How Does the Bottom Look Like?

He got a new job, and he's very exited about it. After two undergraduate degrees, one master's degree and experience in different fields and continents he made up his mind. Of all the proposals on the table, he picked up the one that offered the most both professionally, in money and rewards, and for his future.

He can't wait to start. He would be part of a multinational company with offices in every single corner of the world and with a potential to grow selling their product like no other -excluding illegal drugs of course.

And people in the company will love him like no other, he would like to say that all the people above and below him would get to know him, but he's pretty much at the very bottom of the org chart. Good luck Dude!

On Different Religions

This is a very odd picture: clerics, ministers, pastors, priests or however they call themselves together in a meeting. It's odd because they all are at odds, not at this meeting, but on their core believes and concepts of what the Truth is.

If there's different religions, represented here by different uniforms, is because they don't believe in the same principles about who/what God is, how human beings came to this planet, and what is the right and the wrong way to behave in order to achieve salvation. And of course, each one of these religions hold the key to salvation and eternal life. They believe they represent a world that exists in other dimension, that they are some kind of diplomats from a government (or reign) that brought man to earth and where human beings will go once they pass away.

But religion is perhaps the more excluding and discriminatory discipline on the face of hearth. You either have to be aware that you belong to a certain religious group in order to achieve salvation, or eternity or forgiveness, or paradise, or heaven or however you want to name it, or you're pretty much doomed. Just to be a good guy -like for example Jean-Francois is- is not good enough; you have to go and worship/pray/meet wherever they say is the right place to do it (their church/mosque/temple) and you also have to do it when they say it (Sunday morning/evening/night/Easter). Is all right to have doubts and questions, but you have to be strong and swallow them all and just keep reading the Bible/Koran/Torah and all your questions will be answered.

People outside your own religious group are basically wrong (not dead wrong, but wrong nevertheless). The way they worship, or their believes, or their rituals are not the right ones. Whether they achieve salvation outside the right church, hmmmmm, maybe yes or maybe no, that's a tricky question. But let's just say that if they are very lucky, you might run into them in Paradise, walking hand in hand with a virgin which breasts are filled with honey.

The easiest target in all this religious thing is without any doubt the Catholic church. They're like the Walmart of religion, everybody else loves to hate them. It's run by single men, with outdated rules and they even have their own country that use as headquarters. But the truth is that the other religions are not that far behind, having rules that forbid more things than those that are allowed, and all have in common the discrimination of the most beautiful creation on the face of heart: the female body!

I could keep writing for days about this topic my friends, but after living in South America, Europe, North America and Asia I believe that you just have to be a good person in order to be introduced one day to those beautiful virgins up in the clouds.

Cruel

I know that this is cruel, but it just made me laugh.

TS

I would hate to be Jeese Jackson and to have to fly all the way to Florida in order to get his face on TV on the shoulders of a brain dead woman. Specially right when the media coverage and the controversy is right at its peak.

I guess he'll stay at the funeral as well, there'll be plenty of cameras there to put into practice all those long hours that he has spent in front of the mirror practicing to look outrage and worried. Maybe he'll come up with some tears, that will be whipped cream on the mocha!

But the cherry on top of the whipped cream, would be an intervention by either Tom DeLay or George Bush himself, God forbid!

Antidepressants

I'm surprise how many of the people I know are on anti-depressants; and even more so with the availability and easiness that doctors prescribe them. Is very much like if they were handing aspirins for a headache.

I still refuse to go and ask for my daily doses of happy pills, even though a handful of them will come handy this days of gray skies and non stop rain in my little world. As with every drug, I'm afraid I'll end up "hooked" and not able to function without them. I smoked cigarettes for quiet a few years of my life and when I decided to quite it took me so much energy and effort, that the last thing I want to do is to have to go through that process again.

Maybe other drugs are not as addictive and as widely available as tobacco. When I was smoking all my friends use to smoke and back at that time in South America, China and Europe you could smoke almost everywhere. I've had love affairs with weed and Cocaine, but those have been short lived experiences and even though we flirt with each other every now and then, they are more "party" friends than anything else. I can function in my job, school and social and sexual life without the help of any drug, even including including alcohol which just help a little bit to open up my shy self but just at an early stage of a relationship. To have to use a drug in order to be able to function (excluding coffee of course) on regular basis scares the living crap out of me.

Even to use those very same drugs that I mentioned above to escape the daily realities of life, keeps me at arm's length of them. I've tried to rely on the gym in order to burn and gain some energy for my life, and at times sex comes very handy as well. Company of friends or people I know and sports is also a good way to keep my mind open. But still, wouldn't be great to take a happy pill in the morning and function like a brand new Subaru Impreza WRX-STI? Blogging is a good valve to alleviate pressure, but is not the whipped cream on your mocha, that's for sure.

Drugs. . . why don't we just make them all legal so that I can get ride of this sense of guiltiness everytime I use them. I mean, before they've reach the pleasure center of my brain, because once I take off towards the rings of Saturn, that's a whole different story my friends!

Charlotte

In Charlotte, the so called "Queen City" there's a church in every corner -this is indeed the Bible Belt. Maybe there's more churches than gas stations, and as we don't really have a public transportation system, I'll say that's a hell of a lot of churches.

People here go to church in Sunday morning. They get their best dresses and suits, put on some perfume, and head for the church to shake hands and be greeted by tons of smiley faces. Once the service is over and everybody feels closer to God and with one feet in heaven, is time to take care of one of their favorite wordly hobbies: eating.

Restaurants get packed right after church is over. All those buffets where you can eat till you sweat always have lines of people waiting to fill the void with gallons of sweet ice tea, and tons of fried chicken, fried pickles, fried oysters, fried rice, fried corn and just fried anything. Also with the good-old Southern BBQ, a mix of several parts of a pig blended together and served with corn bread and beans -and more sweet tea of course. After that some fried ice cream, or some key lime pie, or pecan pie or a nice size piece of cheese cake for dessert, and just to make sure, just add a few extra scoops of sugar in your already sweet ice tea to top things off.

Once you have your belly full beyond capacity and salvation at harm's length, is just time to go and hit the mall in order to take advantage of all those sales of items that you don't need and that maybe you already have, but that promise you to "save" a hell of a lot of money. But hurry up, because by the time you get there maybe everything is gone.

Then you might want to head back home and indulge yourself in reading our local newspaper, The Charlotte Observer, beginning of course with the weekly section of "Faith and Values". There you'll read how things are in wonderland, how great this town and Jesus Christ is and if you're lucky you'll have some reprints of articles from the NYTimes and the WPost. You'll find first page articles on buying only American products and how bad Walmart is; you'll also see how great things are going in Iraq and of course you'll get your daily doses of heart rending stories. In other words, that newspaper is good only to wrap dead fish.

Once you finish with the newspaper you might want to listen to some music on some of the local stations, just to have updates almost every other song on traffic and the weather. You'll also get your Billboard Hip Hop played over and over again, Ashley Simpson non-stop, and the good old "oldies" playing more often than the number one song on the charts. Do you remember Eurythmics? They get more air time today, in the 21st century than they did back in the eighties when they were kicking ass.

At the end of the day I always ask myself the same question. . . How in hell did I end up here?

Parachute's Color

They spoke about it right before lunch. R had been thinking about it for quite a long time now and didn't really know how to say it; but he realized that there was only one way: head on. Once mentioned, Peteco knew exactly what he was talking about "I've been there" he said, also pointing out that he might have someone who can do the trick for (and with) him.

Even though Peteco is one of those guys who talk more than he really knows and can do, the thing is that he projected a ray of hope and clarity in R's life when he needed the most. Good intentions are not good enough though, and in this kind of business you have to deliver in order to be credible. There was still a lot to be seen.

"It will be around ten thousand greens" Peteco said with such a confidence that R thought he had been there before. "Five thousand at the beginning and the rest when you get your diploma". Even though the tag price attached to it seemed kind of high, the truth of the matter is that the options have narrowed to just a handful of alternatives. And this one was one of them.

