I have been an active human. I was walking at nine months. A lot of walking, lots and lots of running, plenty sprinting, some swimming, miles and miles of cycling, and more wrestling than you homophobes could take and it has all culminated in voila ~ a knee injury. I initially hyperextended my left knee on the soccer field at the end of a game last fall. I didn't go to the doctor back then cause I didn't think I had hurt it that bad. I thought I could rehab it myself. And I was scared. I was scared of surgery and I was scared of the MRI machine. Stupid really. Well after months and months of having a fragile knee and after at least a couple of reinjuries I decided that I better go see a doctor. He thinks I have a torn ACL. Whoopeee. I get an MRI on Monday Morning. Hooray. Although at this point I am ready to do anything that it takes to be active. I have always said that I want to play soccer until I'm 55. That may not happen but I would like to play into my 40's. We'll see what happens.
Its all so very corporeal.
I prefer meta physical things.




There were a few formative moments in my path to becoming an artist. Moments from my childhood that I can remember with a clarity that most new VHS tapes don't even posses. VHS is a notoriously shitty format but then again so is memory. The first formative moment that I can recall came in first grade. I was a bit of a troublemaker and I had the feeling like I just couldn't do anything right. Well, I think it was around Halloween and our teacher announced a monster drawing contest. I worked really hard on my monster drawing. I should know what a monster looks like, at the time I had no less than 15 monsters inhabiting my room. Well I won the contest and I got a certificate and my mom framed my drawing. For the first time in school, I felt like I did something right and my teacher, Mrs. Norsworthy, seemed proud of me for the first time. But that's not the moment that I came here to tell.
This is what I was thinking of~
Flash forward to second grade, Mrs McLaughlin. What a mean old bitch. Yeah that's right if you are out there Mrs. McLaughlin you were the worst teacher I ever had. So there we were, I think it was about the middle of the year cause I had come to grips with what a Grouchy Groucherson Mrs. McLaughlin was. We were coloring something and it was for an assignment. I was sitting next to my friend Chad. Hey Chad, if you are out there Whassup. I was mixing crayons on the page to create new colors. I was never one for following the rules and staying inside the lines or any of that crap. The colors provided to us were limited and so I was improvising and mixing two colors to create new colors. Chad must have thought this a capitol idea and so he too began to mix the crayons. All of the sudden I could feel the glare of the beast behind us. Mrs McLaughlin leaned down to Chad and said~
"You are doing that wrong."
Chad, with some amount of confusion, retorted in his defense~
"But that's the way Matthew is doing it."
And she said~
"Well Matthew is doing it WRONG."
I couldn't believe it. First I couldn't believe that she didn't even address me on the subject. She just said it out loud so I could hear in what I can only guess was her attempt at being sly. Moreover I can't believe that she would discourage that kind of spirit of innovation. I was pissed. I don't think I'll ever forget the contempt in her voice and how she chose to pick on my friend instead of me the real culprit. Doing it wrong eh Mrs Bitcherson. Well I'll show you. I will become the greatest artist of my generation then we'll see who is doing it wrong. I haven't achieved that goal yet but I am an artist and if I am doing it wrong, I don't wanna be right.



As former Deputy Minister of wordiness for the Beverage party of America, I found this very interesting.


Viva Technologico...

...of course I can't seem to figure out how to put a link in my post. What a Sucka.




I have writing ambitions. They are not new. I have wanted to write a novel for many years now. I have even tried. In the past I have started writing what I would hope to be lengthy works. Out of laziness or lack of skill or lack of experience I have not been able to finish anything over fifty pages. I haven't tried to write something lengthy in about 4 years now. My 28th birthday is on the immediate horizon. It is time again to try and write something of length and hopefully also something of substance. I hope I have gained and ingrained enough life experience to see me through. I was reminded of this today because I stumbled upon a website.
It is the definitive website of my favorite author. It is this guy who inspired me to take novel writing serious. He has published 2 new books since I last paid attention.
If I had a mentor I think I would choose this guy.
These posts may start getting a lot longer.
This is the shortest thing that I will publish for a while.
Except for my rhyming posts.
And my timing boasts.




