Monday, January 31, 2005

Nothing, Nada, Rien.

Nothing can change what you mean to me; no one can make me change my mind and my feelings towards you. Nothing and no one. But every statement is a question in itself, as well as every question has an answer between it lines. The real power lies inside that very same power.

Nothing can make me change my feelings towards you; except, of course, nothing. But not nothing whatsoever; nothing from you. That is the only thing that would make me change, or to put it in more plain words: that very same nothing, from the only one from who I expected something, is what would prompt change.

To change out of nothing, or because of nothing . . . odd, very odd and very silly. Stupid, yet so powerful.

How could life change so much due to the very lack of something, the lack of words, the lack of phrases; spoken or written; of love or hate; of miss you or miss you not; but words for Christ's sake! Change prompted due to nothing, that nothing that you've become. That silence, so complete and total, so loud and evident, yet so silent.

When you chose to choose silent?

Of all alternatives; of all the possible ways to end whatever there was; of all the possibilities that all three languages that we speak have to offer, you just chose silent. Couldn't you at least have waved your hand? or a finger, even the finger would have been enough for me to know. I just want to know when was it that you decided that silence was the best way to say something, whatever it was, that has turned out to be that blank open space full emptiness.

As not to answer is an answer in itself; and to choose to not do something is indeed an action; silence says more, today, than all those I love yous that one day were said so many times and so often that I thought there were going to be enough of them to see, one day, your eyes in our daughter's.

Today her eyes smile down only in my thoughts, as a distant dream, while you are becoming more and more a cluster of distant memories, soon to be killed in these endless nights of liquor.

Your image moving slowly to mirror what you've become today: an immense nothing.

Sunday, January 30, 2005

Pictures! For Crying out Loud!!

Mrs. Piazza. . . not bad, eh?!Why the hell do you publish a news that reads "Piazza weds 'Baywatch' Playmate" and post no pictures whatsoever with the story. Not even a damn link. Nothing. Why?!

If you don't have a picture to go with that story, I'll say bury that headline deep inside that shitty page before using the word "Playmate". Is like if you say "New Nude pictures of Paris Hilton engage in you-know-what made public" and don't upload shit. Not even a photo of Paris in Jeans and a t-shirt at least, you know what I'm saying?

I know that you guys at CNN want to have your web site all PG friendly and shit, which means no pretty girls whatsoever but plenty of blood, as long as that is not American blood of course. But that's your business and therefore your ass, not mine.

HOWEVER, if you mention words such Playmate, Nude, Bikini, New Porn Video and so on, you have to, I mean: YOU HAVE TO stick at least picture beside your paragraphs. How come torture is fine but not a pretty girl?!

All the snow has melted

Well what do you expect?! This is the south, cold weather down here is as rare as a Liberal; and snow lasting more than few hours is as strange as a Latino with red hair who doesn't drink sweet ice tea and doesn't go to church on Sunday mornings. And I don't play golf either and don't have a mortgage and don't mow my lawn on weekends.

I am as stranger as an stranger can get in this town full of shopping malls, churches and restaurants. Stranger in Strange Land my friends, no doubt about it.

Saturday, January 29, 2005

SNOW! (2)

The parking lot down the road...? I only wish!I love snow! I don't know what the hell I'm doing here in the South, I should move up north! I indeed took my car to the parking lot of a middle school that is just down the road from my condo, and boy did I have fun or what?

I discovered that my car has rear traction, therefore the fun of spinning in the snow covered parking lot was double. I did all kind of crazy things at different speeds. I know my mechanic would have said that I was crazy, but what the fuck. The best two things in life -after sex and food- are snow skiing and having fun on the snow, with your car.

I had to work today from 2 PM till 8 PM. Of course when I was coming back home, driving at 25 MPH, I stop at the parking lot. But the snow and therefore the fun was gone. I stepped on the gas and the car went straight from 0 to 60 MPH; no spinning, no fun, the snow is melting.

Tonight there's going to be some rain and the thermometer is going to be below 32 Fahrenheit, so tomorrow I hope the parking lot will be like a hockey rink and Jean-Francois will have then some serious fun.

Do I get a ticket?! But why?



I was just thinking . . . do you get a ticket if a police catch you?

Well if they do, they do; and if they don't, they don't. But not even a ticket will stop me now, and tomorrow James Bond in "Die Another Day" is going to look like a boy ridding his bicycle compared to my stunts.

If you don't see any more blogs posted after this, then is because I hit the school's small power plant that sits beside the parking lot and an explosion sent me "packing".

SNOW! (1)

Yeah! It's snowing in Charlotte, NC! aLL rIgHt!!

I should say "Thanks God!" that finally we have that white powder covering all the sins in this city -white powder meaning SNOW, not the other one of course. And well God, after 59 days of nightly prayers asking you to please get those dumb clouds together to get them to do some job finally you heard my prayers . . . or was maybe someone else's?

Next year, if I'm still stuck in this city, I'm going to start praying at the end of August to see if the "miracle" happens before. But I'm also going to invoke someone else, just in case, to see how effective that "other person" is.

I'm going to hell anyway, so how about if I just start reaching across the aisle?

PS. Now I'm going to take my 2.4L, 16-valve, DOHC and I'm going to take it for some spin in the snow covered parking lot! Alllll Riiiiiiight!!!!!

Friday, January 28, 2005

A Question of Race (1)

Nicole duFresne, only 28 years old and shot dead
While checking out CNN I saw a headline that read: "Actress shot dead outside New York bar". Thinking that it was going to be a famous star, or perhaps a "once upon a time" famous personality I clicked the link. The actress was a girl named Nicole duFresne, she was not a Hollywood star, but an actress/writer making her way through the NYC theater scene.

Only 28 years and shot dead in NYC, just outside a bar. She was with her fiancé and a couple. One of those crimes that show the stupidity of it all. A life worth a few bucks that the robbers/murders got, if at all.

I tried to re-create the moment Nicole, her fiancé and the other couple were leaving the bar; the robbers approaching them, the brief conversation demanding all their money, and the even briefer shooting. The robbers will then leave by foot, running like hell, hiding their guns in heavy coats with deep pockets while Nicole duFresne struggle to breath for the last time in this planet.

As she lied on the concrete, her fiancé would have taken her in his arms, trying to hold her head from falling backwards, yelling to please call 911 while at the same huging her close to his chest.

Trying to hold her hand still warm, he would have said to her a couple times "everything is gona be all right, all right" but seeing her eyes close and her chest flat, not taking any air, not breathing, he would have realized that things were not going to be all right. He would have picked her up in his arms, her blonde hair hanging in the air, blood stained, he would have tried hiring the closest cab on the street to go to the hospital. Everything happening so fast, all so confuse, yet so clear.

While re-creating that scene, and after seeing her picture, I could imagine her long blonde hair and her scarf stained with blood and dirt lying on the concrete. And I could see the robbers, I could see them very well. . . and then I got scared, I got really scared. Scared of myself and my mind and at the same time ashame of my thoughts. What I saw was a group of perhaps 3 to 4 man, blacks, African-Americans with big jackets, oversized pants and basketball snickers. That was in my mind.

The article doesn't mention who, how many or how the robbers look like. Doesn't mention their race, age, or type of body. Nothing, absolutely nothing about them. But still I imagine them being African-Americans; not Hispanics, or Asians not even White-Caucasians, or Native-Americans. I imagine them being African-Americans.

WHY?! That was the question that popped up in my mind. While Nicole's fiancé is asking himself the same question, mine has a different tone. Why did I imagine the robbers being black and not from other race. Furthermore, why the first description that comes to my mind is a racial one, why the color of the skin is the first reference that my mind gets? Why is still at this stage in my life, after all that I've been through, after all the different people that I've meet across the world from different nationalities, colors and beliefs, the racial stigma comes to my mind first.

That is not an easy question to ask to myself and the answer is certainly not easy. Is a very complex interconnection of beliefs, values, experiences and what comes to be our unconscious mind. I could blame the TV, that's the easiest way out of this question; or perhaps the culture where we live in, but that would be to just to "cut and run". I should be able to look inside me, deep into my education and the things that have made me who I am today; and still I should be able to not come with an answer. There's not a single and simple answer to this. Not even a long and complex one, I could barely approach this issue from various perspectives and be aware of this, be aware of the struggle that lives inside me, be aware that I am sometimes someone that I don't want to be and someone who has a set of beliefs that I don't want to belief in. That I am a set of stereotypes that are buried deep inside and that I don't fully recognize.

The secret of finding things lies in the questions that you ask yourself. Answers are not necessary and I belief is futile to try to come up with one. An answer is not going to change a feeling or an event, it may explain a little tiny angle of the question, but it will not satisfy the question that prompted it. I could read a 5000-page book on how our mind creates and stores stereotypes and therefore why that image in my mind, earlier today, of the shooting. But the questions that govern my unconscious has to be found there, deep inside my mind, a place where we still don't know how to get there, a place we barely realize exist even though it governs us.

