Tuesday
Jul082008

Halushki

Can you say Black Hockey Overkill? I know. I feel you.

But when Jozet At Halushki calls, you answer. Or I answer. Does it bother you when I write in the 2nd Person?

You think a moment.

YOU: No. I rather like it. It makes me feel like I'm a character in your story, Black Hockey Jesus. I love being a function of your narrative.
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: But how can I trust you? You could just be saying that you like being written in the 2nd Person because you don't want to hurt my feelings. Plus we mustn't overlook the fact that I'm inventing everything you say. This of course begs questions regarding the authenticity of your statements.
YOU: But I DO love it when you write about me in the 2nd Person, Black Hockey Jesus. How can I prove it to you?
BHJ: You could open your stomach with a big hooked knife and spread your intestines all over the floor. No. Let's do it outside!
YOU: No.
BHJ: No?
YOU: I'm not going to open my stomach with a big hooked knife and spread my intestines all over the grass just to prove that I enjoy being a function of your narrative. What else?
BHJ: You could go to Halushki and read my guest post.
YOU: I'll do it! But how do I go to Halushki to read your guest post?
BHJ: You click here, silly.

Monday
Jul072008

Shiva Nataraja

I generally don’t like using coupons. They make me feel poor. I said feel. I like to feel like I can light cigars with burning Benjamins. I like to leave waitresses big tips, even when I’m giving her the last of my loot till Tuesday.

Some people tend toward preserving. Others are destroyers. Choirs are made up of a variety of voices.

When I use a coupon, I sense that I’m making an announcement to the cashier: “I am struggling to make ends meet”. I much prefer being the herald of a carefree “Keep the change”. Nonetheless, when Shakti (my wife) gave me a coupon for a free Slurpee, me & Jackson were throwing up high fives. Do I contradict myself? Do not make a God of coherence, dear reader. Coherence don’t fly round here.

The Snaggle Toothed 7/11 Sea Hag examined the coupon like I was trying to pass a counterfeit hundo.

SNAGGLE TOOTHED 7/11 SEA HAG (suspiciously): Where’d you get this, sir?
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: I don’t know.
ST7/11SH: O you don’t know do you? [I am dead serious. That’s what she said. She goes to get her manager.]
BHJ (giggling): Jackson. This Snaggle Toothed 7/11 Sea Hag thinks I’ve wasted a day photoshopping a bogus coupon for a Slurpee.
JACKSON (irritated): Let’s do this.
BHJ: Hold the phone trigger finger.
SNAGGLE TOOTHED 7/11 SEA HAG’S CROSSEYED MANAGER: Sir. Did you say you don’t know where you got this?
BHJ: Yeah. My wife gave it to me. I’ve misplaced my master tally of where my wife gets her Slurpee coupons. Do you 2 CSIs honestly suspect that I manufactured a coupon for a Slurpee?
ST7/11SHCEM: Well sir—
BHJ (acting rich): Because I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay full price for both the Slurpees and buy the store.
ST7/11SHCEM: Sir?
BHJ: How much for the fucking store, lazy eye? I’m buying the store.

Jackson couldn’t restrain his outrage and knocked over a rack of candy. Snickers and licorice slid across the floor as the sound of clanging metal sang. Jackson tossed back his head in a laugh that signaled an expenditure of excess energy. My boy. Sabotage by The Beastie Boys started playing way louder than you’d ever expect. It was awesome. Right when Ad Rock howled his introductory “Ahhhhhhh,” me & Jackson went off like bombs. I grabbed the trash can and heaved it through the storefront window in a singing tinkling of shattering glass. “Kiss my ass!” I screamed (because “ass” rhymes with “glass” and moves my rambling prose along at a somewhat frenetic pace). Jackson was eating a hot dog out of each fist. I ripped open a big family sized bag of potato chips and tossed them into the air where they hung awhile in slow motion before the whole store was a storm of raining potato chips. And that’s when Jackson whipped out his flame thrower. He is so awesome like that. He just spontaneously has really kick ass weapons. He took his flame thrower and completely torched the Slurpee machine as if to say via correlated imagery: “We want our free Slurpee or no Slurpees for anyone ever again!” He was making a totally effed up face like John Rambo makes when he’s getting shit done for real. And even though you might imagine all this destruction in terms of chaos, it was underwritten by a kind of grace. Like a dance. Destruction is a dance. I generally don’t like using coupons.

