An Old Friend...

A decade ago I swore off Tequila.

It's the devil.

I married a girl because of it.

That said, a dear friend brought a bottle to my house a few weeks back, — a bottle which I promptly lost, because it was one of those nights—, anyway, I discovered it hidden up in the eaves of the addition we've been slowly putting up on our shoe-string budget.

It is beautiful. There's a clarity of mind that shots of straight Tequila possesses that I used to associate with Jack Daniels. But Jack has become an old, worn out, annoying sort of friend who brings nothing to the table but misery. Jose on the other hand has brought something special tonight.

You know, I've often spoken about how drinking lets one touch the Devine. You have a few and "poof!" you are communing with God.

The problem is that alchohol is a deceptive mistress. As are most mistresses, but that's a subject for another post. You drink a bit, and you are suddenly God-like, ethereal, in the Garden with all of the tame, happy, non-meat eating animals. And Alchohol whispers: " if you've drunk half the bottle and feel this good, you'll feel twice as good if you drink the rest."

Bitch.

So you drink the rest, and you end up falling all over yourself and trying to explain to your spouse that you "really, really, loooovadflakdflakdsjf 'love' them"... then you pause to pee or puke... and come in and start over again... and if they're understanding they let you do this, and quietly sort of hug you, — at arms length—, until you pass out. And in the morning they start to bitch at you, but realize in your booze-fueled frenzy you managed to do the dishes, the kids long-division homework, and set-up the coffee machine for the next day, and they leave you alone.

The problem with booze is this: a few drinks, and you craddle the face of the Creator in your hand. A few dozen more, and the ugliness that is man burbles to the surface and you are left alone, out of control, and wallowing in your own filth.

Well tonight I am at that point where I shall be wallowing in my own filthy, unworthy, and incontrollable anxiety and despair. But I'll post this before tossing back another shot of the glorious gold liquid and sitting down to watch Keiffer Sutherland torture Arabic sounding American actors on the national past-time now known as "24."

I’m Having a Crisis of Faith... and a Beer

I spent the last seven years working for a family run Catholic publishing company. We were saving the world, and the Catholic Church from itself. We were indeed more Catholic than the Pope. We sold books, traveled around giving talks, raised money from old women under the auspices of preserving Catholic traditions. We were busy saving the miscellaneous detritus that the institution they loved had cast off over the last three or four decades.

Somewhere along the line I stopped believing.

I don’t think it was the homosexual scandals. If you’ve spent any time in the industry in the last couple of decades, then you’ve known about it for a lot longer than the media has. It's always been the deep, dark, ugliness scratching away at the veneer of piety.

I remember an acquaintance remarking about how you couldn’t go to the drinking fountain in seminary without someone reaching out to grab your ass.

That was fifteen years ago.

I think maybe it was just the slow realization that I was immersed in an institution like any other non-profit, politically motivated group with no viable product to offer that makes loud, angry noises about how they know what’s best for people, yet people don’t see the need to pay for their services.

I despise politicians, activist organizations, and other "humanitarian" groups that have the answer to all of our problems, yet can’t seem to run financially viable operations. Maybe I’m just a die-hard capitalist, but it rubs me the wrong way...

Humorous interlude now-

So I’m hanging out in the house with the baby right now. She comes ambling up and announces:

"Daddy, I popped!"

She’s at that age where announcing to the world every time you poop your pants is actually a sign of intelligence. I think to myself, how cute... popped... she meant pooped, but that’s OK. Then I look over at her...

"Holy fuck! You did pop!"

And there she stands in a stinky pile of that explosive kind of diarrhea that blows out the bottom of your pant legs and through the top of your turtle-neck. The kind that only one year olds in diapers get, and is invariably filled with raisins and frozen peas.

"Don’t move!" I scream, diving for the baby wipes, as she scampers away.
Full tackle. Poop everywhere.

Why is it that kids think its funny to started squirming and trying to run away when you finally get the diaper off and are cleaning them up? Hey! That dumb old balding bastard is finally mine to toy with... Watch this! I’ll wriggle and wipe poop all over his hands. Then you finally hog-tie them, get them cleaned up, and are about to pierce their ankles and leave them on a hill to die of exposure, and they batt their eyes and cuddle up to you...awe... heart melts, and they get to live to poop all over you another day...

Anyway, I’m done with Catholics for a while. I can’t even step into a church without getting palpitations and feeling hair follicles forcibly ejecting what few strands remain on the top of my noggin. This is a point of some minor contention in my mud hut, and will doubtless lead to many a shouting match in the future. It’s not that I don’t still hold to the fundamental tenets, it’s just that I need a break. I want to be a person in the world who just happens to ascribe to a particular set of beliefs, and not one who ascribes to those beliefs and is constantly broadcasting them to any and everyone they encounter.

We’ll see how it goes.

For now, I’m going to have another beer.

Girls are Pretty and Nice as Long as They're Dancing Naked and not Talking

Many apologies for not posting in the last six weeks. I was kidnaped by a neighboring tribe, and forced to preform horrendous sexually deviant acts with livestock... It was an initiation rite of sorts, and now I am there household god.

Seriously, I quit my job of the last seven years, and took a new position at a manufacturing company that caters to the law enforcement market.

The downside is that I actually have to learn a new market, company, distribution network, etc.

The upside is that I can now walk to work, I’ve traded in desk accouterments of bibles and icons for MP5's, Colt Sporters, Benelli Pumps, and I can smoke in my office.

I have also inherited an office dog by the name of Cornelius who puts Cerberus to shame.

Seriously, this is a gigantic, vicious, jet black Great Dane who lives only to devour small children, cowardly office workers, and the UPS guy. Now I’ve known this dog since he was a puppy, and I made it quite clear to him that I taste like hollow-point bullets. You bite me, I put one through your head. Just like the last one that bit me that’s buried in the back yard.

So every morning I show up with a pocket full of processed cheese and little chicken bits.

We’re getting along swimmingly.

***
Christmas was grand. Miles of trekking around to the folks and the in-laws and boxes upon boxes of really annoying flashy blingy siren type toys. Too bad they stop working when the batteries run out.
***
We had our annual post-Christmas bash two weekends ago. There were horses, and a man on fire, and I killed a guy with a trident. Or rather we murdered a few dozen handles of Captain Morgan, had a big fire, and wrapped it all up around 5:00 am on a Sunday.

Which leads me to the headline...Life needs more pretty, naked, dancing, mute girls,... and less Church.

Or at least once or twice a year.