The question of race . . . that's the question, and therefore the answer.

I dream of a day when a new Secretary of State is sworn in, and the Majority Leader of Congress doesn't have to say that she is "the first African-American woman" to be named for such position. Or when an Attorney General doesn't have to be referred as the first "Hispanic" to be nominated for that office. I dream of a day when we don't have to say that this is the 41st white-male to be president. I dream of a day when people come in no colors to the human eye, neither to our unconscious mind. When people refer to other people based on a description other than the color of our skin, or any color at all. A time like Belize's description to Roy . . .

". . . like a big city overgrown with weeds -flowering weeds-, on every corner a wrecking crew and something new and crooked going on . . . windows missing in every orifice like broken teeth; a crippy wind and grey high skies full of ravens . . . big dance palaces full of music, dance, and racial impurity and gender confusion. And all the didiers are Creole, Mulatto, Brown as the mouths of rivers. Race, taste, age and history finally overcome . . ."

A place in time and space, where human beings are treated and considered as such, regardless of color, race, age, national origin, religion, gender and believes.

A place in time and space without shootings, where Nicole duFresne, 28, is still with us.

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

ONCE UPON A TIME -by the Moody Blues

My Very First CDThe very first CD I owned was a compilation of hits by the Moody Blues. I didn't buy it though, I stole from my sister. And she didn't buy it either, someone she didn't know at some family reunion gave it to her. At that time we didn't have CD player at our home or a PC, caller ID or microwave.

Years later when I was going away to college I took it from the bottom of one of her dresser's drawers, and put it in the side pocket of my suitcase. Ever since I refer to it as my CD. And I always displayed in a visible place, so that girls could see that I had CDs, well, a CD. One that no one else had seen before. How cool is it to be unique, ah?

Few years down the road I got the chance to play it on a CD player, for the first time, the first time ever. The Moody Blues, I had no idea what that was -there was no internet at that time, therefore I couldn't "Google" it. I played with the proud owner of a CD player standing beside me. "It is kind of slow music, Dude" -I told him when asked what type of music was that. I had no idea, but it was indeed slow music when you're in your very early twenties.

I liked it; liked it very much; so much that I use to wake up with it when I got my very own AIWA Sound System. Beautiful music I have to say. So much that my roommate and best friend took it from me, and told me years later when he was living in Spain finishing his MBA: "Yo! Jean-Francois, I have your CD, man".

One day later on, in a small ceremony he handed me back that CD, "Moody Blues' Hits", my very first CD. Needless to say it was the very first CD that I saw live, and the first one to come into my home. The one closest to my heart.

Before coming to the US, I went back to my home town to spend some time with my parents; to visit again those common places that saw me grow up; to see the friends that I made when we were all pre-pubescent and full of questions and plans; to take one last look at my roots before embarking in what seemed to be like a great adventure.

I took the CD with me and put it right where I took it from so many years ago, at the bottom of that drawer, that very same drawer. My sister was gone, had been gone for years as I had, her room turned into a guest room and the drawer didn't store her clothes anymore. It was empty.

I've just hung up after talking to my family as I do every week, when we share stories and thoughts and good wishes. My sister moved back to our home town not long ago and is living with my parents right now, back in her old room, with her old dresser.

There was a very familiar melody playing in the backgroud tonight when we talked, a melody of a Once Upon a Time . . .

No More Stoopid

That's it, I'm not writing anymore about my co-workers and their stupidity. Enough of that topic.

Today one of them was having a very bad "hair day" and I had to be around her all day, a pretty bad idea. To my mine came hundreds of posts about her, about other things that happen there, and about other stuff that has been happening lately. Being as organized as I am, I wrote down the main ideas behind those soon-to-be-posts while they popped up in my mind, frothing at my mouth with the idea of posting them in these pages and trashing all the moments and the people that inspired them. My heart pumping plenty blood all over my body with the thought of getting rid of all that negative energy right here in this blog: "I'll trash, judge, curse, insult, send to hell and expose these people and those situations!" was my thought when I stepped on the gas of my car on the way out of the parking lot.

But then, that voice that I've been hearing all day in the back of my head got louder by the minute; louder as I started singing those hits from the 80's that play non-stop in some of the local stations; louder when I stopped to say hi to my mechanic and to chat with him about nothing for a while; louder as that burger that I had for lunch was getting digested in my insatiable stomach; louder, as the afternoon slowly started to give way to the evening and the daily commute.

Now it doesn't seem loud anymore, it is just a nice and sweet voice, whispering, very low in my ear while caressing the back of my neck. What was loud was the other voice that I heard throughout the day, and that shout right into my ears all that poison and that crap that I wrote down in a piece of paper; a piece of paper that is gone now, buried in deep in my trash can in pieces, never to see the light of the day again.

The whole idea behind having this blog is to try to get to know and understand myself better; to try to know what kind of person I am; to have a record of the situations that I went through and how I handle them; to draw conclusions and lessons out of my actions; to have a memoir that could eventually help me solve or perhaps inspire someone else -or myself- to reach and get higher. This blog is for me to become a better man, better friend and lover; better boyfriend and confidant, a better professional in my life and a more prepared person. It eventually will help me be a better husband and father, when the time comes, and overall a more just and fair being.

As I wrote in my first "Stoopid", I had refrained my self from writing that post, and it was a good decision. To actually write and publish a post on that topic, and then to publish a second one was a poor choice. Those are the type of posts that will poison someone's heart, leaving a biter taste in the mouth. Not worth. It is also a very slippery slope, where I would pretend that I'm on top and the more people around me try to reach me, the more they'll keep falling; like quicksand, the more you struggle to get out, the deeper you'll get.

Having say that I just have to add that you don't have anything to worry about: my Sarcasm is still intact, my pen is sharper than ever before, the ink will flow as bitter as it always had and in as many colors as there's blonde hair girls in this world - yuuuhuuu!

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Hope? My Ass!

Now, check out this story published in CNN and tell me if it is not the most shallow and non-sense story ever:

Title: Democracy Finds Hope in Iraqi Town

"Although most say they don't know who the candidates are or where to go to vote, they say they will vote come January 30".
"'We get our information from the TV. But then the power goes out and we have no TV," one man says."
"'Do you know when the elections are?' Col. Tucker asked a group of five men. 'Yes, it's the 29th,' one answered."

Democracy my friends, is based among other things in the free flow of information from the government to the people. Likewise, Democracy needs well informed people that knows who the candidates are and what they stand for. In America the twist of information leads to misleading, but that's a whole different story.

These people don't even know where they have to vote; and don't even have clear WHEN the election is taking place. By the same token, do they really know what to expect out of this democratic exercise? Does it sound hopeful to you? If your answer is yes, cut off your head, it has stopped working.

Idealism, that Bushspeak of Freedom and tyranny and Democracy has to be preceded and followed by Realism, which the actual thinking of things, the planning, the numbers, and we all know that George W. Bush is not really any good at using its mice-size brain.

Yearbook

That Yearbook had been open for quite a while, white and black pictures had been showed and stories told based on those static and smiley faces. While they were sitting on his bed, his dog, a white lab was sleeping under his desk, unaware, as well as he was, of the question looming:

"I bet you've fucked all this girls, haven't you"

That question was asked locking her eyes with his and looking straight into his pupils. She didn't bother staring at his honey/brown eyes that 15 minutes ago had been protected by prescription glasses. She dived right into his pupils and went straight into the deepest corner of his heart.

I bet you've fucked all this girls, haven't you"haven't you . . ." He could hear the echo disseminating throughout his entire body. It was not a "have you . . . ?" type of question, it was a "Haven't you". That is normally asked by who already knows the answer, and doesn't expect one. She expects a reply, a reaction, and you better don't have your pants down when trying to come up with one.

She doesn't ask questions trying to find or trying to catch a lie, neither to make him nervous. That's the kind of statement asked with that self confidence in her eyes that could make the most "macho" of the group, tremble. Paul, his best friend would have said that if he was the most macho of the bunch he wouldn't have to be answering questions, I'll be asking them! Poor baby.

"I bet you've fucked all this girls, haven't you".

This was asked one time; and letting a second pass before replying could seem like 9 years in a force labor camp up in Asia. She didn't smile and didn't expect one; don't bother clearing your throat before replying, she'll be gone before that; starting your reply with an "eh . . ." would just make her act like if she had never known you. Even if she went this far to sit in your bed with you, wearing that little skirt while your parents were at that fundraiser.

Every time he's caught off guard, his Latino accent gets thicker and words don't flow as easily. That night however, his accent was as southern as a sweet ice tea, and his mind sharp as the sword that that Ninja used to kill his enemies with in that movie that he saw few days back while trying to fall sleep. And yes, he did reply.

When he walked her to the bus station later that night, she knew she wanted more. But not right now, it had been enough, plenty is the word that she will write in her diary. Plenty, in capital letters and few flowers around his name.

Many years later at the divorce court, she would remember him through the word "plenty" shouted by her lawyer in his closing statement: ". . . plenty of evidence, ladies and gentleman of the jury! . . ." She would get 50% of her husband's millions, plus the custody of those brats.