Later that rainy day, Peteco gave him a ride all the way to the satellite parking. Peteco stopped right in front of his car and told him to see the whole thing as an investment. He had been there before and even though things didn't work out due to his previous problems, in today's world that's perhaps one of the best ways you can invest your money in. "Those private accounts that the government is talking about? Fuck that, this is the real Social Security, the big enchilada". Then they talked for a while about the future, the willingness to relocate and what would the future will bring south of the river.

The fog was starting to thin a little bit; Peteco's comments made a lot of sense. Even though he's as crazy as a goat, R thought that it was a moment of clarity. Clarity for both of them, putting all the cards on the table and making a very complicated discussion look very easy and very logical. R also knew that the way ahead was not clear enough, but that he could always show up at Peteco's home to smoke some weed and then reach a real fucking moment of clarity.

They shacked hands and R headed for his three o'clock appointment. He didn't know at that time, but that appointment would have to be postponed due to some outdated information given to him late last week. No big deal, he would spent the rest of the afternoon at his place, chilling, listening music and taking a little nap before heading for the gym.

The stakes are very high and a decision should be taken within the next few weeks. Perhaps by mid-April, and then he will have to say what color he wants his parachute to be.

Shit Happens -and keeps happening

It has been raining shit in my little world lately. No end in sight though, perhaps some more tough times lie ahead before that little tiny light that I hear in the horizon can be seen.

After today's conversation with my friend Rudy, I see things a little bit clearer; but just a little bit.

Good things happen to good people, and I would like to think that I'm a good guy.

Dunno

I don't fucking know what to do! I've been waking up with a headache for the last few weeks due to this thing, and still don't know what to do.

It all comes down to The Clash's song "Should I Stay or Should I Go". But I don't fucking know.

The one thing that I know is that time is passing by, slowly but steady, and a time for a decision has come. What would it be then?

Splenda equals Splendid?

If you knew that you were going to pass away later that day, would you still use Splenda in your morning coffee instead of regular sugar?

When I drink coffee at home I don't use sugar; in Starbucks I put one whole bag of Sugar in the Raw; in Caribou Coffee the same; in Borders, no matter what and how much you add to it, it still tastes like mop water. At my mechanic's, I always decline when they offer me a cup of coffee -unlike wine, it doesn't get better with time. At my friend Angela's, back in the days, they didn't offered me coffee and I didn't ask for it either, because there's nothing more horrible than instant coffee in a cold mug.

I used Splenda in my coffee few moons back at Barnes&Noble. I felt like doing something crazy that day, something never heard of before, something to break with the routine of the day and to add spice and excitement to my existence. I wanted to go wild, crazy, running nude and screaming like a mad man down the non-fiction alley. Wanted to start a fire on the corner that holds the paper back books, I'm sure they'd have gone up in smoke faster than the hardcover ones. I felt like picking up magazines and putting them back on the shelves randomly. But I settle for using Splenda in my coffee that day.

I used one of those tiny little yellow bags in my 16oz Cafe au Lait, stirring it with a plastic straw in order to avoid the wood after taste of the stirring sticks. And as I love the smell of cinnamon, I added a little bit on top. And after the first sip, I regretted it like hell.

I mean, I regretted the whole Splenda bullshit. I didn't throw away my coffee because I had already paid for it and I was in desperate need of some caffeine. My levels of energy were kind of low and if I was gona stay reading magazines for free for the next hour or so, I certainly needed a shot in the arm. Shit, but that needle seemed more like a railway nail going through my arm to me! How could someone poison a cup of coffee with such an evil sugar substitute, and then drink it? I'd rather be fat and happy with sugar in my coffee, than thin and bitter having to use such a rat poison everyday.

And to be honest, if I knew that I was going to pass away later on the day, perhaps the last thing I would think of is how sweet my coffee is.

Things NOT to Do

Do not go to a discotheque without cash, so that you have to use your debit card in order to get drunk. And DO NOT get drunk at the club; drink before hand so that by the time you hit the club, one more glass of Vodka Redbull does the trick.

IF for whatever reason the above can't be done, then the next day do not look at the tab from the club, as it might cause your already strong headache to get even worst.

And your stomach upset.

No Late Fees?

Well, I'll be damn! I got the movie pass in Blockbuster for a month, and after watching quite a few dozen DVD's I cancelled it. Not before, of course, getting my last two movies. But the very last frigging movie that I picked, Hannibal, I've already watched it.

Shit!

However, as I believe you have to make the most out of any situation, I watched it pressing the fastforward buttom to the best parts and kind of enjoyed it. And just like any good God-Fearing Christian here in the Bible Belt would do, I'm gona keep it for a couple of weeks before returning it so that I can take advantage of the so called "No Late Fees".

Yeah, I even amaze myself sometimes.

On Crying

I wish I could cry; have some tears rolling from my eyes, cry like a baby, scream cry, cry and cry and cry until I feel thirsty. Wish I could cry while lying on my bed, cry while watching TV, cry in my car, in the shower, while brushing my teeth, while sipping a cup of coffee. Cry whenever the fuck I feel like fucking crying. I wish I could do it, man. Wish I could cry the way I cried that cold morning back in January 1999 on the Trans Siberian Train, when I left China and my girlfriend. Back then I cried and thought that I wouldn't stop until I reached Moscow; I cry and cry and cry, and every time I would think of her I would cry even more. And louder.

I wish I could do it again. Cry like a newborn and feel better afterwards; cry and forget for a while all the shit that revolves around me. Just fucking cry my eyes out, dude. Cry to get this knot out of my throat and my chest and pretend that after a good cry everything would be all right. Cry and let the world turn for a moment without thinking where is heading to. I wish I could just turn on the switch and let all those feelings loose; at least for a while, like when you take the dog for a walk, just let those feelings go with or without a leash and let them pee and shit outside my broken heart. Or just go to McDonald's and cry there, over a BigMc and a super size Coke. Perhaps just go to the Chinese Crazy Buffet near my place, ask for the spiciest sauce, put it all over my tofu and then cry and cry and cry and pretend that it is due to the spice; but I'll be crying my shit out, in public, and with a reason but without a reason .

I wish I could be more expressive when it comes to the things that I have in my heart and that sometimes seems like an elephant, stepping on one foot right on my chest while everybody around just cheers for the clowns and the trapeze artists to join us. I wish there could be a crying pill. There's enough happy pills out there to lift you up, but I would like to have a crying pill, one that will just open the gates of your feelings and you'll get dehydrated due to all those salty tears that will pour out of your eyes. I would like to cry and at the end of the day look like one of those boxers that got their ass kicked big time and who can barely open their eyes.

I only wish I could do it. But not once, I wish I could do it on regular basis. Maybe that's the one thing that I envy about girls, the ability that you guys have to have a good cry every now and then and feel better afterwards. I don't envy at all that you have to put up with us man and our hairy chest, our passion to sit for hours watching a stupid game on TV and our immaturity. I wish I could get a good cry and get all that bad energy out of your system and into a little handkerchief. Then you'll store those little handkerchiefs in a box and will have a record of your cries. Then, whenever human beings stop using technology to destroy things and kill people and do something good for humanity, you could maybe analyze those handkerchiefs and see the reasons for it on a DNA test.

Then you could look at it and smile, perhaps laugh, laugh out loud, keep laughing until your face turns red and you couldn't control your laughter. Laugh until you start crying and then it will be bittersweet tears pouring out of your eyes. All those salty and bitter moments would mix with your sweet memories, and you'll cry for both at the same time. Then you'll laugh and cry remembering yourself struggling with past problems and little things and how live just kept going, regardless. Your tears will then mix with more smiles and more laughs as a tragic comedy, but with no ending in sight. Cry so much that you end up laughing, or perhaps laugh so much that you don't know if those tears are of happiness or sadness or wass up with all that sobbing and shit.

I whish I could do it. A good cry every now and then. Oh Fuck! I only wish I could man.

Mickey

I spoke to Mickey yesterday. Stephan told him that the shit has hit the fan in my world, and that I'm not cool as a cucumber. He wanted to say hi, to listen to me and to say some kind words. Didn't ask me about plans and shit, "what are you gona do?", "what is going to happen?"; just wanted to say without saying it that he worries about it, and to keep my nose above the water and things will eventually work out. And he fucking knows what he's talking about.

