The Tucson Weekly is soliciting entries for its annual Rant Issue. I submitted mine and got an encouraging e-mail back from Jimmy Boegle, but juuuuuuust in case it doesn't make the final cut, here it is in all its importance:
This goes out to the dipshits who tailgate people all the way down University "Back In Parking Only" Boulevard. Here's a little hint: if I'm stopped, with my turn signal flashing, my reverse lights on, and an empty parking space just off the corner of my bumper, do not pull right up on my ass and sit there acting, in turns, dumbfounded and pissed off when I wave you around. I'm not likely to move, no matter how many times you honk your horn and flash your brights at me. Use your brain and get the fuck out of the way. I don't want to have to get out of my truck and slap your stupid ass.
There. And yes, I do feel better; thanks for asking.
Today turned into a day for comfort food. Comfort lunch has, for a long time, meant a machaca burrito and horchata on ice from Nico's Taco Shop. Back in the day when I still played co-ed soccer, my teammates who were also co-workers would join me for Machaca Monday, ostensibly for the purpose of feeding protein to our tired muscles. It is still quite restorative, even without having played a game and getting the crap kicked out of me the night before. Shredded beef, grilled onions and peppers and tomatoes, scrambled egg, thin red hot sauce, giant lard-infused tortilla. Good thing I had blood drawn last week for a cholesterol check.
Something about the angle of the sun this morning and, perhaps, the dew point kicked my dad into gear for his roughly bi-annual call to ream me a new orifice. On the surface, it's always about something else, almost always related to the kid. It quickly becomes obvious, though, that the real issue is any of a list of failures I have perpetrated--being gay, having the wrong priorities, having chosen the wrong major in college (that was a new one this morning; bonus points for originality). If I were a psychology student I might be tempted to write a paper about him attempting to deal with his own childhood anxieties by projecting them onto his grandson, who must be dealt with accordingly despite the glaring lack of evidence that he shares any of said childhood anxieties with his grandfather...
Days like this make me rue having grown so old and decrepit that heavy drinking really isn't an option any more.