just ask Juan to switch me seats and that would remedy everything. As if, us switching seats meant that suddenly my Batman underpants were poo-free. Let me tell you, it didn't. Sitting there, in the next seat over, I squirmed and wiggled as if I were auditioning for a Preparation H commercial. I probably would have gotten the part.


After sufficiently ruining Juan's seat, I decided that my old seat didn't seem so bad after all. So, we switched back. Always one to be restless, I asked LaWill to give me the old switcheroo too. Sadly, he complied to my ghastly request. Unbeknownst to him, he would not only have to change seat but his pants too upon someone recognizing that a fecal felony had taken place. I must have been very convincing to get kids I disliked to sit in my poo seat. Talent apparent, age 5.


The performance had ended and to this day I couldn't tell you what I had been watching only that I was giving an Oscar-worthy performance, a little left of center. Somehow, we managed to be the last row out of the auditorium which meant I had to make myself the end of the line. Bringing up the rear as some would say, only leaving some behind in the process. So a little white lie about tying my shoe to hold me up from the others was concocted. The thing was, at that point in life, I didn't even know how to tie my shoes but my reputation at West Elementary was on the line. Not that I had one but if I did that would've been the dumps!


To this day I will never understand how I was able to pull that one off without being detected. The shear smell alone would have been an indicator. Did everyone have clogged noses that day? Why wasn't I sick with this mystery nostril affliction? Did everyone go to a party that I wasn't invited to and contracted this problem? Was there cake there? I wonder why I pooped my pants that day? The past always has a funny way of making you ask questions of yourself, no matter how sad (pants pooping) or delicious (the cake question). Most would have the shit scared out of them in that situation but then again I wasn't most kids and I had already lost some during this journey.