Oh by the way... I QUIT. Do you hear that Universe? I Fucking Quit. No more searching for love from me...
The Deputy
Matthew Rampage
Does hereby cease and desist ALL attempts at finding love in this god for fucking saken excuse for an existence. Not that I was trying that hard lately. I haven't chatted anyone up in quite a while. But seriously, I am through with trying to date, I am through with passionate love-making, I am through with the false hope that someone is going to come into my life someday and "complete me." Oh sure, I had given up on "true love" a long time ago. And sure I am still young. But I have essentially already become a bitter shallow shell of my former Romantic self. I would just like to make it official. And what could be more official than a blog proclamation. Well here it is. I QUIT.
No more "Hey baby what's your name, what's your sign, Oh Leo huh, I like Leo, can I have your phone number baby, you look smokin' in that tight halter and low cut jeans, baby you are the finest thing in town, maybe I could call you sometime and we could get to know each other and blah blah blah..." No more game. No more takin it to the hole. Fuckit.
I'm going to cultivate my crab apple side, yeah that's it, I'm going to be a grumpy old man at the ripe age of 30 (in two years that is). I am going to get me a scary dog that will terrify the neighborhood kids. I am going to shave my head for the least amount of hassle and the most amount of baldness. The Old Bachelor people will call me. People will whisper, "that's The Old Bachelor, oh he never married, and no children, poor Old Bachelor he must be so lonely, pity pity pity." I think I'll pick up a few new bad habits and I am for fucking sure canceling my gym membership. I am going to let my nose and ear hair flourish and I am throwing out my nail clippers. I am going to start buying identical sets of clothes and I will wear the same thing day after day. I think I'll do a blue jeans and black polo shirt with black boots look for this year. I think I will look for an internet site that can officially marry me to my cable box, that way when people ask, "were you ever married?" I can answer morosely, "I was once, then I got a satellite dish."
This will give me a chance to pursue my interests. Which should prove insightful for the fact that everything I have been interested in up til this critical juncture in my life has hinged around girls,or women, or dames, or boobs and butts. So lets see, I like art, nope that's not true, I just thought girls liked artists. Uh lets see, I like music, no that's not true it just seemed that where there was music there would be girls. I like reading, no that's not true either, I just always wanted to seem well read around girls. Well see, this is a great opportunity to discover the real me. I think I'm gonna find that I just like eating meat and killing stuff. Am I too old to join the armed forces? At any rate, this is a breakthrough. If you have enjoyed my flowery writing in the past then too fucking bad, that's all over now. I was just doing all that stuff to impress girls, in hopes of finding someone to love. You better go into my archives and copy and paste for your own records cause that Deputy is dead. Its a whole new day. Viva la bitterness.

if you give a damn or wish to change my mind or maybe you are an ex girlfriend and you wanna have sex with me one more time before I throw out my nail clippers please write me at