Sunday
Jul062008

Base Slut With A Large Hat

Do you see that woman?

There. Right there. 

Yes. Her. Mark my words and mark them well. She is a base slut. Ladies, keep your men on a tether when this one comes a swimming.
Yesterday at the master planned community pool there was a base slut with a large hat. Make no mistake. She did not expose herself outright for a harlot. In fact she posed on the sly as someone in service to her fellow man before her lowly stature emerged like a thief in the night. I’m not so sure about that simile. Isn’t there some Biblical thief in the night? I don’t want Christian tones lurking in my text. She was like a delightful kiss that ultimately spreads a virus. Another quesionable simile. I don’t want to you to think that I think Hep C or HIV is spread by kissing. I have been to many a day long training. I know about the gloves. But are any viruses spread by kissing? My wife is a nurse and I don’t know these things. When she starts to tell me about things like viruses, she takes for granted this foundation of medical terminology that glosses my countenance with a glassy stare. This post is besieged with digressions!
I was struggling to hit that impossible spot on my back with sunscreen, gritting my teeth with elbows all crazy, when this “nice young lady” with a big hat, the one photographed above, circled in red, approached. She will be denoted from the outset by the moniker she deserves.

 

BASE SLUT WITH A LARGE HAT: Would you like some help, sir?
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Ah! A Good Samaritan [*blasted Christian tones!*] in this decadent age of alienated selfishness. If you could but apply some sunscreen to this impossible spot on my back, I would be confidently protected from the specter of skin cancer.
BSWALH (getting hot): My, you use big words.
BHJ: Well I read big books, young lady. Now get about your task. It’s not proper for a married man to carry on with such a barely clad woman.
BSWALH: I read books too. How would you like to rub some sunscreen on these monumental orbs?
BHJ: For the love of God!

In nearly every context, it’s improper to strike a woman, but this slut’s indecency elicited an instinctual reaction that resulted in a sweeping backhand across her jaw. It occurred so quickly and with such force that the SMACK! rang out with its sickening violence a full half second after the blow was delivered.

And o my God you don't believe me. At what point did you stop believing me, cautious reader? Well, far be it from me to demand your faith. To ask that you have faith in absurdities would be a bit of a stretch, no?

I am not so much interested in what is true and what is not and what you believe and what you don’t. What really interests me is that thin line (the point) between what is fact and what is fiction. And my interest doesn’t reside in clarifying that thin line between the 2, of stating exactly what is fact and what is fiction, but rather my interest resides in blurring that line, moving it around, playing with it—indeed asking whether or not the thin line itself is fact or fiction.

The last 125 years of philosophy have revealed that Truth herself is a whore that really never puts out. What a waste of money. This startling revelation divides us into 2 kinds of people: those it horrifies and those who revel in it. It should be obvious by now where I stake my claim. The untruthing of Truth. Somebody’s gotta do it. Why not do it with a base slut who wears a big hat?

JACKSON: Dad. Your Daddy Blog is sorely lacking for kids.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: O shut it you. You've got your whole life to highlight my shortcomings.
Saturday
Jul052008

Copycat

Did you guys hear about the big copycat blog controversy? Sweetney's all up in my grip talking smack about me stealing my name from Hockey Jesus. Well my name is BLACK Hockey Jesus. Excuse me Sweetney but there's only so many possible configurations of words in the English language. OK the possibilities brush up next to infinity so what?!? If Hockey Jesus doesn't like the proximity of BLACK Hockey Jesus to her name, then she can change her name. Plus she's a MOMMY Blogger. I'm a DADDY Blogger. Whole. Different. Genre.