But she would realized then what she already knew: that the most "macho" of the group, was the one who shared with her the stories contained in his Yearbook, many years ago.

The Day Jean-Francois Met Them.

As I approach the door half way open to the small conference room in the corner, I can feel my hands sweating with anticipation. My mind is playing over and over again, like it always does, the different possible scenarios that could go on inside that room: from a hand shake, the way that girl will be crossing her legs, the questions they might ask, all the way to the time when we say bye-bye and shake hands for the last time in there.

When I instructed the receptionist to grant them visitor passes and to take them to the small conference room in the corner -that particular conference room- it never occurred to me what has always been in my mind. I've never realized before, that no matter how important or how many people I was going to met, my first choice was always that small conference room in the south-western corner of the building. A big chunk of the people that work on my floor are gone by 5 o'clock; and those who stay are clearly lock down in their offices trying to wrap up whatever they manage to accomplish that day; their mine focus on the rush hour and their suburban homes. Maybe the reason why I like that conference room in the corner, the south western corner of the building, is the warmth that you can feel in there in these early winter days, plus the magic of witnessing a sunset.

Walking slow but with confidence, my chin up, I take a deep breath and without loosing thrust I cross the door and step into the conference room.

There's three people sitting on the opposite side of a round table, all facing the door, all locking their eyes on me: scanning me, watching me, judging me, trying to get a first impression of me that will last for the rest of their lives, trying to read on those two steps that I took inside the room, on my neck tie, my perfectly polished black shoes, my brown eyes behind prescription glasses whom they've just come across with, and above of all, if it was worth at all.

I already know their faces and names, their real names. I know what they do for living, what they like and dislike, what they eat, what moves them, what car they drive, what their background is, who they consider a friend and a foe. Without knowing them, I do know them.

On the other hand, they know what I stand for and what I think of a whole variety of topics. But don't know a single detail of my life, perhaps they know some things about my daily life, a couple of stories about my job and know a little bit of my love life. They know as much as they have been able to figure out, and as little as I've told them. Don't even know how I look like, other than my description and a picture taking when I was 6 years old.

But they wanted to know me, and it took them a great deal of effort and time to find me. Why bother? Just for the thrill of it I guess, increased when I told them that they would have to find out who I was, because I was not going to tell them.

Those two steps that I take inside the room, while looking at them, where towards the wall-size window that showed a perfect picture of the city at dusk; that yellow sun moving slowly towards the line of the horizon among the skyscrapers. I lean against the bulletproof glass window, my left hand inside my pocket while I hold a blackberry in my right hand.

This is my favorite room in the whole building -I say looking outside, like if I was talking to myself.

If one day I make it all the way to the top, I'll put my office here, right here in this corner, and then I could say that I reached one of my goals in life!

I turn to them with a tired yet "ice breaking" smile, just to find a brick wall in their faces. They're still analyzing me, trying to figure out how my red hair and my strange accent fit in their previous picture of me. I would say they look puzzle, not knowing what to think yet.

I turn my head towards the window, and while the last rays of light reflect in my face I keep talking: Sunsets remind me of my childhood, and somehow of my Dad, even though I can barely remember him by my side while I was growing up. I would say late summer sunsets are my favorite ones. Those red tones in sky, reminds me that Fall, my favorite season, is just around the corner.

Then I recount a couple of unconnected stories about my childhood, spent outside the United States in a whole difference universe -both geographical and in time-, but they don't say a word; they don't need to. It is my turn to talk and they are eager to listen.

Stoopid (2)

Kick'em out of the window!I get to work this morning and all of my co-workers are already sweating for their paychecks. They're all busy -or at least they look busy- and there's movement, action, I see people walking up and down doing stuff, asking question, pretty much everybody wired to what they have to do.

As I'm such a cool red-haired guy, I always arrive in style; say hi to everybody, get a drink of water and pretty much go and figure out what the hell is going on that particular day. No need to rush or stress myself; I know how things operate and I know that if energy has to be burned, it is never that early in the morning.

One of my co-workers is working hard, polishing some silver pieces for an event later that day. I approach him, and ask him in a very polite way "So, what's up?" -and I make it sound like a "hello". Well, this guy starts telling me how hard it is to polish that piece that hasn't been polished in 3 years and that it's always him who has to do it and so on. I point out that I polished that very same piece less than three weeks ago, but that due to the heat of the sterno, that looks like shit.

Anyways he pretends he can't hear me and keeps bitching about it so I ask him "Do you know what's wrong around here? what's really wrong?". As he has too many things to complain about in his head he struggles to answer, but before he can reply I say: ". . . people bitching about evertyhing; fucking people that the only thing they know how to do is to bitch about stuff".

Some of the other co-workers turn around, while I add.

"If I was the boss around here, I mean, if I had the power here, the first thing that I would do is get all those people that bitch and complain..." and at that time other of my co-workers, like if she had just discovered warm water, says: "you'll fire them!".

I look at her and spell every word as carefully as I can looking around:"No! I'll kick'em in the ass and throw'em out of the window! That's what I'll do". Now everybody -almost everybody- starts laughing and making fun of the fact that we work at the very top of a tall building and shit, one of them starts moving his arms like wings, the other says something about a parachute, and the girl add something about buffalo wings that make the volume of laughter hit the roof.

When everybody calms down, I then turn to the guy that has been polishing that shit non-stop and ask him: "So, what's up?".

Monday, January 24, 2005

YMCA

Quarter til 9 PM and I'm heading for the gym. Need to burn some energy.

Is either that or crank a porn movie.

Sunday, January 23, 2005

Today

I'm going to blog only once. Including this post.

Saturday, January 22, 2005

Just Did

I've just cooked the shit out of those lentils.

What did they think? That they were going to see February sitting lazily on that shelf? Hell no!

I'm going to be flushing ya'll down the toilet in no time!

I Support Abortion. Period.

I do support abortion. Period.

If you want it, go get it. Period.

Stop by a clean clinic, where a doctor with its license still good and a nurse will take care of you, where you could also get prescription drugs for your body and mind. Period.

I do support abortion throughout the whole range of reasons for it: from a victim of rape, to that girl who doesn't want to tell her parents because she doesn't want to be punished, therefore not being able to hit the mall with her girlfriends and her dumb boyfriend on a Saturday. Period.

I do support abortion. Full stop.

Even more being the middle child.

My older sister was lucky my parents didn't get rid of her but got married instead.

My younger sister was even luckier my parents were still having sex after 13 years of marriage.

I, on the other hand, was the result of a plain-o-night of carefully planned hot sex, and I was very well wanted and expected.

Maybe that's why I'm the most fucked up of all.

EVEN IF

I may just sail through it. . .EVEN IF I plan it for weeks, I know I'm not going to be able to make it on time. EVEN IF I catch every single traffic light on green, I know it wont be enough.

EVEN IF I leave hours in advance, I know the bell is going to ring right before I cross through that door.

EVEN IF time was to grow on trees, I will always be few fruits short.

EVEN IF the speed limit was converted to the metric system, that green light looming on the horizon, will turn stop-red by the time I reach it.

EVEN IF I'm about to break the sound barrier on a 35MPH zone, I know the traffic light will smile at me showing its yellow teeth, just to roar with laughter by the time we're face to face, showing its stop-red tongue.

One day, whenever I get tired of blogging, I'm just going to sail through that red light on my 2.4L, 16-valve, DOHC, soon to be turbocharged.

I may write a post about it. Or the local newspaper will do it for me.

Wooden Floors

I like'em, I like wooden floors. Specially in a condo. A house with wooden floors is all right. But a condo where you walk on wood, day in day out, turns me on.

Getting home at night and turning the light on, just to discover a sofa sitting on a wooden floor, makes my heart rate rise. A lamp in a corner, smiling down on that hardwood floor, makes me want to have sex right there, right in that corner, right under the dimmed down light of the lamp. My knees destroyed. Her back hurting, scratched.

Underneath this 15-year old grey/green/blue carpet in my condo, there's wood. Cheap wood. Construction-type of wood. Not hardwood floor though.

Getting home at night to see my poor sofa lying on that carpet, day in the out, makes me want to move to Boston.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Sunday Bloody Sunday

I woke up today and my stomach was upset, big time. My head hurts a little bit and it’s still dark and cloudy outside. No birds are singing, squirrels are not looking for food as they normally do. My internet connection was down for quite a while, but after several “work! You piece of shit! it went up on its feet again. My coffee tasted like mop water, my digital camera's battery was dead and I haven’t had a hard one yet.

My Winamp's shuffle option keeps playing the same song, over and over again: Sunday Bloody Sunday. But today is Thursday, not Sunday; not even Monday. It's Thursday.

Sunday bloody Sunday, on a Thursday. Is there something going on today that I should be aware of. . . maybe something going on up in D.C.?

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Friends?