Proper Margarita

Never order a Proper Margarita from an Irish barkeep.
Case in point.
I was in St. Petersburg. Not Florida, Russia you fool. I was with Elena the Russian Princess. We were staying in an empty apartment that her Aunt and Uncle owned. We were having a grand time. It was the first week of June so the days were very long. In fact the twilight lasted till about 2:30 am and the sunrise began about 4:30 am. Elena was insistent that while I was in Russia I just had to see a ballet performance. I was reluctant but at the time my will in the face of the Russian Princess was weak, very weak. We went to see Swan Lake at the National Ballet House there in downtown St Petersburg. I prefer the symphony or even the opera as far as cultural experiences go. The main thing I remember about the ballet was that we were in the nosebleed seats. The stage was way too far away to catch any nuances of the dance. C’est la vie.
After the performance we, along with hundreds of other theatergoers, went just across the street to an Irish Pub. Not only did St Petersburg have its share of Irish pubs, it also had a pretty decent Mexican Food restaurant “La Cucaracha” go figure. So there we were I was drinking Guiness and she was sipping Martini. Not a Martini, just Martini, like Martini and Rossi sweet vermouth. The ladies love that shit in Russia they mix it with anything. After a few rounds we started chatting with the barkeep. He was Irish and good looking and cocky and I think he was flirting with the Princess. I was being my usual genuinely nice and naive self. He was bragging about this and that so I asked him, and here’s where I went wrong, “Can you make a Proper Margarita?” Now being from Texas, I know exactly what a Proper Margarita tastes like. I know how to make it and I know how to drink it. Well, this jackass assured me that he knew how to make said drink and he would be happy to make one for me. This would be a good time to mention that the Irish are the kings of sarcasm. I think maybe the word Irish is related to the word irony. He said that he needed to make the drink in another part of the bar where I couldn’t see it being made. I would normally have protested profusely at this aberration but being in the company of the Princess one must be on their best behavior. She assured me it would be alright and just let the nice Irish boy do his job.
So the drink finally comes after no short amount of time waiting for it. Its frozen style, which I dislike in the first place, but I try it with an open mind, especially since I had made such a big deal about it. I take a sip. Tart, bitter, bad are descriptions came to mind, understated descriptions. But with the Princess right there and with the guy acting like he is being so helpful I just grinned and said, “Oh yeah, that’s good, a Proper Margarita alright.” Now it could be that the Irish Jackass barkeep had just made a simple rookie mistake, no Triple Sec or other orange liquor which is essential in any margarita proper or otherwise in order to cut the tart of the lime juice. I like a splash of OJ in concert with the Triple Sec but that’s some advanced shit that I wouldn’t expect any Irish barkeep to know. But what’s more, I couldn’t taste a drop of alcohol, of any kind. This made me mad. Or maybe it was the ballet that had made me mad. Or maybe it was the weakening of my will in the presence of the Russian Princess that made me mad. Whatever it was, as I sat there and sipped my glass of frozen lime juice I got madder and madder. The barkeep seemed to smirk at his little joke. Smirk at me then smile at her and my anger grew and grew. The Princess was unhappy with my behavior and we began to argue. I remember settling up quickly and spilling out into the twilight of the white night all the while still arguing with the Princess about the principle of having been served a virgin cocktail by some smarmy Mick. We argued into the cab and all the way home and once again my temper had gotten the best of me all over a stupid cocktail. I learned a valuable lesson that night.
You gotta let shit slide or you will be the one sleeping on the floor of a Soviet era apartment.
Of course I haven’t able to put that lesson into practice yet but I think I’m getting better. I hope this has been enlightening.



Beatdown Saloon

Somebody sold out and shot down the neighborhood saloon
They had been thrown out of there too many times since the ides of march last june
The same downtrodden soul had been spinning a fake cocoon
That's what had driven that chrysalis to decrypt those ancient runes

Mr Ambition and his band of sullen scallywags
Found a spot at the bar next to Mr Contentment and his cadre of late-day lusty hags
Ambition said to Contentment, with contempt for his rags
"May I sit there and chat a bit and smoke one of your fags"

Sit down said Mr Contentment with naught but cheer to give
Its not my place or time or distinction to tell you how to live
Drinks were flowing fast and free in the saloon that I forgive
But Ambition couldn't drink enough to finally put away his shiv

The sun was sinking low when Mr Ambition summoned the nerve
To stab old man Contentment, and rid this town of his lack of verve
Mr Contentment took it in his heart with a knife that had a curve
And the barkeep could do nothing but watch as his last drink he did serve

Ambition and the scallywags poured into the street and cheered
But waiting in the dusk of day was the lawman who'd just appeared
The Deputy had come to town, they knew not where he was reared
His steely glance and gun of chance were the objects they all feared

"Ambition" cried the lawman, in a voice made out of gold
"Your days of killin lawlessly are like molasses done run cold"
The murderers all drew there weapons which dated back from days of old
But The Deputy just stood his ground his soul was awful bold

The Deputy with gun still holstered drew on his cosmic power
The steely weapons of the scallywags turned to chicken grease and flour
Once rough tough men but now made small in the shadows they did cower
Now only foes, the one would win, the other he would devour

"Ambition" shouted the lawman, in voice filled with decree
"Lay down your guns, cease and desist, don't make a killer of me"
Ambition whistled and called his horse and he began to flee
They all in fact made for the horizon till none the eye could see

The Deputy went to the bar where the dead Mr Contentment lay
He summoned healing powers and kept eternal night at bay
Mr Contentment raised his head to find his glass half full of chardonnay
He thanked The Deputy for letting his heart drink another day

Now a memorial marker stands where the saloon once drew men in
The days of magick Deputies' have scattered in the wind
The end of this tale is the catalyst for a new one to begin
Its about the marriage of the Deputy to an Asian named Chau Nguyen