Speaking of copycatting, let's talk about Dooce. I've been straightforward about alerting you to the fact that I want what Dooce has, so it follows that I should use Dooce as a model for my blogging path. But it's tough to toe the line between "modeling" and "copying", no? Here's how I've resolved the issue. I've been reading Dooce and she's kinda... careful... careful BHJ... she's kinda... upscale. How's that? You might say she appeals to a certain class of people. Now, I don't wanna step on Dooce's toes. I just wanna carve out my own little niche in the big, big internet. So here's the deal: I want the lower classes from the trailers that can afford internet access all the way to the middle of the middle class, and I won't bother with the upper middle class and the rich people. Rich people intuitively despise me anyway. I just smell lowbrow or something. I emit lowbrow transmissions. Don't get me wrong. I can hold my own in an art museum. But all that interior design stuff? I still have a Metallica Ride The Lightning poster in my office.

Anyway, you've been warned. Let's get to the copying modeling. I'm gonna call this Saturday bit: "Weekly Pan". Hold up hold up. I understand that Dooce has this thing called "Daily Chuck". But, hear me out, "Chuck" is a dog and "Daily" is, well, daily. Pan, and this is a major major distinction, is a cat, and I'm not taking a photo of my ghetto ass cat every day, so it's "Weekly".

This is a photo of my tiny little cat, Pan, wearing a very large sombrero:


El Pan es muy loco.

Friday
Jul042008

Charles Dickens Friday II

Unbeknownst to me, someone replaced Party Animal Black Hockey Jesus with Old Man Black Hockey Jesus. WTF? Me, Sybil (my wife), and the kids went to the drive-in last night to see Wall-E. The problem with the drive-in is that they don't start it until it gets dark. It's some kind of art thing where it's not cool unless it's dark outside. Asleep within 10 minutes. I have no review. Wall-E was a cute and sensitive robot. There. I think personifying robots and computers and cars is reckless and stupid, so I fell asleep and dreamed about Stefanie Wilder-Taylor.

Slow down blog gossips (and Sybil). Let me explain. I read a couple chapters of Naptime is the New Happy Hour by the master planned community pool yesterday plus Mrs. Wilder-Taylor announced the title of her new book on her blog yesterday. These 2 SWT/book elements from the dayworld obviously participated in the psychic construction of a dream wherein I'm at a book signing and she's preparing to sign my book. NOTE: I have no idea what Stefanie Wilder-Taylor looks like so she's played by Parker Posey in my dream. Hey. Do you have the entire scope of your unconscious mapped out and explained? Me neither.

PARKER POSEY STEFANIE WILDER-TAYLOR (taking book to sign): Would you like this made out to anyone in particular?
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Yes. Perhaps you could write "To my favorite blogger, Black Hockey Jesus".
PPSWT: Tssk. You're not Black Hockey Jesus. Black Hockey Jesus is awesome and you're a freak.
BHJ: I am too Black Hockey Jesus. I am. I AM BLACK HOCKEY JESUS!
SYBIL (from dayworld consciousness): MET! MET!
BHJ: I AM. I AM SO BLACK HOCKEY JESUS!
SYBIL: MET! WAKE UP! MET! METRODAD!!!
BHJ: GASP! O God Sybil. It was only a dream. But Sybil honey? I'm Black Hockey Jesus. Why are you calling me Metrodad?
SYBIL: That's the new rule remember? Me & the kids are only allowed to call you Metrodad or Chag.
BHJ: O yeah. OK. Yes of course.

As we drove home Lucy was singing along to Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls. I felt weird, like my identity was slipping. I looked in the rearview to verify my self.


Wow. This is kind of a weird post.

Let's step away from my Dissociative Identity for a moment to talk about Charles Dickens Friday. Best & Worst movie moments of all time.