We spoke for about five minutes, perhaps less. Even though his phone call surprised me, knowing him, it didn't surprise me at all. Good guy, this Mickey friend of mine is.

Of Fun and Hell

I wrote yesterday that my friend's Stephan's wife was "funny as hell", and Janet asked me that wass up with that expression Jean-Francois; either explain yourself or go to hell dude! I then did a little thinking and I'll say it again: she's funny as hell!. Listen up.

I would start by saying that hell is where all sinners end up going to. All those people who doesn't honor their parents, doesn't love God above everything else; people that lie, commit adultery, who doesn't go to church on Sunday morning but instead go Rollerblading and so on, end up in hell. And according to the preachers here in the Bible belt where I'm stuck at, also all the strippers, prostitutes, liars, drunkards, homosexuals, people that smoke weed and think that Terry Shivago should just be putted to sleep once and for all, those pro-choice liberals, those people who doesn't read the Bible everyday and quote it even when they are talking about football, are also doomed.

Hell is where we all (I include myself, that's why I say "we") are going to hang out whenever our hearts stop pumping blood. We'll walk around with little horns and a tail, our skin kind of reddish -just like Jean-Francois after getting a sun bath- and we'll have a goat tee and a trident to play with. We'll live deep underground in a cave filled with flames and an orgy in every corner; there'll be graffiti all over the walls, broken windows in every house, people with missing teeth chasing others down the street with their tridents, murder and torture will be rampant -murder without death, 'cause we are already dead of course. We'll be sweating day in-day out, with no sun nor moon, no dawns and no beaches, no winter or fall, no blue sky or clean toilets. There'll be plenty of pills, weed, cocaine, hard liquor and stuff. Strip clubs, casinos and poker tables will sit right beside class rooms; intensive care rooms in hospitals will be filled with looted boxes of ammunition; traffic lights won't be working and there'll be no speed limit for roads, highways or sidewalks. There'll be a combination and a confusion of faces, races, gender, colors and intentions; there'll be no presumption of innocence as we all will be dead-guilty.

On the other hand there'll be Heaven. It will be like a big Hacienda up in the clouds, packed with white bread people with little wings like a Redbull add and a little harp in their pure hands. They'll be thinking about good things and best wishes all day, not being able to smoke some weed every now and then and of course getting laid is out of question. People in heaven with their little halos will be wishing good to everyone else, unable to feel shame, hate, resentment, envy, glut and lust. They'll have state-of-the-art dining rooms and amusement parks, they'll have skyscrapers where everybody would live on the top floor with "post card" like dawns and dusk. Beautiful blonde hair girls with perfect silicone boobs would be walking down the street with their girlfriends, heading for the treadmill and pilates class. Honey will come out of their breasts and they all will be virgins and pure as bottled water. There'll be no sweat and no hunger, no poverty and no bad breath, everything will be free and there'll plenty of everything -but sex of course. How fucking fun would that be? They couldn't even make fun of we "hell people"; they could just pray and hope the best for us with their perfectly white smiles.

Meanwhile we, "hell people", down where the flames are, will be filled with bad thoughts and shit having a blast. We could even make fun of those people up in the clouds with their little white outfits, which among everything else would be fun and funny as hell.

So yes, my friend's Stephan's wife is Funny as Hell - ah!

Cheers!

Visit!

My good friend Stephan will be coming to Charlotte sometime within the next few weeks. We spoke on the phone last night, a nice conversation. Pretty cool guy my friend Stephan. His wife is also very nice and funny as hell.

Lot of drinking is going to take place whenever he comes. . . looking forward to it!

My Uncle

I have an uncle who lives in Canada and who's pretty cool. We talked every now and then and we both make each other laugh with the things we say; a very funny character that uncle of mine. But he's not doing any good.

He has arthritis and his life is pain. Day in, day out; morning afternoon and evening; he goes to bed in pain and wakes up the same way. He's in pain when he dreams killing dragons with a shining armor and a big sword; he's also in pain when those monster come chasing him down while he sun baths on the deck of a space ship. Before taking his doses of pain killers, he's in pain; after taking them, he's still in pain. He almost never tells me about it, but I Know it.
And it hurts me.

He had been in South America for the last two months visiting my parents, chilling and drinking wine with them, while trying to escape Montreal's winter. He brought with him a ton of medications, a bottle of sun screen lotion and a couple of presents. He also brought a book that he was reading but lost it in the airplane, maybe it just felt off and he couldn't lean to see under the chair to pick it up. He got another one down there, not a big deal.

He's my Dad's older brother, pushing mid-70s and might not be there to cut the cake for his eightieth birthday. He's not doing good and he knows it; he knows what's going on and what is going to happen -or keep happening- to his fragile bones. Once a very funny guy full of energy and a great dancer, he's turning into something that people try to avoid. To take care of him on regular basis and to help him walk, or go to the doctor, or with the remote control or with that book up there in the shelve that he can't reach, is hard. And sad.

He's going back to Canada today, he might be flying as I type this lines actually, and I know that he's not seeing South America nor my parents no more.

Misundercalculate

I thought I was going to get a return phone call today, but I didn't. I was so sure of my assumption, that now I'm upset -well, I was before the first beer. Now, with those bubbles playing poker with my brain cells, I just feel like. . . blogging about it.

George W. Bush Knows my Mechanic

They're pals, they go drinking and driving; they gulp down apple martinis in that sleazy bar around the corner from my place. George W. Bush and my mechanic get alone very well and they don't try to hide it. I saw a few days ago Air Force One parked behind a tree trying not to catch too much attention, while they were out on a drinking spree.

My mechanic's name is Bill, so Bill and George W. Bush go out with their pockets full of cash and their jeans. While Bill smokes his "Marlboro Ultra Light 100s", G.W. Bush chews tobacco spiting all over the flowers that grow beside the sidewalk. One day I thought that a stain on the floor was the result of a very fucking sick dog, but once I got closer, I noticed it was a tobacco spit, Texas Style.

One of them said that the problem with my car was the gasoline filter, and that once replaced things were gona be fine. The other one said something about Saddam Hussein and that once he was replaced everything was gona be fine (or was it something related to WMD?).

It turned out they're both full of shit! Partners in crime these two rats. . .

My Car Broke Down

Friday started like any other day. . . with a hangover. And from there on, things just went south.
I woke up with a smile on my face after St. Patrick's night. As always I had my cup of coffee and my smoothie; read the news and checked the e-mail. I went to the gym, where there was not a single soul and did my little routine that included twenty five minutes jogging and then some weights. I then had to go to the bank to do some shit for my mom and then to mail a letter for my sister.

Well, I'll be damn! When I got back to the car from the post office, the car didn't started. That red bastard! When I cranked it the car kind of started, but didn't started -I hope you know what I'm saying. The thing is that that shit didn't started and there I was, with my gym outfit, hungry like a lion and with the car all fucked up. I called my super-mechanic and the bastard didn't answer the phone. Later that day I learnt that he was back in Mexico visiting his family (I hope he can make it back to the US). I called a couple of "friends" and well, they were just useless. So, I had to call my ex-mechanic, and of course he was available -I want to point out here that I didn't call the son of a bitch that riped me off, I'd rather walk with a broken foot than having to call him.

At this time it was around three thirty and I was suppose to be working at six thirty; and there I was, in the middle of the parking lot, hungry, my eyes red with fury and the car being good for nothing. I went to a grocery store near by while waiting for Bill, the mechanic, to come and tow my car, so I got me some dinner rolls and a Coke for lunch.

When we got to the shop, one of the mechanics was available and he got to check the car right away. Needless to say, he tried to start the car and that bastard started without any problem, can you believe it? -I mean, the fucking Murphy's Law right in my face! The mechanic anyway said that it was maybe the gasoline filter, that was "dead" by his own words. He changed it and voila, everything was fine. At five thirty I stepped on the gas heading home and with ninety dollars and ninety nine cents less in my bank account.