I've been friends with my best girlfriend for almost 6 years. We had been through thin and thick together, helping, supporting and loving each other in our own particular way. Six years where we grew to know and understand each other quite well.

She came to visit me last year for three weeks with its weekends, plus 2 days. We talked non-stop from dawn to dusk, went partying and drinking during the nights, driving around on weekends, sipping coffee in the afternoons, we shopped, cooked, laughed, watched TV, we even slept together in the same bed. Friends after all, best friends. That's what we were. What we are, I guess.

shots were tossed down our throatsTime came when that bottle of Tequila was open, shots were tossed down our throats, eyes locked and lips kissed. And kissed and kissed and kissed. First on the sofa, then on the hardwood floors, then back on the sofa, and then some more on the sofa. We went to bed late that night as friends, and woke up the next morning as lovers. Best friends and lovers, confidants, soul mates, roommates, accomplices, cronies. Partners in crime. We shared the most precious gift two people can offer to one another. The gift of love, mixed with lust.

We loved each other with that determination and that driven look in our eyes that only two lovers with a deadline looming on the horizon had: her flight back home. Unavoidable.

I thought back then that that experience was going to drag us even closer together. I thought about it as a pact, a secret pact between us that would keep us closer together forever. Friends, best friends bound by an even deeper link. A connection that no one else could understand. Sharing stories and feelings like we've always had. I being happy when she was happy; her, being happy when I was happy. Both of us sad when the other was sad.

It's been almost a year now since our encounter. Almost 12 months. That encounter that I keep right in the middle of the sweetest spot of my heart; in the sunniest day of my mind; the brightest star in my universe. There's where I keep it.

I've been waiting for her to reply my "Happy New Year!" e-mail, sent before the end of December. Sent to all her three e-mail addresses. This past December.

I really thought, honestly, from the bottom of my heart, that we were going to be always friends.

Stoopid

I hungry, I fucking eat!I've been trying to refrain my self in order not to write this post, but the level of the water is too high now and the dam has broke. The higher the dam, the higher the flood; I can't hold it anymore, and now I have to shout it out.

My co-workers are stupid, plain-o-stupid. Shit! I'm fed up with them! As long as they don't open their mouths everything is cool, but when they start putting ideas together, I just, I mean, I swear I'm gona stab one of them by the end of this month, no shit I will!

During the last months, every time my mind gets struck with the idea that either one or all of'em are stupid, I try to minimize it saying to myself "they're not stupid Dude, they're just ignorant; fucking ignorant!". And I said that because there's a big difference. Being ignorant is fine, that's not knowing something. But being fucking stupid is a whole different game.

Maybe I'm the one who is a damn stoopid -to put it on my own words. What am I still doing working there anyways? What the fuck am I waiting for in order to have a bye-bye party and get the fuck out of there, never to look back again. What am I waiting to happen in my life before getting my shit straight and dive into the real world; not this farce where I'm living in.

But this is my corner of the internet and I'm everything but stupid here. In these pages, I'm always fucking right, handsome, happy, rich and I kick ass big time. Whoever I say is stupid, is because it falls into that category. And if I point my finger, my eyes filled with rage, and I shout "sTooPiD motherfucker!", then "stoopid motherfucker" will be.

Am a very kind guy with a tender heart. I don't ask for much and I'm not high maintenance. There's only two characteristics that make a warm blood biped stupid to my brown eyes.

First, ladies and gentleman, you should not be able to learn from your past actions.

Jean-francois bloggingFor the type of job I have right now, you'll learn in the first week pretty much everything you need to know in order to become the eternal employee of the month. That shit ain't rocket science. By showing up on time and clean, you've accomplished 80%, and for the rest, you just let gravity work and you'll be fine.
But no, my co-workers ask -ask me- the same questions day in, day out. I tried for a period of time to make them think. "What would you do?" -I asked them. "We've been doing the same thing for the last 10 months, do you remember how we've been doing it? - I said on a very polite way. No man, you could see the struggle inside their heads. "It's just easier to ask and follow instructions" I'm sure they always deduce. I just gave fucking up. Now I don't answer their questions, I give them instructions.

And second, you should try to look at yourself from the outside. In other words, you should try to see the complexities in the relationships between people. Get to know how the people that work with you act, and learn to navigate through their weaknesses and strengths. But try to get to know you first.

A very little tiny example: If you had a bad night, didn't get much sleep, and so on, just don't get to work and start bitching non-stop ever since you clock in, being rude to others, doing a poor job that will screw up someone else. Just get yourself a big cup of coffee, splash your face with cold water, get another cup of coffee, then one more and get your shit done. Don't do a masterpiece, just get the basic shit done. Don't act like a damn caveman: I hungry, I heat; I cold, I scream; I warm, I scream; I work, I yawn; I busy, I take "15 off" and leave Jean-Francois stuck with what he has to do plus what I was suppose to do; I caveman; I fucked Jean-Francois up.

Well, this goes to you guys: FUCK YOU! Useless pieces of SHIT! Arrrrrgggghhhhh!

And don't worry Linda, I'm not including you in this post. You're too fucking stupid to understand it anyway.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Cucumber

It's only 7:58PM and I've already been to the gym, eaten dinner and taken a hot shower. And I'm wearing my PJs.

I also wear my Sunglasses at night. . . Any problem?Sitting in front of the laptop, my usual inspiration in the evenings has left the room. Leaving me with a full stomach, wet and uncombed hair, and a silence that took over that nice sound of fingers hitting the keyboard with anxiety. A noise as rhythmic as a thunderstorm -as I write with only 2 fingers.

Letters and words are piling up; paragraphs coming down and filling the void, taking me where my twisted cluster of brain cells that are still alive choose to; a cluster that is getting smaller by the minute, I becoming dumber by the word. Not as stupid as my co-workers, but not far behind either.

Earlier today at the gym, two women walk pass my side and one of them, while articulating with her hands, said to the other: you know it's like. . . who knows! And the other one, wearing sunglasses indoors replied: I know. Miss the beginning of the conversation though. Think didn't miss much, didn't I?

Time is running out for me my friends, my time around here. There's a limit and if I don't comply with it, the shit is going to hit the fan.

Could I stay cool as a cucumber?

Monday, January 17, 2005

UNFORGIVING TO MAN**

At a ball in Moscow, I write a note to Anna Karenina asking her to meet me in the dining hall. The last line of the note is a pun about osetra (a type of caviar) and ovaries. When I enter the dining hall, I am no longer a male, I'm myself. The Maestro has been waiting for me, and we are seated at a bed. He orders blinis and caviar. The lights are turned down low and he tries to seduce me. Then he's no longer the Maestro, he's my father. I leave.

I'm wearing a white gown, and I'm about to go on stage. Tchaikovsky Concerto of course. But someone else has gone ahead of me, and I am told that I am no longer needed. As I leave, Henry Kissinger greets me in the wings. He says, "Allow me to introduce myself, I am Henry Kissinger. I have been watching you."

He pulls an old program guide out of his pocket, and it has a picture of me in it as a ten year old next to a short article. I am interviewed in the article about my composition. I am quoted as saying, "If you listen to the bass line, you will hear the many thorns and brambles of the landscape. This is a wild, tough place unforgiving to man."


**This piece has been Masterminded by Zulieka. Check her and her cool writings here.

Kick Ass

Just for the record: I KICK ASS! Big time!

Not all the time, to tell the truth. But when I do kick ass man, I do kick ass big time!

...and I could kick your ass too!Yes, I've also gotten my ass kicked many times in different ways, places and by different people and in different situations; some situations related to others, but some other not related at all with the others. Got my ass kicked under the rain, on sunny days, during the holidays or while in school. People that I thought were my friends stabbed me in the back, but I just considered it as having my ass kicked. My parents spanked my ass when I was little, but never kicked it; however one time I kicked my sister's fat ass and got mine spanked in return by my Dad, not fair. Not fair at all.

A couple of girlfriends I had, have kicked my ass bye-bye. And in return I have kicked some asses bye-bye as well. I just regret one of those kicks in my ass, but I know that we used to kick ass when we were together. And she knows it too. The girls whose ass I've kicked certainly regret it. You don't find a kick ass red-haired like me everywhere.

I've kicked ass in some of the jobs I've had. Sometimes I just got a kick in the ass out of them, other times I just kicked the whole company in the ass and moved my kick ass -or my kicked ass- somewhere else.

Before getting this blog I didn't know that I was able to kick ass so often, and in so many ways. Not that many people really care about how much ass I kick in these pages; but that's maybe because I'm not narrating how I kick someone's ass, just how I kick ass in my own particular style.

Yo! I kick ass!

Hot Water

I drink hot water; I like to drink hot water. Not hot tea. Just plain-O-hot water. I like hot tea, but I prefer hot water. Yes, hot water; like with a little steam coming up from the cup and just like, hot water. Yes, just hot water.

This red-haired guy is kind of weird!- you'll think.

"I got the habit from the time I lived in Beijing you know. And I like it." - I'll add.

So. . . When was like. . . like when you started doing it? - you'll ask me.