I'm from Lubbock Texas. I was raised around a special brand of urban cowboy. You could always spot the "cowboys" by the ubiquitous accoutrement such as boots, buckles, tight wranglers, colorful brush popper shirts, and 10 gallon Stetson hats. These folks were usually varying levels of good old boy to straight redneck. There was a huge vogue in the 80's whereby if you were a member of this strata of society and you drove a pickup truck it was necessary to drive with your truck's tailgate in the down position. The thinking was "I git much better gas mileage with it down like that, less wind drag you know." 'Course that doesn't really work as any engineer will tell you by lowering your tailgate you actually ruin the aerodynamics of your truck. That's a different story, let me get back to the point. I always tried to distance myself from any of that shit-kicker bullshit. To me the whole scene smacked of conservatism, ignorance, and as a result institutionalized racism. If not those things it at least reeked of tribalism. Not to mention the fact that most of these folks were kinda city folks and their cowboy garb was wholly symbolic. And the music they listened to didn't appeal to me in the least. Hot Country, bleech. All this added up to a feeling of being a little embarrassed by my heritage. 'Course my ancestors were real cowboys not urban shit kickers.
Now let's flash forward to my 25th year on this earth. I had up until this point managed to identify with other, maybe slightly more enlightened, segments of the populace. I had never in fact owned a cowboy hat. I was living in San Francisco in the great state of California. Now whenever I would tell someone where I was from...well, let's just say that certain world events had recently rendered Texas one of the more unpopular places in the world in the year 2001. I wasn't really prepared for the force of anti-Texas sentiment that I encountered in Cali. I of all people understood this prejudice. It was the same sort of judgment that had always made me feel a little humiliated about being a Texan. At this stage in life I understood that Texas represented the biggest and the worst of all that's bad and wrong with America. However, in meeting someone it is generally best not to judge and especially not to pre judge based on the place on the planet where that person's peephole opened, in this case Lubbock Texas. That renders the person doing the judging a big ole hypocrite. But that's the kind of ugly stuff that makes the world go round.
Anywho, I decided that since folks in San Fran were gonna judge me anyway based on my regional roots that I might as well get me a cowboy hat so I could look the part. The better to shatter your preconceived notions and expectations with my dear. So... down in the heart of the Castro, that's right my narrow-minded brethren, Homo-Ville, I found me a cowboy hat that was a perfect secondhand fit. It was purchased by someone special to me, we'll call her Ms Mariposa, cause that's her name, and bestowed upon me as a gift. It was a beautiful suede model that was light tan in color and like I mentioned before fit me like one sequined glove. When I got used to it and the reaction it raised in people it helped me to finally feel liberated. For the first time I felt like I could embrace my own culture yet not act like the stereotypes within that culture. That hat made me feel free. Soon after that I got a couple of hand me down belt buckles from my Grandfather and way out there in Californey I became The Deputy. I became a parody of a small town law enforcement officer who gave up the law and was destined to make the rudest deep night dub tracks the sticks has ever 'erd. Now my selection COME NOW. I was also one high as hell, hippied out cowpoke.
I wish that I hadn't had to go so far to find myself. But I am glad that even though it was hard and confusing I was able to recognize the shabbier traits of my West Texas culture and stand my ground through my childhood and early adulthood. I am also glad that there came a time when I was no longer ashamed of my culture and had the resolve to show each new person that I met that all Texans ain't the same. I miss that hat. It died in the fire of '01. I guess I only had it for about 6 months. I learned a lot from that hat. One thing that I learned was that far a field from my home state the cowboy hat is as effective a costume as say a clown costume. People didn't treat me like a person when I was wearing that hat they treated my like a clown, uh I mean cowboy. I have tried to replace that first hat. I have a fine one now that's well worn but nothing can replace your first.
Gotta go now, I gotta fetch my horse from the hitching post and amble off down to the stock tank so Old Zulu can get a drank of water. Psyche.




Some people are off the hook
Some people are off the chain
I'm off the pipe...

...cause I smoke spliffs fool
ya betta aks somebody.

humpday , what?