I don't know how I did it but I got to work right on time. Which is good, because what I made tonight can barely cover the mechanic, the bread and the soda.

As one of the Murphy's Laws says "If one thing goes wrong, many more will follow suit at the same time". The gasoline filter was only one little thing in the whole problem and the car is not doing fine yet. Later that night when I wanted to start the car, it took me like ten minutes. I though I was going to have to leave it there and call a cab, but thanks God it finally started.

Next morning, Saturday, I went to the see the mechanic and after two and a half hours checking everything, he couldn't tell what was wrong. Only one thing was left to do: check the pressure for the gasoline pump, which was working, but how good, who knows? He didn't have the gauge needed to check it so I have to go back on Monday. I'm afraid is going to be that, because that will cost me around 200 greens and will wipe out the little cash that still sits in my bank account. But I'm more afraid that the gasoline pump is fine, because then I'll have to call that TV show called "Unsolved Mysteries" in order to make a special program for my car.

Today Sunday I'm stuck in my condo, afraid of going out in my car as it might not start again, ever. I'll have to live today on coffee, water, milk, some cereal that I still have, beer, wine, butter, olive oil, salt, pepper and some chilly powder which is the only thing available in my kitchen.

Or I could just walk to the Chinese buffet down the street and pile up on all the grease that my little self can take.

Mechanic

My car broke down yesterday and still is not 100%.

If there's Hell, for sure it will be a place with a car that's not working properly and with my agenda full of things to do, places to go and people to meet.

More to come about yesterday's hell of a day.

St. Patrick's Day

Last night I went out with beautiful [and super cool] Steph.

We drank green beer, took pictures of each other, got a shower of beer from a drunkard that drop her bottle; and talked and talked and talked. She was wearing black pants and a black turtle neck, with a green sweater. I wore my Dr. Marteen's and a light green shirt.

She told me about her life; told me that she loves chocolate and candy, and when I guessed right that her favorite ice cream was Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough from Ben&Jerry's she burst in laughs. She told why she came to the US, what she's gona study when she goes back to Germany [tourism], what she would really like to study [journalism] and what her dream job would be [photographer for National Geographic]. She likes to sleep late, to play basketball and to do Yoga; she likes to speed in her little car and once got a ticket for it; she walks the dog every now and then and her host parents have dinner at six o'clock every night; she gets hungry late at night and piles up on whatever is available in the refrigerator. She's taller than me and laughed when I told her that I looked like a dwarf besides her; her Mom came to visit her from Germany and she misses her a lot.

I also told her a bit about me, even though I'm kind of bad at talking about myself. I told her about South America and China; about college and travels, and about likes and dislikes.

That was a very nice night, with a cool conversation and lots of smiles and laughs. My loudest one was when she showed me her fake ID, the one she uses to get into bars and clubs, because she's only twenty: I told her "You dirty rat"!

The Night is Young

Tonight is St. Patrick's
and the night is young.
My company will be young
as well.
Would like to say
young and wild [and willing]
But I'd just say
Happy St. Pat's!

[Steph] Inspired it

People underestimate me. . .

This goes to my classmates on Wednesdays, whom somehow think that I'm kind of slow and perhaps a little dumb. What they don't know, is that I'm quite a few steps ahead of them. But I prefer them to think that I'm kind of lagging behind while I fly under the radar, because by the time they realize what is going on, the shit is gona be all over the fan and on the walls, windows, couch, and themselves.

Then, they'll turn around all confused and shit -literally, shit-, asking "what the hell. . .?" and looking at each other with a grimace while I'm cool as a cucumber. But even then, I'm sure they'll still be underestimating me, and I won't help them clean their glasses to fucking see what is going on.

I'll be off for my next set of adventures.

Today I'm Cold

It's cold outside, and inside. Colder outside though, but still cold inside. I like cold weather, but don't like to be cold.

Ice tea, Coke and ice cream are things that I like on the cold side; pork chops, tacos and coffee, on the warm side.

Warm weather makes me sweat, which I don't like; but it also makes me take quick cold showers that I love. With cold weather I don't sweat, but my showers are longer and with almost boiling-point hot water, which I don't like.

My electrical bill, with cold or warm weather, still arrives into my mail box. And with some ups and downs, I still have to pay it, so it's not about the money.

I've fallen in love in mid-August right at noon with a sun that seems like a ton of bricks on my empty and burned head. I also thought I met the woman of my dreams with the mercury in the thermometer completely frozen; found out later on that she actually was, and has been, the girl I've loved the most in my life.

Whether it is cold or warm, I still love women like crazy.

But still, today I'm cold and I'm not planning to take a shower. . .

A Little Upset

Ah the good old south! One of the cooking specialties in this land is the so called BBQ, a mix of different parts of a pig putted in a pot, cooked, chopped, mixed with only God knows what in order to lower the overhead and then served to whoever is brave, hungry and stupid enough to eat that thing. Usually you put a bit of BBQ sauce on top just to kill the taste of that "pork-a-mess" that you're about to ingest, perhaps some Texas Pete or some Tabasco to kill the rest of the germs in that sandwich, and then enjoy!

Yesterday for lunch I had an all southern BBQ sandwich where I work at. If it was a bottle of wine it would have been exquisite, due to the time it had been waiting to be consumed, but the true is that it was as dry as a saltin cracker and as tasteless as a piece of cardboard. Even though I added a lot of BBQ sauce and Texas Pete, plus two slices of Swiss cheese and some sliced tomatoes, that thing wasn't really good. Being the brave man that I am, I ate the whole thing without blinking and only with a glass of water as company. After that I had a bit of rice, a piece of meatloaf and some veggies -plus a more Texas Pete on top of everything. I do eat a lot my friends.

Last night after playing tennis with two friends and kicking their poor asses big time, we went on a safari in order to find a sandwich. To make a long story short, we drove for like 30 minutes and at least 80 miles in order to find a place that was closed, so we end up eating a huge sandwich at McAllister's. In there, I applied all my charm and got the phone number of the 19-year old waitress that took care of us; I would have liked to have the number of the very cute cashier, but she was only 15-years old. Could you imagine a date with her? I would have had to take her to Celebration Station or something like that.

So after that BBQ sandwich, meatloaf, gallons of Texas Pete, the huge sandwich at McAllister's and the tennis matches, I woke up this morning with my stomach upset, very upset if not plain-o-angry with me. For breakfast I just had two Alka-Seltzer, but it looks like this is going to be a long day.

I'm thinking about putting my laptop in the restroom. . . you know, so that I won't miss "shit" today.

That Thing (3)

My friend Alx has been trying to reach her without success, most of them time she doesn't answer the phone and when she does she doesn't return the phone call.

I'm afraid this is my only option, and things are not working as planned. Shit!

[Steph] Code Word

I should write a blog about the phone call that I just got. It did kind of surprise me, but somehow I was expecting it. There's no room for explanations, analysis or motives; that's a phone call that has to be taken as it is: a damn phone call.

But more than writing about the phone call itself, I should be writing about myself and the way I act. Not a blog to judge me; neither to trash nor praise me, but just to talk about the way I act and the accuracy of my assumptions and actions.

It should be a blog about this past Sunday and the one before; it should also include all the things that went through my head last week and how a little snow ball grew (almost) out of control. It should include my tendency to do "scenario thinking"; usually the "best" scenario and how it influences my twisted mind when reality bites back.

The blog, if I decided to write it, should not be about anyone else but me, as the motivation for such a blog emanates from my own thinking and mental world and is not influence by any hard evidence nor other people's actions. If written, I should include all those scenarios that I so carefully build -and build and build and build. I should write them down including every single detail that I put into them and pointing out how they spread in time, because another tendency that I have is to go WAY into the future. Then, beside that very same scenario, I should put together how things really develop in the real world, in black and white, excluding all those fancy colors, tones and shades that I like to use so much.

Then I'll draw various conclusions for the different stages of the whole process and how I could make it more accurate and reliable. A grand final conclusion will then be reached and a list of recommendations will land in my desk for me to proof read and sign in order to implement.