"Oh well" - I'll reply - "that was actually right before I turned 16 with a drunk girlfriend of my elder sister. . . and I haven't stopped ever since.

Cooking

MasterpieceI've just had what could be considered as the best and more elaborated meal I've ever had. The best and most elaborated meal I've ever cooked, I mean.

It was not the best meal ever, hell no! Far from that. But it was the most time I've spent in the kitchen peeling, chopping, cutting, stirring; covering and uncovering the pot to see how things were "cooking"; testing, adding salt a little bit, pepper a bit more, covering again and testing it once more. Until I was satisfied. Almost satisfied.

The thing for me is that if you see me in front of the stove is becasue I'm starving; and as the best ingredient is hunger, I've always thought that I was a great chef. My friends have always thought otherwise, but I bet they don't feel those cravings that attack me when I'm hungry. I've always been able to dismiss any criticism towards my "cooking" with a very polite Fuck You!, while having another spoon fool of whatever was in front of me.

Today though, I had more time to cook, and even though hunger started to build early in the cooking, I keep it at fence with three slices of whole wheat bread.

I also have to mention that I cooked a HUGE pot, and to be honest that was the main idea behind this cooking. To cook a lot so that it could last for few days. But knowing me as I do, I can say that that shit is not going to last too long. I just went through half the pot of rice, and easily through ⅓ of my masterpiece. And I feel fucking full!

I just don't know if I should take a nap or not?

Or let me put it this way better: should I take a nap on my bed or on the sofa?

Shuffle

The shuffle function in my Winamp player is as creative as those women that have worked for 20+ years at the local branch of the DMV. I have 1,000+ songs and this crap keeps playing always the same tunes, over and over again.

Sometimes when I'm downloading crap for the internet, I leave it on so that the laptop can work non-stop all night and wouldn't shut down. The next morning when I crank the music up again, after an all-night shuffle. . . the same fucking songs are playing.

Every once in a while a song from my files will play and I'll go like "Wow! I didn't know I had that song! Cool!"

But that's as rare as sex these days.

Sunday, January 16, 2005

Wish (4)

~Make sure you've already read "Wish (3)"~

The following is an unofficial transcript of a conversation**

- Yo! Guys!

whhhhAAAAt!?

- This guy is trying to think! Could you believe the bastard?

Isn't he on vacations? Fuck we're down at the bitch!, I mean, beach, and is this self-proclaim nerd trying to put together some thoughts?

- Oh, fuck! He's not giving up. Get together guys, let's see if at least he is going to get some sex tonight or not. Now if he's trying to read that label on the bottle of vodka again, I'm telling you right now, we're going on strike and he's going to become a fucking retarded! I ain't doing no more thinking for him, Oh hell no!

Oh, no! Not that label on the bottle of Vodka again, please no! This dirty rat! I swear I'll shut down his heart and this time is for real!

- All right guys, let's do some thinking. He's holding a lamp in his hands; the empty glass of vodka lies on the sand behind him; he's saying some shit about a magic lamp; and about a wish. A magic lamp and a wish. . . ?

That's it chief. We lost him. I told you that that bag of weed that he smoked for new year's was stale! Buy cheap and you get cheap! I knew it! Tried to tell you guys but. . .

- Shut up! Let's get over with this. Now Antonio, Luis and Pedro get your asses over here and try to decide what the hell to do with that fucking lamp! And the next one saying something will be gone together with the hangover!

Yo chief! You're the boss. Let's do some thinking then.

** This conversation was between a cluster of brain cells in charge of taking decisions and their foreman -a brain cell foreman. They were trying to decide something related to a magic lamp.

Jean-Francois' Window

Here is where Jean-Francois stitches together those deep and shallow thoughts that attack him throughout the day. As you might have noticed, I can't type on a laptop's keyboard; those keys are too fucking small for me, a guy with such a big heart! Regular size fingers though.

And yes, right here I read earlier today that the hunt for Weapons of Mass Destruction -the very reason for going to war- has been canceled. No Weapons at all were found. But that's ok, 'cause the election has been already won, so what the fuck! How about if we just fuck up the Social Security System next, or the tax code?

If there's no accountability for the President and his actions, where for him false is true, bueno is bad and adios! means hola! Then what the fuck can we expect for the next 4 years?

What I really wanted to say today my friends, is that right here is where I blog.

And George W. Bush and his friends are going to get a test, if not a shower of my sharp and bitter ink during the next 4 years. Hell yes! If not here, where?!

Mi corner of the Internet


Posted by Hello


Wish (3)

~Make sure you've already read Wish (1) and Wish (2)~


The more thirsty you're... the closer the waterA magic lamp lying in the beach, half buried in the sand. I always thought that these lamps existed only in the dessert, only in the imagination of the One Thousand and One Nights, where caravans will walk day and night across dunes of sand, where oasis will start looming on the horizon as the thirst gets from your tongue to your brain. Oasis with palm trees, bushes, tents, shadows and water, sweet water. Where bandits will pop up out of the ground carrying swords as big as their horses, stealing precious gems and princesses sent on their way somewhere by their king father far away from their not-so-noble lovers and with hundreds of pounds of jewelry, and not so much water.

Those magic lamps where always found either at night, or at a time of the day when the twilight made the Genius inside glow. Never was a lamp found in the mid-day sun, was never found by a girl, let a alone an old folk. It was always found by a young man, full of life and with perfect smile. Geniuses were always kind of cool, willing to please their new found masters with whatever they wanted, always had three options to get it right -meaning three wishes-, and of course they always got it right: lived happily ever after the encounter, changing diapers, watching their once dream princess turn into an overweight and old queen, giving orders to all their servants on how to conduct daily tasks, banging all those girls that happen to be in the vicinity, rising those selfish, fucked up blue-blood brats they spawned and spoiled with all types of candies as long as they don't horse play around, living in a 1,000-room castle where every room is the size of a modern day city block, looking outside the window on those clear sky nights and longing of the days when he was young, broke and restless. Those pre-wishes days. Those days that witness the more needs and shortages, though the most intense and happy times in his whole "happily ever after life".

A jewel...?But the lamp is here in the beach, yes there's sand on the beach as in those stories, but running water is not a mirage, bottled water can be found in the gas station just down the street, or a water fountains are located every few yards along the beach. Sodas, juices and energetic drinks of all sizes, colors and flavors are to be found everywhere in the city. As well as two dollars cups of coffee and $3,80 frappucinos with skim milk - not including taxes and tips.

I ain't chasing any princess right now and other than my Casio digital watch I don't have any other jewels on me that could attract bandits. I'm not even part of a caravan, as a matter of fact I'm just walking down the beach at sunset because I don't enjoy laying on the beach for hours getting sun burned -a tan for me is like those mirages in the books; Many times I thought I had found them, only to end up with blisters and a reddish color not sexy at all.

The lamp is in my hands and the vodka is revolving at full speed in my head. I've been like that for quite a while, still not knowing what to do, not even sure if I've been thinking at all, let alone think what I should do. I'm just there, letting my brain cells have a party and perhaps a day off before I call'em back to work. Thinking is not an easy thing my friends, let me tell you, not even for this red-haired guy with an MBA under his arm.

Dilemma

Hiting the slopesI have a dilemma, and don't know what to do. I'm planning to spend $100 next week and even though there's several options (50 cups of coffee, 1GB memory card, iPod Shuffle, 5 books, 100 items at the dollar store, 20 visits to the Chinese buffet down the street from my place, 3 bottles of HPNOTIQ, 2.5 bottles of Bombay Sapphire, a bag of weed, 300 bars of Hershey's Milk Chocolate, one night out in downtown drinking and getting all fucked up, 38 postcards of Charlotte sent to anywhere in the world, 1 shirt in Banana Republic, 3 shirts in GAP, 5 shirts in Old Navy, a new watch from Costco, 1 pair of shoes from Norstroom, 55.6 gallons of gasoline, 9,000 minutes for phone calls to my country, 1 new Nokia cell phone, and so on. . .), there's two options that rank as number one and two.

Actually they rank as number 2 and three, being the first option to just leave the money sitting in my very slim bank account, and that, without any doubt, will be the most intelligent decision for those greens. Those $100 could pay for 5 months of monthly service and other charges and fees that my bank charged me last month. Or maybe by keeping those one hundred greens in my 3-years old account could help me reach and breach the minimum amount needed in order to avoid those charges. Not taken a decision is a decision; and sometimes the best decision.

Oh but I want to go and spend money and nobody -not even my self- is going to stop me!

The thing is that I was -actually I am- thinking about going skiing tomorrow Monday. I'm not working, so I was planning to get my snow blades in the morning, have a very generous breakfast, and at around noon leave for Winterplace in West Virginia. I'll get there around 3-4 PM, so that I have plenty of time to hang out around, do some people watch, drink some water, perhaps eat something and get ready for the night skiing. One of the options that the mountain has to offer is to ski from 5-10 PM, for a mere $25 in the off season. There's plenty of artificial light, few people around the chairlifts, and for sure all those amateurs will be at the lodge all sored, drinking hot cocoa and telling stories of the many falls and wrecks they had that day.

