When exactly did you gen-Y l-users start to use the term “sucks balls” pejoratively?

Christ! I wish to God I had more things in my life—from home appliances to furniture and fixtures—which sucked balls. I’d never leave the house—or spend $50 in Pioneer square after dark—again!

Did I say Philistine? I meant Pharisee.

Did I really say Pharisee? I meant Luddite.

I couldn’t have said Luddite, could I? I meant Saducee.

Did I just say Saducee? I meant not me. That’s what I meant.

All along.

We learn that Brown and bubbly is a registered trademark of PepsiCo, Inc. which defies conventional wisdom that the patent held by Mexico City on Montezuma’s Revenge would protect the intellectual property.

You, you, you make a grown man cry. You make a dead man Come.

My chronic nosebleeds aren’t from cocaine use, mom.

I’m so far above it is all.

When grandpa Viv kicked back in ’86 on my sister’s birthday there turned out to be some money left over from the moonshining great-grandpa Viv had done to the federales during the Manhattan Science Project. So pa Viv decided it was time to liberate me from the ’77 Volkswagon van I’d inherited from my drunk aunt Katrina. This liberation came years too late to prevent me from the self-same thing pa Viv’s attempt to prevent me from with another chapter of the embraces had caused the detonation of the family Five local.

Still, a deal is a deal.

Pa Viv drove me about ’Burque and Fantase to see cars and make sure I didn’t agree to any of those salesmen tricks being just a baby spending a couple dead men’s cash. Boy, can my old man turn his back on someone who costs more than he’s there to pay. Boy.

One shop was a Mazda place and I got to drive a really sporty thing with one of the salesmen who was dressed like Hitler’s moustache if Hitler’s moustache was rich, had great taste in wool suits, and wasn’t attached to a genocidal maniac’s upper lip.

We were driving—well, I was driving, he was making sure I didn’t crash or steal the car—and talking. I was so into music then; trying to break into it, as well you know. And he asked me about music.

It was the blooming red tide of rock between the all but simultaneously deaths of John Bonham/Lennon and the slight return heralded by Guns N’Roses, Jane’s Addiction, and Nirvana. There were a few flickers of hope from Grand Master Flash, Van Halen, and AC/DC between, but only one band that wasn’t writing shite better suited for Broadway than a 24-piece Tama kit in a concrete arena: Living Colour.

The natty as nailpolish car salesman in his $750 china tea wool suit told me he liked jazz. I told him how much I loved Living Colour.

Fuck Living Colour for being black and embarrassing me in front of that nice car salesman who was also black.

And fuck Michael Dorn’s cousin for embarrassing me for asking her if she was related to him. She was.

I’ve only been online for a few days now but I’ve already made many, many friends who send me dozens of emails each day; though frankly some of it is so personal, I’d rather not discuss it right now.

One of the recent ones that I think is general enough to address with you, my reader, included this question:

Want the sex life to be like it used to?

You mean infrequent, followed by screaming matches and holiday gun play; random or at the whim of a completely unemotional older woman working her way through a salon of bucks fortnightly, leading to overly frequent trips the the restroom and eventually to get a 4 inch wood swab up the weiner and the worst sunburn of your life from the tetracycline?

No. No, I can’t say I do want the sex life to be like it used to.

“Oh, what a darling little girl.”

“Thank you. He’s a boy.”

“Oh, he’s so cute. What’s his name?”

“Vivian.”

She stares and smiles and blinks. And smiles.

“Isn’t that usually a girl’s name?”

“Are you calling me a girl?”

“No, I mean. Of course not. I was just saying that all the Vivians I’ve known have been girls.”

“Are you calling me a girl?”

“No! We’re not even talking about you. I was talking about your son’s name.”

“He’s Vivian MacAlpin Five. The seventh.” If I’d only had the presence to tack on, “His name is my name too,” for good measure.

“Uh. What?”

“My name is Vivian. My father’s name is Vivian. His dad’s name is Vivian. His dad too. Not satisfied that there were yet enough Vivians in the clan, his father’s name is Vivian and so on. So I’m gonna ask one last time.

“Are you callin’ me a girl?”

She had a cell phone and 911 ringing faster than I’ve seen it done, and believe me! I’ve seen it done in haste.

The police officers and I also had a lovely conversation about Christian names and whether or not there was anything sharp in my pockets which I felt they needed to know about first.

The issue of National Geographic sitting on my desk is wrapped in brown paper, like a dirty magazine except not so dirty that it’s unwilling to print its name. A dirty magazine that is only dirty enough to give an 11 year-old a boner and only every 5th issue detailing the ever dwindling world of the shirtless savage.

Orión is from Africa this week. I say “this week” because he is not from Africa 20 years ago. Though he is every so slightly from Africa a blip on the radar more recently than I am from Africa, which I am. I don’t like to brag about my ancestors, though, and neither does Orión.

I do not know what is more bizarre; that I find 30 days early that I do not owe the IRS $33,000 as they had previously indicated, ex caeruleus! or that I’m off the cyclobenzaprine with a full bottle left constantly cajoling me for not introducing him to my hydrocodone friends.