Once I've understood and I'm aware of how the shit hits the fan in my world, I can then take the whole document, roll it, and stick it up my ass to see if I finally learn how I operate and get fucking a lesson once and for all.

Wallet

I forgot my wallet today and felt naked all day.

I Didn't have money to pay for the parking, but as I've spoken few times to "Kenny" from Alabama the guy who runs it, he let me park but not before I promise, I mean "I swear, Kenny, that tomorrow I'll pay you". Didn't have my batch to get into the office building either, but as I know Martin from Liberia, who works as security guard and who was standing right at the entrance, he let me in.

I didn't have my driver's license either, but as I always try to drive between five and ten miles over the posted speed limit, no cop really bothers to see this red haired guy in a little red car -with a 2.4 L engine though.

Needless to say, didn't have money nor my credit cards, which by the way are pretty much useless at this point, so that's why I had to come home to get some cash in order to out and spend it in things that I don't really need.

Now that I have my wallet and I don't feel naked no more, I'm actually butt-naked writing this post, odd isn't it?

Sweet Enough

This evening while ordering a small cafe au lait, the young barista asked me if I wanted something else with it, pointing to the great selection of cookies, cheese cakes, muffins, crum bars, scones, bagels, croissants and pastries besides the counter.

I asked her "what do you recommend me?". She said "everything is real good, but my favorite is the NY cheese cake".

"Even though I'm a very sweet guy, I don't eat sweets; in other words, I'm sweet enough", I thought. Gave her a little smile for her effort, half flirtatious, but declined her recommendation. Paid with a twenty dollar bill and left a dollar and a Nickel tip.

Am I such a sweet guy or what?!

Soccer and Tennis

As much as I love to play tennis, I hate soccer. Even though I lived part of my life in South America where that's almost like a religion, I never liked it. While all my friends where having heated discussions about which team was better and who's team was gona kick who's ass, I just waited for the results and went celebrating anyway. I never woke up on Monday waiting for Sunday -or was it Saturday?- for the national league to play and glue my little self to the TV set for almost two hours watching a game. I could care less about soccer.

In South America, soccer is not only a passion, but is also pretty much the only sport everybody plays. When I was a little kid I'll go out to play with my friends on the street and besides breaking things, we'll be playing soccer. That was good fun and back in those days, and on the street we where pretty much as good -or as bad- as everybody else. Once we started growing up and the games and players became more serious, I started really hating soccer. I was a very bad player and got excluded of most of the games; or sometimes when there wasn't an even number of players, I'll have to wait for the first team to score, and then I'll be like a prize for them. I usually played defense; I'll be hanging close to the goal keeper and whenever someone will come with the ball, I'll kick him in order to get the ball.

That's why I moved to tennis, and I loved it from the very beginning. I was never really good at it, but I always enjoyed it so much. As you find here in the US many public tennis courts, in South America and China there's none. That's a sport that you can practice only if you have a membership to a club or league, plus you need to buy rackets and balls and all that stuff. Maybe that's the reason soccer is so popular around the world: you don't need money to practice it, just a ball and a group of friends.

And maybe that's the same reason why is not popular in the United States, because you don't need to buy all kind of equipment in order to play it. It may be close to basketball, but for soccer you don't even need a particular court, you can just play it on the street, on a park, in the backyard of your house, in your living room -I did and it didn't went well-, in the country side, on the beach, etc. just name it.

But I don't like it. What is funny is when people learn that I grew up in South America and I don't like soccer. They always go like "what?! Someone from South America that doesn't like soccer?! Are you serious?". I always reply by asking them how many red haired guys from South America they know, and usually the answer is "none". Then I said "well, I guess that makes me unique in many ways". End of the topic, let's move to blonde hair girls.

And if someday someone says that he knows a red haired from South America, I have plenty of "mixes" to add to the recipe until they say "none", including that I'm part French, that I lived in China (Beijing) for a while, my little story in Russia and so on. No matter what, there's no human or divine force that can make me change my mind about soccer and tennis.

Anyway, what I wanted to say when I started writing this post is that I played tennis this morning, and I kick ass!

Hitting the Jackpot!

I have to confess it here my friends -where else?- that I bought a lottery ticket, again. And again, I didn't win shit.

I know what you're thinking: that I'm weak. I feel like being part of those AA meetings when you start by saying "Hello, my name is Jean-Francois and I'm weak!", and then everybody replies tirely "Hello Jean-Francois". I'm weak my friends, I've known it for quite a while and I guess I still be -until I hit that damn jack pot!

One of the things that I like about buying the lottery, is certainly not the 30-minute drive all the way to South Carolina, but all those crazy ideas that come to my mind on how to spend the money.

I've always reached the conclusion that if I win, I won't go crazy buying this life and the next. I won't even tell anyone about it, I prefer to fly under the radar, so that all those poor souls that become my friends would be because they truly like me and not all those Swiss bank accounts, mutual funds, real estate and assets that I might own.

When it comes to spending the Jackpot, one thing that I know for sure is that I won't donate any money to the church -and I say this right here in the heart of the "Bible Belt", fearing to be stoned for such a heresy. I won't for two reasons: first because I don't go to church, I prefer go to the gym, or play tennis, or go rollerblading or read the news, perhaps chat with friends or just sleep. And second because the church is perhaps the wealthiest organization/corporation on the face of the planet. Hey! they sell salvation and eternal life once you die -or pass away-, isn't that a great business or what?

Even though my parents are fluent people, I might get a couple of toys for them to keep them happy. Unfortunately they won't get my friendship and company; ever since I remember I wanted to get the hell out of my house. I left when when I was 18-years old in order to do the mandatory military service in my country, and after that I went away to college in another city. But even before that, my heart was long gone from the house where I grew up and from my parents. I was the middle child with two sisters, and never really felt the love of my parents, but that's a whole different story.

My friends are all doing fine, so besides my company they'll get quite a few invitations to go eating/drinking/partying and alike, and of course I'll pick up the tab. I just think it makes no sense to reward my friends with toys and stuff, and it also doesn't make sense to tell them that I'm a rich dude now -well, if I hit the Jackpot of course.

As to changes in my life. . . the first thing I'll do is get the hell out of the Queen City (Charlotte, NC). Once I put my feet on the airplane, my laptop under my harm, I'll turn around to take one last look at this land and I'll swear never to come back again. Then I'll head back to my home country to see my family and friends -specially my friends. I'll then contact my good friends in Germany, France, England, China, Japan, Russia and Australia -whom I've been kind of neglecting for the last months- and perhaps will take a quick trip to visit some of them. Maybe not all, but for sure I'll go to Beijing and Paris for few weeks, perhaps a month or so, but no more than that.

BECAUSE I'll be sitting in front of the computer in order to apply to go to graduate school and get a master's degree in international relations, or perhaps political science or history, the subjects that are my passion and my hobby to read, discuss and write about. After that I might go for a PhD and will end up my days teaching history in a nice college or maybe a high school.

Along the way of course, I'll get me a "fine young lady" to share my life with. We will move to a nice little house on the suburbs and will have two or three kids, or four if she feels like it and we'll teach them to treasure what they have and to love and support each other. Perhaps we will live for one year in South America and one in Paris or Beijing so that they'll be expose to the world from a very early age, being able to understand that the planet outside the borders of the United States is not a barbaric land and that not everybody has to speak English and drive SUVs.

I'll never tell anyone about the lottery, not even my wife and kids. I'll bury that money deep inside mutual funds under their names, so that yhey can use it later in their lives with their families when they start having them. They'll have everything they need, but not all they want. I would try to make them appreciate the little things in life and the importance of relationships and memories among many other things.

For my wife, I'll love her and respect her and hopefully we'll be together until dead do us apart, or until we just couldn't live with each other any longer. People change, feelings change and at some point along the way those changes weight more than what hold us together, and the rope breaks in the thinnest part.