I been thinkin about levels today.
There's levels of everything.
Levels of interest, levels of attraction, levels of experience and levels of understanding. Levels of temperature, levels of elevation, levels of pressure, and levels of depth. Everything has a level of complexity, whether its a song or a blog or a rock or the atmosphere. As you read from my last post there's levels of Hip Hop, as Tupac said in Hit Em Up " You mutha fuckas ain't even on my level, I'm gonna let my little homies ride on your ass." There are levels of accuracy when quoting someone. There are different levels in a department store and there's different levels on a wedding cake. The levels of light in a photo are very important as are the levels of sound in a recording. The string theory talks about levels of vibration and the fact that other levels of existence might be right here right beside us and since our molecules aren't vibrating at the same level we cannot perceive those planes. I am at a certain level in my art career. I call this the "beginning of the time of selling out" level. There's levels of income which the IRS uses to determine your level of tax or your bracket. Levels are relative and they depend on the rank of the other levels in the corresponding context. Now level as a word can mean a number of different things.
Things need to be level so that things don't roll away or slide off.
That's not the kind of level I'm thinking about.
I can handle the truth mate, so just level with me.
No, not like that kind of level.
See that termite mound over there, level it or suffer the consequences.
Nope not that shit either.
I had a lunch today that was on the house at a fancy steak joint and I really lived it up but it all felt above my level. If I had a creedo at the moment it would be ~ There should always be forward progress ~ This is being put to the test because I am trying to reach the next level. I realize that my level of insight here may be cursory but it sure helps me advance to the next level when I faithfully write down here the swirling mass of thoughts that sometimes cloud my level-head.




I bought three CD's this weekend. I was taking a little road trip and I needed some new tunes to keep my mind and soul occupied. Here is the rundown in order of importance. I would like to add that I had only intended to buy one album but I got giddy in the Hip Hop section and I ended up with 3, slight error in judgment it turns out.

1. KANYE WEST ~ The College Dropout ~ This is the record that I went in the shop to buy in the first place. This recording is going to be hailed as the best Hip Hop Album of 2004. I've known about Kanye for a long time it seems. I know he produced the Jigga Man's H to the IZZO and some other notably well produced tracks but only recently has he been signed to spit some shit himself and subsequently blow the fuck UP. Well in this, his debut recording, you get a taste of real no nonsense, thought provoking, lyrical rude boy business, straight from Chi-town Strong. This is real hip hop, no fake thug scenarios, same old tired scenes up in the video BS. Kanye's use of old samples that have been pitch bent to the highest highs is one of the most innovative techniques to emerge in recent years. And his lyrical style is one of care and concern and it drips slow like the J Hova himself yet had the thought provoking qualities of say Talib Kwali. Aside from Outkast's latest release, I haven't enjoyed a Hip Hop album this much since Mos Def's Black on Both Sides and that is sayin something. I haven't absorbed it all just yet but it feels like I can't say enough good things about this record.

2. THE NEPTUNES ~ Clones ~ I am a fan of the Neptunes, I think their production is innovative and I like the N.E.R.D. project a lot. That being said, I am a little disappointed at this collaboration record. Their are some good tracks, I like Frontin with Jay-Z and Pharell and I like the Nelly entry If but I think overall this collection is a little weak. I especially don't care for the R&B shit with Kelis. I think they use their left over shit when it comes to Kelis and any other R&B sounding stuff. Their is another track called Good Girl (can't remember the artist) that is mucho debil. Their are three straight rock and roll tracks with Spy Mob, the band the use to back the N.E.R.D. project, that I could live without. I am not sorry I bought this one but I could have gone to i-tunes and just downloaded the track I wanted. Overall its OK, mostly I like the electric sounds that Chad Hugo comes up with using his synthesizer.

3. LIL FLIP ~ U Gotta Feel Me ~ Um sorry Flip, NO I don't gotta feel you. In fact, I ain't really feelin you at all. I try to support Texas Hip Hop, which consists primarily of Houston crews like Ghetto Boyz, UGK, DJ Screw and the likes but I really don't care for this particular brand of dirty south thumpin. The beats are OK but the rhymes ain't sayin shit. Also, the production is such that the recording level on the vocals is low so that you and your crew can bump it large out your trunk. I have an OK system in my car but I'm rarely bump-casting to the neighborhood. And If I was I don't think I would be bumpin Lil Flip. Sorry Mr Like A Pimp, I tried to support H Town but ya'll just ain't sayin nuthin but the same old thug-life biz and I'm happy to report that Hip Hop is progressing.

Long Live Kanye and for god sakes people, if you go into a store to buy something specific, stop there and things will be gravy. Maybe?



