Tuesday, January 30, 2018

Old Kid's Problems...

     Seriously... what the hell is up with zits? More to the point, why am I still getting them in middle age? I'm going to be forty-four in mid March, and I cannot, for the life of me, figure on why we even have acne in the first place, let alone why a grown adult needs acne.

     What kind of sick thing conspires against us in our teenage years - when we're already going mad with body changes, hormones, and awkward coming of age emotions and identifications, to then lay on us this twisted right of passage where the skin on our face conspires against us to have a normal social interaction, or even score a kiss?!

     And then why does that need to keep coming back through adulthood? Who thinks that's funny at sixteen, let alone now in my forties?

     And then what the hell is up with them when they break; whether you pop them, or not. I mean, the gunk is gone, the blood should clear out, and I should be able to get back to my life without; going out, see folks, doing things. But no...

I'm going to be forty-four in just a couple months.

Friday, January 26, 2018


Merriam Webster defines “half assed” as 1slangoften vulgar: lacking significance, adequacy, or completeness 2slangoften vulgar: lacking intelligence, character, or effectiveness half-assed adverb, slangoften vulgar. The term, itself, seems to have entered the lexicon of English phrases only recently; sometime before the 1970s. (I guess “recently” depends on what side of disco you were born under.)

The earliest reference to the term, though, shows up in Thomas O'Brien & Oliver Diefendorf, General Orders of the [U.S.] War Department, Embracing the Years 1861, 1862 & 1863, volume 2 (1864), reporting on the court-martial of Captain John H. Behan on February 19, 1863:

"In this ; that he, the said Captain John H. Behan, Company F, 16th Regiment Virginia Volunteers, while on duty in camp, on or about the 12th day of December, 1862, did use abusive and grossly insulting language to Joseph B. Hamilton, 2d Lieutenant of said Company F, before and in the presence of said Company F, while he, the said Joseph B. Hamilton, was on duty and was acting Adjutant of said 16th Regiment Virginia Volunteers, in words as follows, to wit: 'There goes our half-assed Adjutant’.

It next appears in the1934 book The Executioner Waits by Josephine Herbst:

He hardly listened to Jonathan until he caught the words, "And what I'm going to do is just light out, go to New York. I'm sick of these halfassed towns."

There are many further theories that posit old mining slang, and so on. One suggests the term came about as a mispronunciation of “haphazardly”.  But despite evidence that it might have been in use since the 1860s, it doesn’t really start appearing normally until the 1960s.

Of course, if there’s a half assed, is here a full assed? Or do we jump meanings with that? I don’t know; English slang is a rough road to travel, sometimes.

Ear cuffs come from the Celtic peoples, and usually represented nobility, or in some cases, according to experts, even took the p,ace of a crown to indicate rulership.There are many theories on their use and meanings. 

Today they're mostly decorative, and a huge hit with the Pagan folks. Mine I thought I had lost at Watercourse Way, a hot tub joint, many years ago on a date. But the I gave my car a thorough cleaning, only to find it wedged in the seat track. I figure I must have knocked it off while putting on my seatbelt. A quick turn with some pliers and it was good as new.

Midlife crisis, though, is something that has been well documented for quite some time. Usually striking white men in America in our mid thirties to early forties, it can be brought on by many factors; from physical to psychological. Mine seems to be centered around a series of disasters in my life, recently. I’m hoping to harness this to make me a better person.

Can better people have tattoos, though? I don’t know, but Oscar – who is our super social, work hard, look after everybody security guard at the Social Media Empire was really adamant about me not fooling around with getting one. He actually pointed out that they usually have stories and meaning behind them, and I should get just any old thing from a book.

Good old Oscar.

Wednesday, January 24, 2018


            Unless something happens in the next couple of months, the first week of April 2018 will mark four years since I have had sex. Now, that’s not too uncommon; I’ve had a few… dry spells… before. A lot of guys do. And, besides, I have a couple years of dealing with heart failure in there, too.

            That said, between dealing with the events of the New Year, and my particular levels of loneliness – not to mention what regular exercise at the gym is starting to do to me, it’s fair to say that I am getting a little restless. But how do you move on that when your heart is still off somewhere else? Slowly, I suppose; a day at a time. (But, hey; just the fact that I noticed this woman in the office parking lot…)

            Of course, when you’re a car in a comic you can only draw on the world you know of. And while The Dangermouse is my imaginary road buddy, he is woefully unprepared to deal with the desires of a real flesh and blood boy. Not that he’s wholly wrong about my needs. Just that, well…

            Eh, sex is sex; and I’ve had a mess of it in my almost forty-four years. Not that I wouldn’t pass up a chance to get busy, again; because I might not. But love is also love, and I’d sure like to have that back, too. Otherwise there’s not much to talk about after Bedtime for Bonzo, is there?

            But, right now, as Weird Al sings; “I’m stranded all alone in the gas station of love, and I have to use the self-service pumps.”  

Thursday, January 18, 2018

A little off the bottom...

     My world is full of interesting people with interesting habits. And they all handle their hair in interesting ways; from the faces to their pits, legs to... down there.