Who knows, perhaps one day I'll just open a coffee shop, hire few young, decent and energetic people and use my energy and charm running it. Or maybe I'll retire somewhere in the mountains or a beach and spend my time writing short stories, never to be published in my life time, but once I pass away someone will find them, stapple'em together, publish it and become a classic of the English literature. Then, 300 years into the future children whose parents have emigrated to Mars will have to read it to try to understand that crazy history of a once upon blue planet and how regular people use to live, love and die.

At that time I'll still be burning in hell of course; I've heard that eternity over there is quite a long time. . .

pRoNunCiaTiOn

I hate when people don't understand what I say. I'm a foreigner and I do have an strange pronunciation. But shit, with this pronunciation I was able to get an MBA and to help quite a few of my classmates pass our tests. I've also been able to talk many times for half an hour to those customer service people in Time Warner Cable when my internet connection goes bad, to fuck quite a few girls in this land, to apply and get few jobs, to ask for a beer in a bar and to give directions to a cab driver when I'm totally wasted due to that very same beer. . . Among other things.

Today I went to Barnes&Noble to read magazines for free while sipping a cup of coffee, as I usually do. I asked for a "small cafe au lait, please", and this girl in the register was like "uhhhh, did you say 'ice frappe mocha', sir?".

I boiled in a split of a second and while looking up at the list of drinks, I said with the best -or perhaps worst- pronunciation I could come up with "TALL cafe au lait".

And this half-brained lady-monkey was like "ahhhhhh, TALL cafe au lait". It even pisses off to write it! Arrrrrrgh!

The total was $1,95; I paid with a five dollar bill and got three dollars and a Nickel back. Usually I throw all the coins in the tip jart or perhaps a dollar. Today, I even kept the damn Nickel.

That Thing (2)

I was playing Medal of Honor, killing people to right and left, blowing up tanks, placing explosives on artillery pieces, trying to get rid of machine gun nests, killing my own fellow soldiers when felt like it and using rocket propeller grenades, when the phone rang.

I hesitated for few seconds whether to answer the phone or not, but I did. Good thing, it was my friend Alx.

She told me that she finally talked to that someone that she knows, about what we've been talking all these days, and there's white smoke. They're going to meet each other in the next few days, and then she'll get back to me.

I don't know what to think, and honestly I'm going to try not to think at all. The more I think about something, the more things turn out to be the other way. Disappointment starts pouring down as monsoon rain, prompting Jean-Francois to get into one of his downturns.

As I told her, let's wait and see.

"it"

When I woke up this morning I realized that I didn't have milk and apples for my cereal, nor medicine for my allergies. I had some coffee though and as a matter of fact I had a cup, as I always do, in order to put my thoughts together and set my strategy in place.

I had many choices, including eating the cereal with a mix of water and half and half; going to Starbucks down the road and having a muffin with yet more coffee; skipping my usual cereal and diving straight into a big bowl of rice and lentils; I even thought about going back to bed, which even though I've just had coffee, I knew I could've felt sleep again.

I settle for going to the grocery store and getting some milk, fruits and medicine in order to start my day like I always do: with a mix of coffee, cereal and drugs -over the counter drugs of course.

I tried to remember last night's dreams and I just came with an incomplete picture of different and overlapping stories that included an overweight suicide bomber, some kisses with a Hindu girl, and some landscape that looked like a video game. Weird stuff, but I couldn't remember much.

I have to call Brenda on the phone today, and that is one phone call that could "make it or break it".

Being "it" my whole future.

Run Into a Friend of my Sister

I went to he gym this evening and run into a friend of my sister, a "pretty nice guy" I have to say. We jog for a while, talking about a little bit of everything. He told me that he's marrying his girlfriend and moving to Spain with her, he also told me about his job and about the lives of a lot of people that I once met but that I haven't seen in years and that I really don't care about.

Then we moved to my life, which is a pretty fucked up story right now, so I tried to go around it. I said as little as I could but his questions were sharp and I couldn't really avoid them -I'm too polite, I should've just say hi and keep running at my own pace.

The thing is that at some point enough was enough and I told him that I was going to do some weights so "I'll see you around". I in fact went downstairs and did my thing and when I was going back upstairs to get my jacket, I ran into him again and his girlfriend. He was trashing me, kind of saying that I was a really fucked up dude and then when they saw me they were like "Hey! Jean-Fran, we were talking about you. . ." Yeah, no shit dude.

We stood in the stairs talking for a little while and getting more fucking questions from them. I hate questions, specially when the answers ain't pretty. I tried my best to go around and not to say much, but what I said was enough. They are in contact with my sister and as a matter of fact I think they talk more to her than I do, so I'm sure they broke the speed limit on their way back home to go and write to her about our encounter. The relationship with my family at this point is very distant and the last thing I want is to see them, but that's a whole different story that I'll talk about later on.

This guys have a little group that gets together every Thursday evening for drinks and where I went once and never came back. Every time I see them, they're like "you should come"; and I'm like "yeah, sure. I'll see you there". Dude, It's been years since the last time I went there I have no plans to go and hang out with people that I don't really know. But well, this is the south, and here somehow is more important what you say than what you really mean and feel.

They finally got tired of grilling me with questions and not getting many answers and we say good bye. I'm sure I gave them enough material to talk for weeks about me and my fucked up whereabouts. One of the reasons why I never went back to their meetings on Thursdays, and basically why I never hung up with them was because they trashed everybody they knew, and I know from "many sources" that when Jean-Francois got mentioned, the only thing left to do was to put a picture of me on the wall and throw darts at it.

Now that I think about it, that would have been good fun. . . for them at least.

Them

Most of those who went away to college never came back.

On Favors

Don't you hate when people call you and say something like "Where have you been? Why you haven't called me?". Puting aside those people whom have called you few times or writen e-mails and you have never replied to them, my standard answer is that I've been right here, just one phone call away. I really don't go any further, even if the other person hammers me again with the same lame question; I just repeat that I've been and I am only one phone call away.

A friend called me the other day with that very same fucking line, and got of course my standard response. The funny thing is that once I heard her "Hi!" on the other side of the line, I knew that she needed a favor from me.

If I can do it, I don't have any problem doing favors. I know that eventually I would be able to ask for one in return, and even though I'm pretty sure I'll get an excuse for answer, with a little push, things may come my way.

This type of relationships end up working like the mafia: an eye for an eye.

Hell or Heaven?

I decided many years ago that no matter what happen in my life or what I do, I'll be going to hell.

And hell might be a place without sex, pasta, bread, coffee with friends, blonde hair girls, lazy afternoons, red hot sunsets, computer games where you can shoot people and so on. It might be extremely cold, or with flames and shit; there might be a lot of water or a fucking dessert or perhaps a land filled with thunderstorms. Whatever it looks and feels like, I really don't give a shit.

The thing is that I just have one less thing to worry about in this life!

Wisdom?

What can I say that I haven't said before? You'll think that wisdom comes from experience, but I'll add that is experience applied to every day situations.

Even though there's some black clouds ahead charged with rain and winds and shit, I'm back on my feet and in grounds that I know well, very fucking well.

What I should do is take this and convert it to fucking wisdom!

Must be the Spring Allergies

Besides making me sneeze like 500 times a day and blow my nose another 700 times, this spring allergies are making me slower than usual. Maybe is the medicine that I'm taking. Which one? -you'll ask. Well, let's see which one is it.

Is maybe that little tiny pill that I take every morning that helps me cut the sneezing by about 1/3, from 1,500 a day to just a flat 500; or maybe the other one that helps me with the hitching, the running nose and the watery eyes? Or maybe was the eye drops that I had to use last week for that mysterious "infection" that I had in my eyes? Or maybe all those Alka-Seltzer that I take after those extra-huge FOOD INTAKES that are usually refer to as breakfast, lunch and dinner? Or maybe is all that caffeine that keeps me going all day without blinking or slowing down? Or maybe is the Cheapstick for my dry lips due to the lack os use with a female?

Or maybe was those margaritas that I had last Saturday and that I mixed with beer? Or perhaps the tennis match that I played with one of my friends while still a bit hung over from Saturday? Maybe I know, it was the Cookout that we had on Sunday afternoon when we ate sausage, pork, beef, potatoes, chicken, salad with fat-free dressing and drank wine!