One Breath

There's this place in Austin called Barton Springs. Its a spring fed swimming hole that is actually part of Barton Creek. Its deep and wide and cold. The water is usually crystal clear. Its the place to go when the weather gets warm. There is a big green hill where all the hotties and hipsters soak up their sun. Its peaceful and shady and lush. I go there at least once a week during the summer.
I have this ritual whenever I go to the springs. It was taught to me by my guru and he learned from his master before. When I first dive in the pool I try to swim as far as I can in one breath. The pool is about 45 yards wide, its actually much longer but psychologically its much harder to swim a long way lengthwise in just one breath. And in truth 45 yards or 135 feet is a long way to swim in, like I said, one breath. There are stages to this ritual that have to be executed a certain way.
First you must hyper-oxygenate yourself. This entails a time spent sitting and breathing, and breathing deep. During this time you must imagine the test in front of you. Its mostly daunting to sit on the hill and look out over the pool and imagine that one breath will take you all the way across. This is the stage in which you must believe that you can do it or you are bound to fail. During this stage ya gotta relax and believe.
Once your extremities begin to tingle you know that your body has enough oxygen so that you can deprive it for a minute or two. Now its time for the entry into the water. You need a good entry to propel yourself the initial distance. Its hard to get much of a run at it because about 8 feet from the edge of the pool is a concrete step up to the hill that itself is about 2 and one half feet tall. You kinda have to start there. Also running around the pool edges is frowned upon by the life guards. So you take a couple of steps and try to enter the pool in a smooth sea lion like fashion. During this stage you gotta relax and believe.
Now once you are in the water you have to fight the urge to fight the water. Your puny human intellect might tell you that to get to the other side in one breath you should get there as quick as possible. This is entirely untrue. If you try to get to the other side fast your body will use up its minimal oxygen supply in seconds. The key during this stage of the ritual is to relax and believe and swim slowly. Here it is most important to really relax all the muscles in your body. Not a stroke should be taken as long as your entry dive is still propelling you forward. Once your forward motion has almost come to a stop you should gently push your arms forward and make a long smooth stroking motion, remembering to cup your hands for the optimal water displacement. As you reach about the halfway point in the pool this is where the fear might set in. If you aren't prepared your mind will falter. You might think to yourself,
"I will never make it to the other side in one breath, I need air NOW."
The key here is to relax and believe. About three quarters of the way across there is a shelf in the pool bottom. This reassures you that the wall is close. At this point it is OK to kick a little bit although my guru recommends against it. He can go from one side to the other and back in one breath, which is something I will be working on this summer. Until now I have only been able to get to the other side and come back maybe ten feet before really running out of breath and panicking. At the shelf, your mind is really cleared from all the oxygen the lack of it. Also you have deprived your senses for about a minute now and your mind turns to deeply meditative things. Sometimes you conjure questions that in the hustle and bustle of life you might not even have thought to ask.
The final stage of this ritual is the feeling of accomplishment you get from conquering your fears and doing a little something that others don't even attempt. Now you can go about your day and just enjoy the springs. It is not a spectator sport. Folks hardly even notice what is going on. The lifeguards don't even seem to take much note. And I know its not much compared to the feats of the deep sea divers but to me its a triumph each and every time.
Viva Verano.




The sun is shining so hard today that I think I'm a gonna leave work early and go play some disc golf...
stay tuned for tomorrow's tale about swimming