The whole trip including the snow blades, gasoline, chairlift pass and food is a bit less than $100. But just to take a round number, let's just say one hundred bucks.

This past Tuesday I was decided to take this trip and was even studying the different trials on the mountain and making plans on what crazy things to do, what to wear and so on. Until I asked myself a question that I should have not asked. If I had $100 in my pocket and could spend it either buying or doing something, what would that be?

Now, I don't quiet know.

My two options are: in one hand going skiing, and in the other doing something else with the money. I have the rest of the day to think about it. What would it be?

Friday, January 14, 2005

Inspired... No shit!

Source of Inspiration. . . No shit! Posted by Hello

Where do you people feel inspired and full of ideas of what to blog about?

I don't get inspired when I'm on the "electric chair", and if you take a look HERE you'll know what I mean.

But I do feel better after getting rid of some "junk in the trunk"; feel lighter, feel like running a marathon once I'm done! Specially after coming back from that "All you can eat" Chinese buffet right down the street from my condo of $4,99 including drinks and unlimited shrimp on Tuesdays.

Then I sit in front of my computer. . . and shit all over my blog.

Thursday, January 13, 2005

The System is Wrong

Yes, it is about moneyThe system where we live in is awfully wrong. I thought that things were just, and that people got what they deserved and worked for, but the truth is that the more you have, the more you end up having; while the less you have, the more fucked up you will be.

I came to the US with a goal in my mind of getting a Master's Degree in Business Administration (MBA). I did got that sucker after 24 months of hard work my friends, both inside and outside school. Inside school that shit was very hard in itself, but even more for this foreigner whose native tongue is not english. I always caught myself translating in my mind all the concepts that I learnt back in college, in order to make sense of all the shit that I was learning in english. And is not just understanding lectures: it's also reading, writing papers, taking exams and opening my mouth in class for something else than "can I go to the restroom?".

Outside school I had a fucking lot of jobs in order to pay for my master's. I was a waiter, server, Barista, Cashier, bartender, I painted houses in hot, cold, rainy, sunny, cloudy weather, flipped burgers in a (shit hole) burger joint until the owners fire me, I also taught my native tongue for $20 an hour (cash), mowed the lawn, and overall did a little bit of everything. The whole experience of working all those jobs alone was eye opening and very good for my soul (specially for this spoiled high-class private Catholic schools red-haired, whom had never cleaned a toilet before setting foot in the US).

I pay for the MBA with my own money, but I also had the financial support (not help) from my family. Let me explain: my parents sold a property for a very generous amount of money, and wired me the money so that I could open a money market account for them here in the US. What I end up doing was putting that money in my savings account -that was already on red ink-, and kept it there. When my parents questioned me about the money and "why you haven't open that money market account yet?", I always managed to change topics, or to tell them something about interest rates and shit leaving them confused.

I got firedI did use that money as a "rotatory credit", without them knowing. If I was short of money for school, I would take some and would putted back as soon as I could. They never knew about this little scheme, and I never told them. So without they knowing, they did help me out paying for those tuition fees whenever ends were a bit apart. Hey!, I was studying a fucking MBA, I had to come up with some kind of ideas related to managing money and keeping customers happy (my parents), hadn't I?

All this story gets together last October, when my mom came to visit me for 3 loooong weeks. The second day of her trip, she dragged me to the bank to get the money out of my savings account and into a money market account in a different bank. Once again, I have an MBA, I had to be able to persuade her to keep me inside the loop when it comes to money, hadn't I? So, I affirm to her (categorically!) that the best would be to open a join money market account. According to American regulations for foreign citizens banking in the US -and this is true I swear I didn't made it up-, if the foreign holder of a bank account passes away -God forbid- the money goes to the government -being the same rule true for real state.

Of course you just have to give someone else your online password, and after the funeral that person will move the funds electronically to whatever account he/she wants. Duhhh. Or just leave the ATM card handy with the password written in your will, and no problem. But once again: I do have an MBA and I got away with that story. So now that account is under both my mom and my red-haired head.

When I had all that money in my savings account, I never pay any service whatsoever in the bank: no transfer fee, unlimited transactions, no monthly maintenance, no charge for electronic withdrawal or e-purchase, nothing! Not even for the fucking check books! When you have money -I was rich!- everybody smiles to you and ask you "how can I help you?". And they always find a way to say "Yes!" to whatever you ask for. If somehow the people in the bank were reluctant to or finding excuses to do something, I just asked them "Could you please tell me what my balance is today?" And after they find out that I was a rich motherfucker, who could dent their financial statement if chose to close that bank account, all doors would open. Money talks.

Mowing the Fucking LawnThese days, when all the money is gone in another bank and I'm no longer rich and handsome, the bank is charging me for every single thing they can. Last time I was there, they even tried to charge me for the free coffee right by the entrance. I have to pay now monthly fee, plus for everytime I use my debit card "charge!", check "charge!", ATM "charge!". Now that I'm broke and that I could really use some of that money for my bills, they are coming down on me hard.

The system is fucked up. They charge the people that don't have money for all type of services, while rich dudes can do whatever they want completely free of charge. Shouldn't that be the other way around? A monthly fee for me is really a kick in the nuts these days, but not for someone with plenty of zeroes in their bank account. Shouldn't be a "progressive" type of maintenance? The more you have, the more you can pay; and not the other way around (regressive).

Yes, I do have an MBA and I do know better. When you have a lot of fucking money in a financial institution, they are playing with your money and making money, therefore your money is paying for your fees. But when you're a broke ass guy, you have to get the cash out of your pocket and put it up front.

But, isn't the system fucked up? Shouldn't that be the other way around?

The good thing is that the government is not like that, they really care for their citizens. That's why George W. Bush gave us the tax cuts. . . I mean, the tax cut was fine when I was rich, but now? Hell, even my working-class taxes went up!

Oh shit! The system is fucked up; and it's fucked all the way to the top -the very top.

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Wish (2)

~Make sure you've already read Wish (1)~

So you already know the story: walking down the beach, no one around, something shines at the distance, you pick it up and what is it? A fucking golden lamp; a magic lamp! Oh my God, a magic lamp, yes a frigging magic lamp, what else could this shit be?

The Magic Lamp! -well, sort of...I empty my glass in one gulp, clean my mouth with the back of my hand and say to myself: "A fucking magic lamp! Thanks God!". I know, kind of odd to thank God for a magic lamp lying on the beach as one voids the other. Nevertheless in the heat of the moment I do thank God; I'm sure people here in the Bible Belt where I'm stuck in right now, would argue citing the Bible that according to John (or Paul, or Matheus, or even the Apocalipsy), that was meant to happen. Yeah, even to a rotten soul like mine you brothers and sisters.

So I have the lamp in my hands, the empty plastic cup of vodka lying on the sand behind me, that red-blood sky moving towards a more purple type of tones -just like cuagulated blood. My knees that just last night had carried a naked girl in a whole variety of positions without any problem, starting to feel week; sweat pouring out of my underarms like a geiser. The lamp in my hands, tightly hold. My eyes looking at it without blinking, wide open like a damn banker that had been without his antidepresants during the whole holiday season. Breathing through my mouth rapidily, letting that last gulp of vodka slowly make its way to my red-haired head before doing anything, before making a move, before taking a decision -I can always blame it on the alcohol after all.

A magic lamp. . . I for instance, still can't believe that we're stuck with George W. Bush for another term; as well as a lot of people don't believe in magic, let alone magic lamps. But if you find one, it doesn't make any difference wether you believe in it or not. It doesn't matter either wether you want it or not. The hard fact is that you're stuck with it!.


2.5

After receiving my new Digital camera, the second thing after putting the battery to charge, was to start reading the manual.

In my list of books/readings this year, I'm going to give 2.5 to any manual I have to read -that shit is a whole different category my friends, hell yes!

Reading in 2005

Good for your HeartAhhhh the pleasure of reading: going places, meeting people, seeing stuff, feeling cold, hot, hungry, falling head over feet in love and wishing someone "why don't you just die!". All through white pages with black letters. Right there sitting on the coach of your own living room, or by the pool, on the subway, at the coffee shop.

This year I'm interested in reading both quantity and quality material. And I've come up with my own very clever and particular way of knowing how much and how many books I've read.

Every fiction book will get 0.5 points (fiction books are easier to read and you'll go faster through them). A nonfiction book will get 1.35 points (this are more complex, more information, therefore their weight is greater). The whole thing with the points is to move to the center my reading habits (e.g. two nonfiction books can be easily read in one month, while one fiction book perhaps in a bit more than a month -take or give). The thing is that beside reading, I still have to go and work, party, get drunk, get laid, pay bills on time, have breakfast, lunch, supper and dinner. . . In other words, I got shit to do my friends.

My goal for this year is to reach a total score of 18. Not 12, not 24. Just eighteen.