I really don't think that the fact that I've been thinking about Steph all day today has made slower than usual. Or maybe is that?

The thing is that I've just cooked a huge pot of lentils (yes again, so what?!) not knowing that in my freezer there's enough lentils to feed an army. Now, whether I wanted or not, the next few weeks Jean-Francois is going to be hanging out in "Lentil Land". Anyone for a nice bowl of lentils?

No Late Fees

I just joined the Movie Pass of Blockbuster, and according to them, there's no late fees. So, I have thirty days to watch whatever the hell I want to. . . let's see what happens.

1. Billy Elliot
2. Saw
3. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
4. I ♥ Huckabee's
5. The Nightmare Before Christmas
6. American Pie 2
7. The Lost World
8. The Manchurian Candidate
9. Office Space
10. Stepford Wives
11. The English Patient
12. A Day Without a Mexican

An Evening of Fun?

While shaving this morning I miss a little spot right under my nose, but I think nobody notice it. Not even that guy who had a she crab soup with ice tea, neither my boss who seems even more stressed now when there's basically nothing to do. And my e-mail accounts are working quite well, pitty that no one writes to me other than those damn spamers.

The light in the kitchen is kind of fucked up, so everytime I turn it on it kind of looks like if I were tripping -on caffeine. The lentils are gone now, but as always there's plenty of pasta in my refrigerator as well as beer and wine.

The gym is just across the street from my condo but everytime I think about going it seems as if it were running away from me. I mean, I go and run there, but don't run to the gym or from the gym to my condo: I drive. That's fucked up. I should run to and from the gym, so that it will be healthier for me and for the earth.

But if I don't drive I won't be using gasoline and then who is going to support the dictators in the middle east whose repression fuels terrorism which keeps George Bush in power.

And if such an idiot is not in power but someone who really cares about the middle income people trying to live in a just planet, then where should I direct all this hate that lies in my heart?

Which brings me to my original question: should I go to the gym or should I go for an evening of "hit and run" fun?

Words of Wisdom

The more hunger you show, the less you get to eat.

. . . but if you don't like soup, you'll be served two fucking bowls.

Shit!

Sideways! (1)

What a beautiful movie, perhaps one of the best I've seen in many years. And even more so with the beautiful company that I had tonight: Stephanie, the "German Barbie Doll Nanny". Plus she is very cool and funny.

But putting aside beautiful Stephanie, Sideways is such a great movie. It has a little bit of everything: funny sometimes -actually a lot of times-, there's drama to it, a bit of suspense and so on. Plus there's so much in the movie, so many topics and great conversations, analysis, scenarios, feelings, overlapping references and so much that I'm just going to let the movie sit for a few days to see what I come with.

If you haven't seen it, get your ass out of the front of your computer and go to the nearest theater to watch it. Call a friend and go with her, or knock on your neighbor's door and ask him to go with you. Or go by yourself and just take a long pee before the movie because it is two hours long and very much worth watching.

And while you're there, check out for the personal question "Why do you like Pino Noir so much?".

Looking Ahead

Yesterday was Saturday, which means that last night was "Saturday Night" and a nice occasion to hit the bar scene going drinking, partying, laughing, dancing and stuff. And I actually did.

Nothing really exiting happen last night to be honest. First I went to one of my friend's condo were we had some beers, you know, just to warm up engines; and then we went to Downtown to look for a new disco featuring Latin Music, and we were so unlucky that we found it.

This club is basically a dance floor in a basement with a little bar/restaurant on the first floor. There was nobody last night, and those few braves souls that venture in there reminded me of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video. The only pretty girl was the bar tender which by the way was doing a pretty good job with those "margaritas" that we drowned.

The thing about last night, or perhaps yesterday, is that there was a lot of shit going on.

I met a girl who even though is not very attractive physically to me, I can tell that there's a lot of chemistry between us; and maybe not to develop to a "full time" relationship, but someone with whom I know I would really enjoy hanging out with. I'm sure I'll be writing more about her.

I also spoke with Stephanie, the "German Barbie Doll Nanny", and I invited her to go out to this club but she couldn't, she had to take care of her kids while their parents were out. Which was a good thing, because as I said that place was as shitty as a shitty place can get. But I'm gona see her tonight, we're suppose to go to the movies to watch "Sideways". Again, I'm sure I'll be writing more about her in these pages.

My friend Rudy called me when I was on my way to the club saying that he had a girl for me. Actually his girlfriend's sister in law is hosting a girl in her house from Scotland, and she's doing some kind of ballet thing here in the Bible Belt or something like that -they were kind of drunk when they called me, and I was also a little bit drunk so I didn't really understood what was going on. Anyway, they are going to hook me up with her so maybe there will be a posting about her.

And then my ex roommate called me to ask if I wanted to go and grab a couple of drinks. His wife is pregnant and I told him that we should go out and celebrate -without her, of course- and get drunk like hell. But at that time I was also on my way to this shitty club, so we said that maybe next weekend we will get together.

Even though last night nothing really happen, and after getting half drunk we went back home, a lot of possibilities appeared on the horizon. I've been always fascinated on how things happen, and how little details end up in big stories. In other words, is there really coincidence on things that happen to us on regular basis?

I have to go, I'm going to try to kill this hang over with a tennis match with a friend of mine. Cheers!

A Doctor?

I was just thinking that I could be anything in this life but a doctor.

I could be -and as matter of fact I've been- a lemonade maker/seller, waiter, server, barista, cook, burger flapper, cashier, sales manager, I also worked in human resources, was a project manager for a time, had my experience in the foreign service, I was a teacher and I even delivery pizzas among other things.

If the opportunity comes I could easily become a hitman, mailman, telemarketer, lawyer, judge, porn actor, realtor, broker, writer, administrative assistant, vice president, journalist, escort, clown, actor, data entry, astronomer, electrician, handy man, painter, male-maid, baby sitter, fisherman, pilot, boat captain, sailor, spy, ambassador, head of the EPA, congressman, warehouse manager, mechanic, soldier, translator, dish washer, carver, miner and so on.

I could work in an office with air conditioner, or out in the sun, in a gym, on a boat, on an airplane, in a submarine, in a corner office or a cubicle, work from my car or at home; I could also be a "stay home dad", or a retiree, or perhaps just become a homeless guy roaming the streets. I could live in the US or abroad; I can handle winter, summer and fall -spring, I hate it-, I could eat 5 times a day or just one; brush my teeth everyday or just forget about; use deodorant and colone or just forget about them, have sex every single day or become a monk -I could try really hard at least, won't promise anything; or maybe I could also become a (true?) believer and shout my love for God every day.

But one thing that I couldn't be is a doctor.

I could live like one, no problem about that. I'll make a pretty decent amount of money which entitles me to have a trophy wife, few brats, a mistress, few plasma TVs and a house on the lake. I would also prescribe myself some of those great pain killers and anti depressants that make the law of gravity disappear among other crazy effects; I will make my very hot patients undress -all the way-, and would check for bumps in the breasts and butts -the ugly ones just need to stick their tongue out and say ahhhhhhhhh.
"Goooood" I'll say, "you're not going to die. Get the fuck out of here and please tell your daughter to come in". he he he.

But beside living like one, it will be impossible for me to open up someone in order to fix him or her. The sole thought of all that blood and flesh and stuff right there on the operation table would make me faint.

Curiously enough, I think I could kill someone with my own hands -I think-, so is not that I'm afraid of blood. Maybe I'm just afraid to put someone to sleep and say that everything will be all right and then not being able to bring her back to life. I couldn't live with that; hell no.

Licked

It is nice, cool and sunny outside; but there's a thunderstorm inside, a tornado is looming in the horizon and gets bigger by the inch. A cyclone had just passed through my living room and left me confused on what is up or down or east and west.

The cheese in the grilled cheese sandwich spilled out and got all crunchy and dark. I ate it anyway. Two empty cups of coffee are sitting beside my laptop, but the caffeine worn off right before I took that nap and after I watched Nicole Kidman for ninety minutes. And just like with the coffee, I couldn't get enough of her.