     I have friends, and I've had lovers who have, for all their own reasons, decided that they needed to be clean shaven in places that few go. Some do it for perceived hygiene, others do it because their pubic hair is so coarse that it hurts. Others do it for fancy and flare.

     But, for whatever reason, they do it. And, I suppose, eventually the curiosity would get the better of me. (Or the depression fueled sleep deprivation.) So, with razor in hand, and plenty of shaving cream, I went downtown.

     Today is day one. Everything feels weird; every step, every shift, every time clothing moves across me. I haven't made up my mind, yet, if this is a thing or not with me, now. Going to give it a few days and see.

     Have to say, though; too bad I can't give this a thorough test drive. Have this sudden urge to know what this would feel like in a more... intimate setting.

Friday, January 12, 2018

Remain Seated, Please...

     For the past couple of decades, now, I have been a Facilities Manager in the greater Silicon Valley area. If you don't know, Facilities is the department in a large company that manages janitorial contracts, keeps the lights on, and the water running. From mending holes in walls to shuffling desk space, it's your Facilities team, and its manager, that pretty much keep the show going while you all make the big money.

     Of course, twenty years ago, companies didn't dump lavish expense into the everyday work comfort of their cube jocks. No, in point of fact, it was more likely that things like office furniture were usually second hand, if that.

     A good case in point; this is the model of chair I have sat in for, at least, the past ten years. Usually when I get them they are in a desperate need of a cleaning, have broken or missing parts, and the cushions have gone flat from years of asses in and out of them.

     Despite that they were very comfy, and could hide your more gassy days from your co-workers; who have always thought you should rethink some of your lunch choices. (Really, did you need all those onions on that hot dog? Really?)

     This was the case for a long time, where offices just hung onto whatever furniture they had for years, and years, and years. But now, things are different. Currently I'm a contractor at social media company. Currently I am a contractor at the social media empire. And here, we all sit in these bad boys; Herman Miller's Aeron Chair - complete with adjustable lumbar support and ergo weave seat and backrest. (Oddly, no; they are not comfortable.)

     After twenty years of cushiony muffle goodness, I was unprepared for what happened when I let one rip after a particularly spicy lunch. Now I do a double check of my surrounding before I sound my big tummy whistle...

Friday, January 5, 2018

Rough Morning

     With any luck, this will be my last post on this. With any luck, I will begin to heal. But right now I'm hurting so badly that it takes most of my strength just to face the day.

     But then, that's only natural. Very few are spared a breakup. Most of us, at some point, will wonder over and over; what could I have done better? Where did I miss my chances? What made me so wrong? Why couldn't I just say the things I needed to say? And, of course, a whole mound of questions that tear at our sense of worth, ripping us down to near nothing.

     Me? I suppose I should have said more, and said it sooner. Maybe I should have been able to read better any signals, one way or the other, she was giving me. I tried to be a nice, good guy, and waited until I thought it was right to get back to working on us while she knocked away at her own personal demons. To not push.

     Shows you what I know.

     Luckily, like all things in life, this will not last. I will go back to getting a full night's sleep, and even eating a full meal (Though, to be honest, the weight loss is a nice little bonus.), and making funny and adventurous comics, again. For now, though, it has to hurt. Maybe I've earned it? Or, maybe it's just supposed to hurt. That way you don't... hopefully... make the same mistakes again.

     I am still always going to love her. She was, to be honest, the greatest love of my life, despite all our issues. I hope that she'll always know that. But, now it's time to learn to live, again, and - regretfully - move on.

     To the hurt and the loveless; may we find each other, someday.

Wednesday, January 3, 2018


Poor Will; unsuspecting that his shot at being punny would have such dire consequences.

     Of course, neither would I when, in the second grade, John Van Burkham would take ire to... you know, I have no idea why, but the kid tried to karate flip me in the play yard at school, and instead ended snapping my left elbow back. But there it was; busted.

     It didn't set correctly because it was a while before we made it to a doctor, and he had originally treated it as a sprain. And then that night I rolled on it and finished the job young John had started.

     As I've gotten older, the elbow, and hand, have gotten harder to use. And this is problematic as, once again, I am pursuing my life long dream to play the guitar. And that has brought me to my small Johnson. Or, to be more precise, my Johnson travel guitar.

     The Johnson travel guitar looks like what happens when a ukulele gets busy with a six string acoustic guitar. It has a long fret board that's not quite a full length, and a body that screams "I AM NOT A UKULELE"... in a squeaky voice.

     But it sounds pretty good for a travel guitar, and comes in at around $120US. And, it comes in left handed editions, too. And why, you may ask, is all this important?

     It was an astute salesman at a Guitar Center who noticed it first. My arm and hand don't move well. Not enough, anyway, to wrap it around the body of a full sized guitar and fret notes and cords. So I packed away the beautiful Yamaha my mom had bought me and had resided I would never play again.

     That is, until I discovered the world of travel guitars!

     As of this comic I am now three days into my first set of lessons. The finger tips on my right hand feel really weird as calluses begin to form. But I now kind of know three basic cords, and am looking forward to being able to play my first simple songs in the next month.

     I am probably never going to be a master play; able to pluck notes from the air by delicately tugging one string at a time. But I will, eventually, be good enough to play a few rock songs. I'll take it.