Ladies and Gentlemann. . . Start your Engines!

Digital Camera

I got me a digital camera last week, online, and according the UPS website, today is dELiVeRy day! Actually it is said that the camera will be delivered sometime between yesterday and Friday, however the very detailed UPS website says that the camera is in the truck and the truck is on the road today -couldn't find the GPS location of it, but that's just a matter of time.

It's Coming. . .The thing is that I got shit to do today, including showing my red-haired face at the office later this evening, going to the gym, buying a couple of things that I don't really need, and overall just stepping on the gas of my 2.4L mindlessly. And I'm stuck in my condo, still wearing my PJs and waiting for the UPS guy.

I'm afraid if I go out, the brown truck is going to pull over and I'm going to miss it, miss my camera, my new digital camera, 5.0 megapixels, and then I'll have to wait maybe until Memorial Day to get it.

I'm afraid if I don't get it today, the megapixels will worn out and it will be an standard and not so fancy 3.2 or perhaps just 1.2, like back in the not-so-technical-advanced old days. Or who knows, if I'm not here to get it today, perhaps tomorrow it will turn out to be just a disposable film camera. Or a Polaroid.

Or maybe tomorrow I'll hear that gentle knock on my door only to face, instead of the UPS guy, one from the IRS.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Consumer Report (1)

Beginning with this post, I'll be rating, describing, promoting or demoting, and talking about products and services worth using, or not worth bothering at all with'em.

I hate you!It's going to be like my own Consumer's Report in my very own corner of the internet. I'm not going to be very technical and I ain't planning to go too deep in the reasons why I recommend or not certain stuff to all the millions of people who come here on regular bases. Neither is going to be very often that I post about it, not planning to torture anyone with more information about shit that you should buy, or should not.

Being this introduction already too frigging long, let's cut through all this red tape and let's get down to business. Let's crank the front burner -the big one-, and let's grill a product that should be banned from this planet. Yes, let's spill some blood here. . .

Do not buy; let me say it again: DO NOT (DON'T) buy the printer Lexmark X1185, it sucks! Yes it does, it sucks! Fuck that printer!

I bought it because it was all-in-one: it is a printer, scanner and fax, all in one nice looking machine. To be fair I have to say that the scanner works, the printer works (not the best quality, but if you want to print your Resume, the result is OK), and even though I never use the fax, I bet it works fine. Also, and I'm very honest, the software to use is very simple and easy to use.

But that's about it.

Just down the hall. . .If you want to print your Resume, by the time that crap has written your name on the paper, the black-and-white cartridge is already half way down. No need to use the ultra-super best quality print option to break that Guinness Record, hell no! Just use the normal option and that shit will gulp down your cartridge in no time. And at a price of $19.83 per cartridge in Walmart, the money that you "saved" by not buying a more expensive printer, will go down the drain in no time.

I already pay the printer again just in cartridges, and it was just a couple months ago that I got it.

I've tried to print only black and white shit, as I don't want to test the durability of the color cartridge. I'm afraid I'll go down the hall from my condo, break the glass of the fire emergency unit, get the ax, walk back to my condo and let it down on the printer, my eyes red with fury, my face disfigured with anger, my pulse going through the roof, my desk wrecked and lying in pieces on the floor next to the printer. Then I'll head for the kitchen, the ax still in my hand, my mind and eyes locked in the microwave (another piece of shit), and. . .

Well, you got the idea.

wrapping up: do not buy a Lexmark X1185 all-in-one printer!

Wired

M O PThis morning I was as wired as a wired man can be. I didn't have my usual cup of coffee in the morning, just for the sake of breaking with my routine. Without caffeine in my system I did accomplish, and I'm not lying, to get myself shaved, cleaned, dressed and with my usual breakfast without any major problem.

I did hit the road few minutes earlier and even though people in this area of the Bible Belt were driving as bad as everyday, I didn't honk or curse anybody. I did thought about it of course, is not that the lack of caffeine had made me a saint overnight, but I didn't exteriorize it (e.g. yell through the windshield of my car to those SUVs that think they own both lanes of the street; or those people who think a green traffic light is meant to be admired and analyzed, specially if you're the first in line).

Believe it ort not I did get to my job on time and started doing my thing, until I had to get me a coffee to speed up things. Then, 10 minutes after my coffee I got bombed with plenty, I mean, PLENTY of ideas of things to write in this very same pages. Idea after idea came pouring out of my head -or into my head- like hallucinatory mushrooms on a wet forest. I imagine and compose in my mind blog after blog and then one more and very clever expressions appear out of the blue that made me both smile and laugh and wished with all of my energies to please don't forget all this.

Clogged. . .?Not only that, I also imagined people reading, laughing, cursing, crying and reading my blogs and coming over and over again to read; commenting it and saying that they wanted more and more, like a drug, a drug named Jean-Francois that doesn't kill (too many) brain cells and they just couldn't get enough of. I went even further to imagine (and actually conducting in my head) an interview on the eve of my multi-million dollar new publication, and how I described my humble beginnings as a poor blogger in a ill-visited corner of the internet, rising from the ashes to the top of all imagined lists of love and hate and stardom and. . . and. . .

. . . and yes boss I'm here! I was just taking five sr. OK sir, I'll take care of unclogging that toilet right away; you mean not before I finish moping this floor? Yes sr, you bet: first mop the floor, then the clogged toilet and after that get all the trash to the dumpster? Hey, you're the Man! Yes, sir! No more taking five while on the clock? you bet! I mean yes, sir!

Monday, January 10, 2005

Wish (1)

So let's say that I'm walking down the beach barefoot, slowly, my shoes hanging in one hand and I'm holding a drink in the other. Let's just say that that is my favorite drink: Vodka and RedBull! or perhaps my other all-time favorite: HPNOTIQ with some more vodka to spice it up -yes, I do like Vodka a lot, as much as blonde hair girls my friends.

SunsetSo I'm walking with this marvelous sunset during an unexpected wave of heat in mid-autumn, the leaves in the trees have already those yellow/orange/red tones that make quite a contrast with the sun. The sand previously hot as hell has cooled down and all the frenziness of hot girls in little bikinis and studs looking like bad motherfuckers, has die down. A guy has just yelled for the 50th time to his children to get the hell out of the water so that they can go back to the hotel. He would keep trying for a couple more minutes before his 6-year old twins get out of the water and head for a dinner too fancy and boring for them to enjoy it. They will wrap up the night with microwave pop corn, a couple ours of TV and plenty of Neutrogena's after sun cream at he hands of their mom.

As I leave behind the last signs of civilization on the beach, facing the sun getting closer to the horizon, the sky on red-blood fire, feeling the sand between my toes, the vodka slowly flowing to my bloodstream and into my head, waves lazily meeting the beach; as I walk past a middle age palm tree, the back of my eye catches a tiny gleam. Few feet in front of me, a little tiny object is shining for the last time this day, an almost imperceptible golden gleam.

As I approach it with all the time in the world, as a husband would approach his wife of 25 years right before having sex, the last rays of light reflect on the half buried object in the sand. I then turn my head a little to catch the moment when the sun disappears in the vast extension of the ocean, like if it was blinking an eye to me, and leaving the feeling in my twisted mind that he will dawn in a whole different world.

Sunday, January 09, 2005

Caffeine

What would be of my life without caffeine? I could survive for sure, is not that I would die or anything; but what type of life would I be able to lead.

Life without Coffee?Waken up early is not a problem; staying awake is. Thinking fast and solving problems could be part of my schedule like, maybe late in the morning or perhaps early in the evening and for short periods of time. High doses of energy and spontaneity would burst out of my red-haired self every now and then, but better get a picture to documented as you may not be able to witnessed very often. Energy and leadership in my job? Let's say that I'll show up for work and would look and act busy. Accomplishing things while seating behind my desk? Let's define what is an "accomplishment", and I'm sure we can reach some common ground.

Sex? Oh well that's not a problem: with or without caffeine I can assure you pretty ladies out there that Jean-Francois doesn't disappoint -even if I dies trying, believe me!

Searching for short and free porn clips on the internet? Hell not a problem! And blasting people, enemies, hostages, monsters, and even my own teammates in any of my computer's or PS2's first person shooter games would be a pleasure and I'll do it without blinking. Driving through the streets of Hong Kong, Tokyo, Edinburgh or NYC with any car and at any level of Project Gotham, kicking my ex-roommate's fat ass, would be an honor indeed. No caffeine needed.

Monastery life for Jean-FrancoisGoing to the gym without a cup of coffee between my chest and my back, or at least a can of Coke? Hell no! I could settle for a line of cocaine, but it effects in the body are similar to the caffeine on a major scale: increase neuron firing (activity) in the brain making the Pituitary release hormones for the Adrenal Glandes to produce Adrenaline. And well, the Adrenaline causes your pupils to dilate, increases heart rate, opens up respiratory tubes, increases blood flow to the muscles, the liver releases sugar into the bloodstream for extra energy, and the muscles tighten up, making you feel like ThE kInG oF ThE wOrLd! ! ! ! They both belong to the family of the Amphetamines after all.

