One Charmed Motherfucker

A Fun Old-Fashioned Family Fireworks Extravaganza

Just as I live 364 days a year to see Christmas morning, my little brother tolerates the rest of the calendar just to blow shit up on the 4th of July. He's been a card-carrying pyromaniac since he was a latchkey kid, left home alone to explore all the possible consequences of pairing an open flame with an aerosol can. He then parlayed that into having firework fights with his friends, shooting roman candles and bottle rockets at each other, citing as his safety precaution "always wearing long-pants instead of shorts." I guess that way instead of singeing the hair on his legs, he has twice as much flammable material covering his lower extremities than his targets. You'd think being hit in they eye with a roman candle at the age of 8 would have cured him of any pyromania, but the opposite is true. It only served to teach him that fireworks are harmless noiosemakers, and the worst that could happen is that you'd lose an eyelash or two and smell like a charburger without cheese.

Normally an intelligent man, at dusk on July 4th my brother transmogrifies into a blithering idiot, bouncing off the walls and drooling with a lit punk in one hand and his teeny little hardon in the other. He has a seven-year-old son who is growing up to believe that the safest place to put your face when lighting an explosive cannon is RIGHT OVER THE BARREL. And lighting firecrackers from your hands is harmless. Holding roman candles while they spit tiny balls of fire into the air? WAY safer than securing them between concrete blocks. In fact, I'm pretty sure that my brother and his friends directed, produced and starred in this video.

Over the years I've become more and more edgy around the 4th of July, but this year I was actually able to ease up a bit and enjoy myself. I think the difference was that I didn't actually light any fireworks this year. Usually when I light fireworks, my brother is behind me, setting off illegal out-of-state fireworks in a bone-dry hayfield. This year I learned that giant explosions aren't nearly as nerve-wracking if you don't already have a firecracker in your hands. I also learned that this is truly my brother's holiday, and the best way to enjoy it is to watch him enjoy it. Beacause he's not going to let a little thing like "common sense" or "city ordinances" spoil his good time. So I won't let him spoil mine. Kaboom.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

For those of you who don't like to buy wrapping paper: A double-page spread from Maxim Magazine is the perfect size to wrap DVD gift-sets. You're welcome.

So, I'm in Texas this week doing training for the new job. It's really a pretty sweet gig, if you're One Charmed Motherfucker. First and foremost, I'm the only trainee here that doesn't have to bunk with another recruit. THAT fucking rocks. I've been expecting to be on the road for two straight weeks without any privacy, so having a full week in a hotel without a roommate is gonna be one non-stop, walk around naked, get a hooker, leave my undies in the floor and snore like a goddamn chainsaw paaaar-taaaaay.

It's odd being back in this hotel. The last time I was here was for pleasure, thinly veiled as a business trip. Juicy gossipy details aside, I literally stepped off the elevator to have one of the room doors open as if by magic. Behind the door was the object of my affection, standing in a pink and black negligee, ready to rip my clothes off and fuck me like we were the only two people left on earth. So now every time I step off the elevator I get a nice little flashback to that weekend, and I sort of float above the carpet until I get to my room, where the only thing waiting to fuck me is my unread e-mail.

Rumor has it they're going to turn my brains to tapioca before the end of the week. They say this week of training is pretty hard, kind of a Boot Camp meets Brooks Brothers kind of thing. I'll let you know how it goes. If my next post is composed entirely of home-row gibberish, then at least you'll know I'm alive.

So Funny, Even Jesus Laughed.

"I just wanted to let you know that there's going to be another card-carrying atheist in your neighborhood."

"Well thank fucking God."

This Ain't My First Rodeo.

Today we mourn the loss of my 2001 Isuzu, affectionately known as The Black Rodeo. A moment of silence, please...

The Black Rodeo was supposed to be the last car I'd ever own. I bought the car with 15,000 miles on it, and I was certain that it would run for 400,000 more. I loved that car, and to say I was shocked when it up and quit on me is an understatement. Sure, I've had other cars bail on me - my Honda CRX blew up in Carthage, Missouri. My white-trash-worthy Honda Accord caught fire in the school parking lot. I had a stock NIssan Sentra without power-steering that developed delusions of grandeur and went off to LA to become an actress. There was even a two-week torrid love affair with my friend's Subaru Impreza WRX that I will always remember fondly, as dangerous as it was. But none of those losses seem as devastating as the loss of The Black Rodeo. It was easy for me to see myself driving The Black Rodeo forever. It was body beautiful and it fit me perfectly. I was certain that it was "the one."