'Serendipity' part 3

One day I met an Angel. Not an actual angel but that was her name. I was riding home to the Sunset on the L Taravel Muni Train, like I did most days when my work was done. I remember that I was reading 'Atlas Shrugged'. Each way was a long train ride. It would take an hour one way for me to travel from the Embarcadero station all the way out to the last stop on the other side of the peninsula. The first time I saw this Angel I was maybe a bit intoxicated. From liquor and crystal that is, not simply from the sight of an Angel. I was having trouble concentrating on my book. The substances swimming in my system had me wired like a new cable modem. Everything seemed to have an ethereal glow. I don’t know if that was foreshadowing or just the fact that I was indeed quite high.
I think she got on at the Powell Street Station. The way this creature moved caught and held my glance. She was gliding, as if the train wasn’t the only thing on rails around here. She had a countenance that appeared both wise and naive at the same instant. I don’t think I had ever in my life seen a smile so radiant and purely joyous. I was sitting facing the aisle. She sat facing the front of the train just to my left. To look at her I only had to turn my head maybe 30 degrees. Or strain my eyes to the left searching my peripheral. As we traveled through the underground my book soon became no more than a prop that helped me conceal my sense of awe and fascination.
She saw me too. Or maybe she just saw a boy looking in her direction doing a poor job of concealing his attention. We made eye contact a number of times along the way. I wanted desperately to hear whatever she was bumpin’ in those headphones. I think I managed to keep my cool throughout the underground and on down the hill towards the ocean. When I got to my stop I passed right in front of where she was sitting. I stood up, moved cautiously toward the exit, grabbed the pole to steady myself, my knees felt weak. As the doors opened finally, I turned to her and smiled. She said calmly and politely “bye.” Somehow I also managed to work my voice-box and as I stepped off the train I also simply said “bye.” I strolled off into the night blissfully intoxicated.
Now I didn’t mean to mislead you. I said “One day I met an Angel,” and that’s true, it just wasn’t that day.
A week or so later I found myself again on the same train as this angel. This time I tried to hide my interest a little better. Also our relative seating positions weren’t such that eyeing each other was so damn obvious. For most of the ride all I could see was the back of her beautiful braided head, sporting those headphones that once again sparked an almost uncontrollable urge to be listening to the same track. I stayed on the train longer this time so I could see where she got off. The train went all the way to the bottom of the hill. This is where the Angel made her exit just as the train turned right for it’s final loop towards Sloat Ave. This time no words were exchanged just a polite smile. Her presence had begun to create that feeling in the pit of my stomach that is commonly described as butterflies but I know better as ‘the churning of the fear’.
Although I didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to offer any words to her, I was so moved that I turned to a young cat that was one of the few souls left on the train and said “damn that girl is fine.”
He looked at me like I had just lost a tennis match. His retort cut like a knife “Too late now, you shoulda told her.”
Gutting. He was right. I should have asked her name. I should have said something. I vowed to myself that I would talk to her the very next time I saw her.
More than a week passed. Every time I boarded the train I would search. I knew that if she lived on the same Muni line that someday I would see her again. That day just happened to be San Valentino’s Day.
Now I don’t think I need to go into any detail about my abhorrence of Valentines Day. I’m sure the feeling is widespread, especially for those lonely souls who happen to be without significant other on the big day. Gag me please. I was indeed one of the aforementioned lonely souls that fateful day. I woke up and everything was quite normal. I struggled down to the Muni stop and I distinctly remember feeling quite groggy.
I was sitting facing the back of the train car. The sun was shining bright that day. The light had a certain late winter crispness to it, illuminating everything as if it was in a catalog. All of the sudden, at the second stop, I caught a flash of pink in the corner of my sight. I looked up and there she was, the mythical angel. She smiled real big and said “Hi.”
Cue symphony, cue cherubs, cue bubbles.
All the sudden I was filled with the strength of a thousand Romeos. I tried to match the wattage on her smile and I said “Hi, what’s your name?”
“My name is Angel, what’s yours?”
She sat down and we began to chat, all about the lovely things and then all about the ugly things. She asked if she took my e-mail address and she wrote to me would I write back. And I was all like ‘duh… uh yeah!’ I was basically dumbstruck I couldn’t believe this serendipitous occurrence was happening to me.
I learned alot from that Angel. Its not always about me. And one should be aware not to put too much on it. And you best watch yourself or your bound to get clowned.
What would follow would be the extraordinary events that would fill a little memoir I like to call 'Ms. Mariposa and Sr. Sol Rude Up the Universe'.
Stay Tuned.



Hindu Wedding

Rawk... I went to a Hindu wedding on Saturday. It f'n rocked. The ceremony itself took about three hours. But unlike Christian slash American weddings you didn't have to just sit there and pay attention. You were free to get up, mingle, or as in my case, go to the bar. There were lots of distinct sections to the Vedic Ceremony, and there was a lot of chanting. I like chanting, it helps me get into a trance. I would sit there and listen to the holy man do his chants and the bride and groom had to refrain and I would find myself totally trancing out and the Cosmic energies seemed to fill the room and my heart. There was also a lot of elemental aspects of the ceremony, like fire and water and rice and orange powder. It was actually a Hindi Girl marrying a White Boy. His name is actually Whiteman. As the ceremony played out in Sanskrit I started to hear the holy man say white man. I thought that had somehow entered the liturgy in this case but then I remembered that Robert's last name is White Man. It sounded funny.
This wedding was so much better than the traditional American slash Christian service. I think I wanna marry a Hindu girl or maybe I should just convert. Our culture is so very good at stripping the true ceremony from things. suckas