Whoa… it’s been a YEAR since I’ve written anything (longer since I’ve written anything worth reading).  What have I been doing?!  Plenty, I’ll tell ya.  But enough about me.  Let’s talk about something that matters.  Something important.

When I die…

~ My ipod is to be destroyed immediately, as is my itunes library.  No one shall listen to it and know my secret shame of liking songs like “More than Words” by Extreme and “Pony” by Ginuwine.

~ Alex is to have all my monies and propertay, which amounts to $42 and no tangible land.  Sorry babe.  I’m rich in love, though!

~ Now that I think of it, just torch my whole hard drive.  There’s nothing to see there.

~ Play “Amazing Grace” and the theme song from (the first!) Pirates of the Carribbean movie at my funeral.  Preferably not at the same time.

~ Put me in a spaceship coffin and launch me to wherever they launched Spock.  He came back, so I figure it’s worth a shot.

~ If a spaceship coffin cannot be provided, a great pyramid should be constructed in Fresno, CA, and I shall be interred there along with many riches (stolen from a museum perhaps?) and 57 cats.

~ The remainder of my $42, after Alex lives comfortably off of it for many years, shall be donated to the charity of his choice, as long as it’s not a stripper named “Tammi.”

(Disclaimer: I’m not planning on dying anytime soon.  People write wills when they’re not dying, you know, that’s the point.)

So, I was minding my own business, cocktailing in my stupid floral shirt, when my manager asks me to go and give the upstairs bartender a break.  I pack up my money and head to NFL, the bar behind security near the United gates.  It’s a little busy, so I’m rushing around trying to remember where everything is and a guy walks up and asks for a Sam Adams. This guy looks exactly like Jerry Rice, I think to myself.  “14 or 20 ounces?” I say, trying to look like I’m not impressed by the greatest receiver of all time.  He looks at his watch.  “Better make it the 20.”
He pays, leaves a good tip, sits at the back counter and gets on his phone.  I start doing dishes while staring at him stupidly.  Two girls come up and ask for his autograph.  He obliges politely. I wish he had paid with a credit card.  I would’ve framed the slip.  No, he’s a bajillionaire.  He wouldn’t need a card.  Stop staring!  Did I just break that glass? Other patrons chime in with what they think.  We all agree, he’s smaller than one would imagine.  He asks for a cheese pizza.  I bring it to him with piles of napkins and ask if he’d like ranch or parmesian.  He laughs for some reason (possibly at Mt. Napkin) and declines.  I tell him his pizza looks like shit and I’d be happy to exchange it for another one.  He laughs again and says, “No thanks, babe, I think I’m fine.  How much is it?”  He again leaves a good tip, and I decide he’s a nice guy and proceed to finish the break and go back downstairs to turn in my bank, telling everybody who will listen that I just met Jerry Rice… or at least a guy who looks exactly like him.  Good enough for me!

If I never move back to Fresno, when I turn 36 I’ll have lived as long out of the ‘No as I did in it.  36 years old!  Almost half my lifetime… I don’t know if I’ll ever live in another city for that long.  Just makes you appreciate where you’re from and how long that environment had a chance to shape your comportment.  There’s no place in this state quite like the Central Valley (except maybe the Salinas valley, but that’s way nicer and smells like garlic), with its ridiculous heat and killer fogs, its increasing car theft and decreasing farm land, and its unique “friendly yet jaded, gangster meets prep, isolated traveller” citizens.  Except in Bakersfield.  Fuck Bakersfield.  My great-uncle can tell stories about before Friant dam was put up, the river-bottom out by Sanger used to flood and he sat on his roof and watched furniture and cows float by.  I loved taking the MG and driving out to Sanger or Kevin’s old house in the summer when, at dusk, with your windows down and that fading orange light over all the vineyards, you can really pretend you’re in southern Europe somewhere.  I get one of two reactions when I tell people where I’m from:
1) “Oh!  Fresno!” (They have no idea where it is.)
or
2) “Oh.  Fresno.”  (They’ve at least driven through it.)
So here’s to the city that people look upon with either pity or ignorance.  I think it’s good enough to miss.

Well, my formerly glorious red color was fading fast, so I took it upon myself to play goddess of the
strands. I bought “sable cove” hair dye (dark brown was printed in male right below that).  45 minutes later, my hair is BLACK.  B-L-A-C-fucking-K.  It is jet-black inside, and black in the sun.  Brown never entered this dye’s vocabulary.  I had black hair and black tears running down my black face.  Except for the tears part, it’s all true.  Will’s first reaction was to compare me to a witch, while my roommate
laughed hysterically.  Ha ha.

I think some of you might have a vague conception of anger.  Some of you may have been really mad at one point in your lives, but none of you have ever been SO DAMN MAD that you were thinking of writing a letter of complaint.  That’s right!  It will be something like:  “Brown?  Black!  Mother-fuckers.”  The very foundation of the company will be ROCKED.

My plan for the rest of my life is to wear a hat- every day, all day, forever.  Some of you might say, “Aw… it will grow out.”  Well, wienerheads, you are WRONG.  May I direct your attention to the “permanent” clause on the label?  That means FOREVER.  (Note: For security reasons, the actual length of forever may
vary from 6 weeks to 6 weeks and a day.)  FOR-EV-VER!  I have no intention of ever dying my hair again
unless I become a rock-star and it’s important for my message or I change my mind.  I might try to lighten it soon, but that would probably lead to me buying more hats.