When I first bought The Black Rodeo, it was my baby. I'd spend a full Sunday cleaning, detailing and pampering the car inside and out. And when I wasn't rubbing it gently with a soft cloth, we were out on the town, having fun and seeing what kind of trouble we could get into. The Black Rodeo and I used to love going out to get frozen custard and then cruise up and down the riverside. We'd take pictures, grab some lunch and then head out to see a movie or something. Our lives were anything but sedentary, and we loved it that way. I made mix tapes especially for our time together, and I bought it all kinds of accessories, including a bug deflector, a bike rack, and a navigation system. I treated The Black Rodeo better than I'd treated any other car I'd owned, because I finally saw the value and importance in having a vehicle that would last me the rest of my life.

Five years and 100,000 miles later, my life changed. I took on a new job that required me to drive all over the state. I was overworked and stressed out, and I was leaning on The Black Rodeo harder than ever. All we ever did was work. There was never any time for fun, and when there was, we were both out of gas. 250 miles one day, 600 the next. There wasn't time for a quick wash and wax, much less a long, leisurely road trip where the two of us could just focus on each other. Even when we were together, I was taking phone calls or jotting down notes instead of appreciating the hum of the engine or the subtle curves of the bucket seats.

A vicious Catch 22 - I relied on The Black Rodeo more than I ever have, but I had less time to give the car the attention that it not only deserved, but actually required. This pains me to admit, and upon hearing this, Real Men out there will wince and shake their heads and say "Dude, what the fuck were you THINKING!?," but I got so wrapped up in working all the time, and distracted by stress and deadlines and travel and being a grown-up in the real world that I actually let The Black Rodeo... run. out. of. oil.

Shit, see, I KNOW! Who DOESN'T know that oil is the lifeblood of a car? Just as even the finest, most beautiful woman thrives on compliments, every car on the road NEEDS FUCKING OIL. And Jesus, if something is as mission critical as a car that you depend on to go 200+ miles per day, you should be taking EXTRA SPECIAL care of it. I did the opposite. I took for granted that The Black Rodeo would run forever, taking routine maintenance whenever MY schedule would allow. And that, it seems, is why The Black Rodeo quit on me.

Now, three different mechanics have told me that there's really nothing I could do to prevent The Black Rodeo from breaking down. It seems there's an inherent condition in the engine that causes one of the valves to get all gunked up, which causes the engine to burn more oil than most other engines. According to my mechanic, I could have continued to pour oil into the engine, but until the engine was fixed from the inside, I'd only be draining my time and energy, delaying the inevitable. So I guess I'm lucky that The Black Rodeo decided to quit on me when I had the wherewithal to suffer such a devastating loss.

So then I was faced with an opportunity to upgrade from The Black Rodeo into something that might fit me even better! Something with a sunroof, or maybe a stick shift. Something that got better gas mileage or had more cargo space. But the more I looked at other cars, the more I missed The Black Rodeo. I knew all of the Rodeo's quirks, and I could handle them. I knew that it had to be put into Park a certain way in order to get the key out of the ignition. I knew that the passenger side seat belt was a little more gung-ho about it's job than other seat belts. I knew that if you pulled the seat too far forward, you'd knock out the satellite radio. Even so, I was committed to that car. Even though the engine needed work, the rest of the car still was still everything I ever wanted.

So I went out and bought another Rodeo. This one is white and two years newer than the old one. Even with all the bells and whistles available on a new, or even different car, I know that this particular make and model fits me incredibly well. Only this time, I know to keep an eye on the engine and make sure that it's running without gunk in the valves. And I've learned to be way more pro-active in the maintenance of something I depend on so dearly.

People have told me to let The Black Rodeo go, to take what good I can from it and let go of the bad, and to not let my experience with The Black Rodeo cloud my judgement with my next car. And I've been stranded by many a car before The Black Rodeo. But when you were planning on spending the rest of your life with a car, that's easier said than done. (I am getting a house with a garage at the end of the summer, so I guess you could say we were planning on moving in together.)

I would have been perfectly happy driving The Black Rodeo around forever. But if the engine can't be fixed, I've got to accept that and move on. Part of me wants to believe that if I could have kept the gunk out of the engine, then maybe The Black Rodeo would still be with me.

...But another part of me knows that I just need to get past all that and hit the open road.

It Really Is The Thought That Counts

Over the years, my mom has kind of become the Discount Gift Warehouse. If something is on sale and even remotely cute, she'll buy it and store it in the Gift Closet. Here, piles and piles of picture frames, candles, dime-store toys and things made of wicker stand like dutiful soldiers, waiting to be shipped out to the next baby shower, birthday party or "Fuck, we forgot to get something for your aunt Deb's kids" holiday event.