So no caffeine, no rush, no hard work, no gym (shit! not able to see all those blondes sweating and jumping!), no coffee shops, no chats with friends over a cup of coffee, no Adrenaline into my system. . . Please meet Jean-Francois, the Tibetan Monk living in a little monastery nearby Lahsa, sleeping half a day and praying a couple hours a day . . .

. . . and screwing his fellow female-monks the rest of the time - ah!

Saturday, January 08, 2005

(South of) ~ H E R ~

Oh, man I do have to confess it here (where else?) that last night was a night of sex, lust, passion and love! Oh, shit my friends! Last night I made love to, had sex with, screw and was screwed by perhaps one the most beautiful girls on the face of the planet, and one of the most perfect women I've ever seen on on my 13+ years in this blue planet. Sun-a-ba-bitch, what a girl! What a woman!

Her soft and flawless skin; her huge blue eyes; that perfect -oh! so fucking perfect smile!- and that body. To die for I have to say.

I do understand now how DRACULA feels. . .

Ay-ya-yay my friends! That girl wasn't made by a loving couple but by an artist: she's a master piece of human design. Flawless you all and I say it again, flaw-less one more time so that the whole world knows what I'm talking about. Just take her. . . er. . . what? take her. . . ears! take her ears for instance. Those ears, specially her right one, Oh hell if my tongue could talk about it. Her ear lobe, that ear lobe that I bit so kindly and gentle making her tremble, and making her hug me even harder against her breast; Oh my gracious Godnes! her breasts, yes her breasts; but before I got there I made sure her neck was mine all mine: front, back and sides, that neck, that lovely neck, mine all mine.

I do understand now how DRACULA feels! If my eyeteeth were an inch longer I would have stuck'em in her neck my friends, right into the jugular, and would have enjoyed till the last drop, Oh that neck! and that was just the beginning for crying out loud!

Those eyes you people, those deep blue eyes that she has and that make Jean-Francois weak in the knees, those eyes that seemed to look right into the back of my head if not deep into my very own rotten soul. Her pupils, expanded by the lack of light in my bedroom, expanded in the twilight of my condo, that big and round pupil surrounded by a deep, clear sky-beautiful-blue eyes with perfect 20-20 vision. That big and round black pupil in a sea of blue, just like if she were in some kind of amphetamine , a red-haired amphetamine my friends 'cause last night I felt like a drug and at the same time high with such a creature, a creature of God with red-blood fire inside, that fire of determination and lust, Oh shit comrades of the world! I know what heaven looks like now!

Glass of WaterHer breast, Oh her breasts! Two of 'em; both round and pointing upward, B-cup, soft, sensitive and Oh shit! mine all mine last night all night all mine! I touched'em, grabbed'em, saw'em, kissed'em, licked'em, sucked'em, bit'em and admired'em; and her, all her Oh what a girl you people of the jury! Send me to the electric chair today, I've touched the sky with both my hands, I'm ready! Oh my God, her breast, yes her breast!

That belly button! Oh please God help me that belly button, tiny and little like her that belly button; one more stop on my unstoppable way south. . . I stayed at her belly button for a while 'cause it was just impossible not to not do it! All her is made by hand; that flat belly with a little belly button as an island in a sea of sweet, soft and smooth skin. This was my one last stop before my trip south, south of the border, down to Tijuana, south of her belly button; Oh Christ give me energy 'cause I think I'm going to faint, Oh man! everything is white Oh shit! don't take me yet, south, south of her belly button, yes south, Oh God. . . .

Air please! Air for this man, and ma'm please a glass of water please no don't call an ambulance he's fine just needs some air and that glass of water, yes please ma'm no don't call the cops everything's all right, some air and water and thank you ma'm very kind of you for the water, just air and water, he's fine and he'll be alright, Oh yeah, he's healthy as a horse. YO! brother, breath! Breath! Yeah, breath! here's some water, yes drink it, breath Niga, com'on breath, good, see how he's good, just a little faint, but he's cool. . .

-South?

Yes!, south of her belly you were saying Dude, you were on your way south, south of her belly, keep going Dude, don't fucking die on us now, not before you finish your story. . .

-South you said?

No Niga-r you were the one saying south, south of her belly, com'on, south, south. . . south. . .

Friday, January 07, 2005

Closing in

How about if I am the one observed, followed, traced. What if I am the one desired and wanted -I thought today on my way to the gym. How about if there's people with walkie-talkies watching what size coffee I drink and what magazine I pick up. What if there's phone calls, text messages, e-mails, faxes and letters being sent from over here to over there, then forwarded up there describing my whereabouts. Then some more instructions will come back and the following will get closer, more detailed and perhaps easier.

How about if they are closing on me as-I-type this lines? They already have pictures, videos, e-mails and conversations with friends. They know the web pages I visit; all the files I've downloaded from the Internet; people that write to me and those I write to; they know what makes me laugh and why I drink, and what I drink.

Would they know about the pictures on my corckboard and my piggy bank? or the 50+ pens and pencils that I have on my desk in a nice glass that I've been stealing over the last couple years from all over the place? Would they know how my bank account has been shrinking, steadily, for the last months?

I always take the same route to work: do they have people following me or am I so predictable on my driving that they just save money on gas and wait at the locations where I always go? Do they know that I go to Barnes and Noble and Borders to read magazines but almost never buy one?

Do they have a copy of all the porn that I've ever watched over the years? Even from my early beginnings with that slow-as-hell dial up connection at my parent's place?

Oh, shit! Maybe they even know that when I go to the gym sometimes I cheat myself skipping the number 4 and 7 on my 10-repetition series. One thing they know, and I'm sure this is going to show up in the trial, is that I sometimes don't shower, and some others just dress out of my dirty laundry bag.

They are breathing right on my neck; I can feel it, I can sense it. I know this 70+ degrees in January are here for a reason; this is a sign. This is a moment of clarity -as I always say when I'm high. This is The Truth himself (or herself, or perhaps itself). This is when I'll have to face the jury, sitting on that wooden chair after removing my hand from the Bible, and when the questions will start to flow. Answers will see the light of the courtroom, and the light of the day, printed in papers and magazines. Answers will be all over the place; maybe not my answers but those of the plaintiffs, as I'll be already condemned even before the trial begins.

They're closing in, slowly but steady. They are letting me drink and party and dance and get high, and they are letting me fuck here and there, and they are letting me think that there'll be a brighter tomorrow for me, letting me go to school and get friends and work and own a car and a blogspot for as when they jump on me, there will be no way to run, not even a will to run. My eyelids will weight a ton and my feet that had ran on water would feel like a bag full of bricks.

The charges on me are clear, I won't deny them. I have one foot on the banana peel and one on the "guilty" sign. Even though there would be no offer to negotiate, I wouldn't do it anyway. I would let them stick it all the way till the hilt and beyond if they feel like it. My crimes are not a joke and the probes are crystal clear. Those probes though, need and HAVE to be backed up by a witness or witnesses in order to be able to use them. I just wonder who will point her/his/their finger(s) at me, saying with that confidence in their eyes, their hair perfectly combed, yes your Honor that man right there with the red hair and the glasses and the cosmopolitan look that is the man and yes I will say it again and as many times as necessary that is the man your Honor and ladies and gentleman from the Jury there's no doubt in my mind and as ya'll have seen that is the one and I know your Honor that I shouldn't address the jury but that's the man yes the one with the red hair and the glasses the one with the chin up like if he was better than we all that's the man please hand me the Bible I'll say it with my hand on the Bible that that's HIM!

Thursday, January 06, 2005

Sold the Accord

Yes I did sold my good-old Accord. . . So long pal -don't tell anyone all the shit that you witnessed!

I sold it to a friend of a friend of mine who got his car stolen and was in desperate need of some wheels. . . and as I'm in desperate need for some cash, a deal was reach.

I do have to confess here (where else?) that I feel kind of bad. That car is leaking oil (a small leak though), the radiator also has a leak and the coolant is getting mixed with the oil. The power steering broke a couple months ago so to park it it takes an extra doses of energy; and the handle on the drivers side is broken. My parking spot where I live is a collection of spots from all those fluids. The low beam on the right hand side head light doesn't work either and the CD player doesn't read shit! Oh, and the antenna is broken so sometimes you would get just static.

I feel bad because I told him only about the power steering (how could I hide that!) but for the rest I didn't tell him shit. I did repeat to him several times that a car with so many miles on, has to be constantly checked, specially ALL THE FLUIDS. Not one time but several times I told him that.

But now the car is gone, the check is in my bank account and the transfer has been signed in front of a public notary. A hand shake closed the deal yesterday evening and another hand shake finish it off today in front of the notary. Tomorrow I'll return my custom made plate to the DMV and the last nail on the coffin will mark the end of an epoque.

Wow! you know what? After writing and re-reading this post I do feel better, fuck yeah, feel better like hell. Am I an easy guy or what?!