If I go rollerblading right now, would I live pass 55 years old? Maybe yes, but maybe not. Maybe I won't even make it for dinner tonight, which is a shame because I spent 2 hours cooking a big pan of lentils that will go bad before my body is found, licked and half-eaten by mi neighbor's cat.

Account

The bank closed the account that I had opened with my mom few months ago. Oh, shit! I had to come up with some documents, and as always I procrastinate for a couple of weeks and boom! I just got the check today on the mail.

I spoke to one of the guys in Wachovia and he said that we can re-opened without any problem next week, when I get the new documents that they demanded, but that doesn't really worry me. I just don't know what am I going to say to my mom.

For sure it won't be the true; I've learnt that with her, the truth is not appreciated, so I guess I'll have to come up with some crazy story in order to confuse her and in the meantime I'll open the account again. Or maybe I'll just won't answer the phone until next Wednesday or so when everything would be back to normal, I hope, and then I'll go like "Hey! Wass up?!".

In the other hand I have in front of me a check, to my name, for $11,028.74 that is really flirting with me. Should I make it mine all mine and just go crazy and then blame it on the acids?

A Lawyer

Why is it that lawyers are so full of shit, ah? Or maybe is just the one that I spoke to yesterday, I guess is not fair to trash all of them for one bad apple.

I understand now why they charge the consultation before hand: otherwise you'll refuse to pay for that baby talk and all the crap that comes out of their mouths.

I also noticed that the concept of fear is so widespread in the American society, that not only politicians use it for their own purposes, lawyers also use the fear factor in order to sell their services. The concept of "you'll be doomed without me"; the idea that even though things could go fine without a lawyer by your side "would you take such a risk?"; the mentality that only the worst can happen if you don't have one of those blood suckers beside you at all times. Again, I'm speaking based on my experience with one, not really want to trash all of them.

At the end of our meeting I choose my words very carefully; being the nice and well educated guy that I am, I tend to use words like "thanks", "please" and so on. After I saw that vampire, I said that it had been a pleasure; we'll talk again; I'll think about it; I'll give you a call; we'll keep in contact; and so on, but I bite my tongue not to say the magic word "thanks".

The body language at the end of the meeting certainly reflected the little if not the lack of chemistry between this polite red haired guy and that leech.

The Odds

I'll say it just for the record, but if I'm writing about it, it really makes no sense to even mention it. If I'm here, is because it just didn't happen after all.

It wasn't my fault though, and as a matter of fact that was nobody's fault, as there's really no fault in it. Is not that I got late, or that I forgot a document or I lost a very important phone number, it just didn't happen. Or I'll better say it didn't happen the way it was suppose to, it was more like a flat tire happen one day, or something just breaks down, or the milk goes bad while in the fridge; it just happens. And is not that the shit hit the fan, is just that shit happens and it happen to me -well, the truth is that a little assumption didn't happen.

And as you know I had a big plan which involved a lot of thinking, many hours doing research, some more putting it together, a couple of days going over it and making sure that there was nothing and no one left out. The actual document describing what would happen if the initial assumtion was right contained all the information needed to understand the outcome. It included all the different decision trees used in coming up with the most favorable cash flow for the whole thing; it also included some reference to taxes, off shore companies and of course the benefits, which were unlimited. Even though I had several cups of coffee, did endless drafts and conducted several interviews, I decided not to mention it in the final document. Neither the joint that I smoked once the whole thing was done, you know, just to let the dust settle and have a clearer picture of it.

And things were clear, from beginning to end, from head to tail, oh , yeah. Things were gona go just great, or fabulous or I guess is the only word that can fit the description is amazingly perfect . I just needed that initial assumption to happen, but it just didn't.

I also did the the numbers and I did the math, and I know that at the beginning I thought I was pushing the envelope a bit far with my assumption, but after I did a dry run of it, things just felt in place. Once the dust had settle, everything became clearer, and that assumption was attainable, no doubt about it. And as a matter of fact I was close, because I did have the initial numbers correct, but in a whole different order.

But if those numbers had been right, the rest would have been just a walk in the park: the TV set, the car, house on the beach, a condo in NYC, the house-mansion in the heart of the Bible Belt, furniture, furniture and more furniture; antiques, pictures hanging on the walls, a maid, a garden, flowers, trees, wife, mistress, ex wife, children and so on.

But I know what you're thinking: the assumption of winning the lottery is just to great to count on it.

Just a Buzz (2)

So I went yesterday to have some beers with two of my classmates, June and Erick, and we had a blast. Those two are pretty cool, and June is so funny that everytime she laughs -which is like every other minute-, the whole room fills with her laughter -in other words, she's loud.

Among other things, she talked about her idea of setting up her own business. Now that she's married and her husband is doing all-right, she was thinking about setting up an "escort service". Oh man, we burst in laughs when she said that; an escort service in this town where there's like one church in every corner?! I bet she would become a billionaire in no time!

We also talked about Stephanie, one of our classmates, and I was kind of surprise to hear them say that they find her so beautiful. The first day I saw her, I found her very pretty, but after seeing her a couple of times, she just looks all-right to me. As I told June, she's thin, young and blonde, plus she dresses very well and has this German accent that can make the more balanced guy go nuts. But, they kept saying that she was the Barbie doll herself, which is pushing the envelope a bit too far.

Erick and I were joking about inviting her to go out, and maybe take her to our now official "Wednesday's Pre-Movie's Buzz", but we all agree that she might be underage. But June said that if one of us invite her to go out, she'll pick up the tab. So Jean-Francois, after the class was over, approached her with his best smile and charm, his breath still smelling of beer, and extracted from her brain her cell phone number and gave her mine by the way. "I'll call you so that maybe we can hang out" -I told her. She nodded with that cute smile that she has and we said good bye for the night.

I feel like a porn actor but without the sex: I'm getting paid -reimbursed actually- in order to go out with a nice and pretty girl. I can live with that.

Just a Buzz

After going through half my wardrobe, I settle for my new pair of jeans and that sweater that I stole from GAP several years ago.

For my underwear, thanks God, I didn't have to choose; I'm wearing my standard GAP black underwear -clean of course, I get them out of the laundry bag only when I go to the gym. I'm also wearing black socks, the ones I got from Costco about a year ago in a package that contained like 50 pairs and have the little Tommy-Hilfiger flag on the side. I'll put on my black Dr. Marteens boots, but not before applying some shoe polish.

I'm wearing a white t-shirt underneath my sweater that is like 3 years old and perhaps three sizes smaller than the small size. But I like it and it has so much cotton that makes my other white t-shirts bought in K-mart just weeks ago, feel like a napkin wrapping my thin figure.

As I have such a good manners and come from such a distinguish family, I'm also wearing the "Wild Rain" deodorant from Gillette and some powder for my feet. I just brushed my teeth with the good-old Colgate and right before leaving I'll be using some Listerine as well. Do you want to hear something funny? In my native dialect, "Colgate" means "hung up yourself".

I have class today, but just to warm up engines I'm meeting some of my classmates for a buzz before it. Last class I run into them in the parking lot after class and in our three and a half minute conversation, we trashed every one of our classmates. Specially a guy who is like 90 years old and every class comes up with a crazy comment that has nothing to do with what we actually saw. But a comment after all.

And talking about comments, do you think Jean-Francois opens his mouth every now and then when the discussion starts?

Sometimes.

Today with few beers in my head, do you think I'll be saying maybe a word or two?

To be continued.

Answers?

So I've gotten a lot of complains from the people inside my head -cuzz no one ever comment in here- saying that wass up Jean-Francois, why is it that you have developed this allergy to the keyboards and why is it that you don't post anymore like you used to do back in the good old days when you used to spill all those dead brain cells all over this blog and sometimes not just one but two, three and even four times a day? So wass up your red-haired ass that you don't write no more?

And I say, if you want an answer for all those whys, I do have one for you:

BECAUSE, it's 5:47PM and I still have my neck tie around my neck.

Oh don't mention it, you're welcome. And if you have more question just ask. I'll be glad to give you an answer, or two or three or frigging 100 answers; just ask.