I don't have that problem.

My problem is that I'll buy something that is perfect for a specific person - it's timely, adorable and affordable. I'll buy it with the intent of rushing home and putting it in the mail immediately so that person can get stomach butterflies when they discover a large, unexpected personal parcel. I anticipate what it would be like to see them open it up and squeal with delight at the perfectness of this "Just Thinking Of You" trinket that is so thoughtful and wonderful that they can't help but say to no one inparticular "Gee, One Charmed Motherfucker, you're the bestest!"

But do I ever make it to the mailbox? No. The shit just stays on my kitchen island, until it eventually gets rotated into my closet. My closet merely has a Gift Corner, which is so totally different from my mom's Entire Closet Devoted To Gifts that to draw any kind of comparison would be laughable. Laughable, goddammit. "So totally different" because these were items bought with one recipient in mind, and I sure as hell can't use this shit. Who in the fuck is ever going to need pink-and-green-striped Halloween toe-socks? My ex-roommate on Halloween, that's who. But by Thanksgiving I had given up on the dream of ever sending that package, and eventually called her to give her the details of this oh-so-thoughtful gift that she could now buy herself at Target for seventy-five cents if she really wanted a pair.

Today I'm unpacking a woman's size medium St. Patty's Day "Life Is Good" shirt that I bought for a trainer that I work with. She's big into Life Is Good as both a brand and a personal philosophy, and I saw the shirt and new she needed one. (I bought one for myself, and may very well adopt them as the official t-shirt of One Charmed Motherfucker. ) I bought the shirt, wrote a note to go with the shirt expressing how "I couldn't help but think of you when I saw this," and put them both in an envelope ready to ship. But I never got off my ever-expanding ass and went to the Post Office. And now it's been a full week since St. Patty's Day, and nobody but One Charmed Motherfucker would wear this shirt outside the 5-day radius surrounding March 17th. So into the Gift Corner Of The Otherwise Regular Closet it goes.

Only once have I ever adopted an intended gift as my own. If you ever see me about town in a Boston Red Sox hat, it's not because I'm a baseball fan. I bought the hat for a friend of mine after the BoSox won the World Series. It sat in my closet for months, until the day I rolled out of bed and didn't have time to shower before leaving the house. And now on a bad hair day, people accuse me of taking this Irish Charm thing a bit too far.

The gift corner of my closet is littered with books, DVD's, garments and trinkets that I'll never use and prolly never get around to giving to anyone. But to get rid of them or return them to the store would go against my natural inclination to horde and collect. Apparently it's programmed into my goddamn DNA to have a Gift Closet, and I've got to accept that.

Wrecks Felis

Today, while bagging up a dead cat:

"Jesus, this thing is heavy."

"Yeah, they're always heavier when they're dead."

"Uh....how many dead cats have you handled?  ...this week."

I think the past month has really taken a toll on me. Not just "changing jobs," but taking on a whole new career... I guess that's pretty stressful stuff. And I'm still trying to tie up loose ends from the previous job. I know I've disappointed and possibly infuriated some of my former clients, which I absolutely hate to do. But sooner or later you have to let some shit slide, right? It's a fun ride, and I'm glad I'm on it. But I have been in a funk for the past couple of days.

Lucky for me I've got good friends, free money, live theatre and a dead cat to cheer me up.

On any given day that you opt to go over to a friends house and bag up a kitty cat murdered in cold blood, on that same day you should be allowed to go see a kickass rock opera and come home to a goddamn check waiting in your mailbox. Not a paycheck, not an expense account check, just a little boost to the pocketbook that says "Hey, Special Guy. You've had a rough month. Go out and get yourself something nice."

...like groceries, toilet paper and a massage with a happy ending.

Don't Call It A Comeback, I've Been Here For Years

Recently, One Charmed Motherfucker  was offered a fantastic opportunity. An opportunity to mentor under a brilliant businessman, break out of debt almost instantly, and avoid burning out altogether from my previous vocation.

...at a price.

When you're as Motherfucking Charmed as I am, there are people out there who would love nothing more than to see you fail. And a big part of being One Charmed Motherfucker is making your own luck. Not in the snooty, bastardly "Fuck the women and children, I'm getting on a lifeboat" way that Billy Zane made his own luck in that Titanic movie. This is more like "eliminating the possibility of being unlucky."

Hopefully, OCMFv2 will provide me the same forum to be myself and speak my mind that I've always enjoyed, but also provide the anonymity that, while somewhat required by my new job, is also just a good fucking idea.

Thanks for hanging in there with me. I'm looking forward to the relaunch.