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Este Pinche Guero

November 8th, 2005

I just last-minutedly detoured myself from sending two emails with potential to be to my detriment. Or, at least embarrassment. Dumping them here in this EPA Superfund candidate of a dumping ground.

Here’s the one reponding to a very successful writer friend’s mass mailing ensubjected “Re: writing quote of the day.” Being ensubjected myself, I wrote the following:

Oh, that Auden! He’s some character, isn’t he? I’d really love to believe that, his latest self-evasion action, but I can’t.

Hoping You’re Humilia-Free,
ds

— FK wrote:

> Art is born of humiliation.
>
> W.H. Auden

And now a longer thing, more artily humiliating, sent to a tight group of friends after news of an adoption effort turning out to be successful (in so far as its going-through):

A lot of congrat-like things to those who merit.

For years I’ve heard talk and seen type regarding Alisa’s santeria; I guess you have to have a temple recommend to be let in on it.

The fact that I can count on Sean to stick up for West Jordon and Fountain Valley as circumstances demand gives me a sense of security and stability in this fickle world.

I like dry ribs a whole lot. I also like ribs that haven’t been broken on the whim of a 35-year-old who thinks he can drop-in on a redneck halfpipe in front of a live(ly) and high(ly) illegal female audience (”The Age,” here in the more Southern of the Carolinas, is 17) just minutes after slapping some griptape, a pair of Independent trucks, and a quartet of Spitfire wheels (just like the olden days) on a 7-ply, 7.7″ deck factory-signed by the latest young, non-competing soul skater with two kids, a mobilehome in Australia, and a real bad need to un-Hawkt-ivision the sport of those anarchist kings who kickflip by day and flip shortorders by night. After all, it wasn’t all that long ago that I did the same.

When my thumbless girlfriend was an MFA Badboy–I had already spent good time following the BID (balding in denial) around the surgical center as if he were the Pied Piper of Provo (but before he converted me to Darrellism my interest was no more than to discover how such a disfigured person could win a Betty Brunetta with cheeks composed in a ratio either representing or replicating), but I get distracted–as I did then–and, well, as I do now todavia.

What I’m trying to say now is that, after all the Hellcat Crazy Toura and annual birthing classes hasta la completion, I’m somewhere between scared and sure that I am no longer a keeper-upper with Senior Skat-Eh Swa-Veh. But it occurs to me that such a thing may not be problematic; besides easily side-stepping the pain of breathing against a bone-dry and laterally cracked rib, I find, in these barren childless days, that I’m just about as happy passing half an afternoon lazily (as if there where another way! )taxonomizing the personality-revealing [macro-levelly, of course] naps comprising the “normal” tactile experience offered by the furniture generally favored in this part of the country.

At about that point I lost steam and fell asleep despite my wild gesticulations, causing me to bite my tongue fairly severely. Such a thing can be done quite severely; take it from me.

Entry Filed under: Lifin