The best for me is when all those kids jump on their desks at the end of Dead Poet's Society. I've seen it 100 times. I know it's coming. I still pump my fist and scream something like "You can fire Mr. Keating but you can't fire the fire that burns in the human spirit, emmer effers! Fire doesn't extinguish fire!" And so on.

For the worst a close second is in the same movie when Red Forman finds dead Neil Perry. That was just terrible. But I've only shit my pants once in a movie theater and that was when Darth Vader busted out Luke's paternity secret in Empire. Imagine my poor brother Jeff in that hushed movie whisper "Dude. Did you just shit your pants or what?" Hey. I was 8. I've written about my father issues. It freaked me out and I shit my pants. Can you imagine? I was so bummed for Luke.

But enough about me. Charles Dickens Friday is all about you. What's your best & worst movie moments of all time?

Thursday
Jul032008

Blog Consciousness

Jackson has a mad gag reflex.

Little man threw up on a doctor once as soon as the tongue depressor hit his tongue, no warning, no “Ahhhhhhh…”, nothing. If Jackson’s toothbrush slips off his teeth and touches his tongue, Jackson will throw up in the sink. If Jackson swallows too much water, he will shut down the master planned community pool for 1-2 hours while the bored staff adds chemicals and takes measurements until the chemical : vomit ratio is safe. Jackson has thrown up at school, in restaurants, and in my car. Jackson will sometimes even pull a Hendrix and vomit in his sleep—he just wakes up all covered in mess.

Jackson has a mad gag reflex.

I want to begin to articulate a strange new form of consciousness I inhabit now that I write a blog. It’s a difficult task because I’m just becoming aware of it, and it was totally unexpected. I imagine some of you are already familiar with it. But I wonder if there’s been any long term studies of blog writing and the consequences for consciousness? Probably not. I’m a pioneer! Here’s my proposition. Being a person who writes a blog alters that person’s fundamental relationship to the world, self, and others. It moves that person into a trippy kind of 3rd person relationship with him or herself and wedges open the potential for a goofy new detachment from what used to be conceived as problematic (it’s a lot like the coolest drugs).

Everything is blog fodder. And because all of one’s experiences are related to as potential blog fodder, no experiences are off limits or bad. What the hell am I talking about?

Yesterday I took Jackson to phase one of getting braces. Yeah, the part where they goob your mouth full of bubble gum flavored cement to make models of your choppers. Jackson was so wired and anxious that he couldn’t stop with this crazy nervous smiling. He looked like a 9-year-old serial killer. He was so amped up that, in italics, before the glop of bubble gum cement goo even touched his mouth, he hurled all over the orthodontist’s floor.

Here’s where my break in consciousness occurs. I had a wholly different reaction to this event than I would’ve had 2 months ago. Let’s look at both my probable pre-blog reaction and my actual post-blog reaction, and maybe we can begin to grasp a notion of what I’m calling “Blog Consciousness”.

PRE-BLOG BLACK HOCKEY JESUS (in a thought balloon): O my God Jackson is hurling on the floor and everyone is looking at me and the orthodontist hates my guts. Why are you so weird, Jackson? Why can’t you be normal, Jackson? O my God I just mentally asked my son horrible questions that would totally eff up his self-esteem if he could read my mind. I am a bad person. I am no good at being a Dad. I don’t know what to do. I should get drunk. I should kill myself. Jackson threw up.

[I hear the haters already. “What if Jackson reads this? You will eff up his self-esteem.” Yeah so what if Jackson reads this? Listen. I wore the headgear my whole 5th grade year. It’s hard for me to feel sorry for Jackson because his Dad has an awesome blog when I WORE THE HEADGEAR MY WHOLE 5th GRADE YEAR! 11-year-old me would’ve given you 5 million dollars if his only problem was his Dad’s fucking blog. If you are reading, Jackson, remember: these are just made-up characters based very loosely on things exactly like they happen to us. I love you. Go to pokemon.com or something.]

Here’s my post-blog actual reaction:

POST-BLOG BLACK HOCKEY JESUS (in a thought balloon): O my God Jackson is hurling on the floor. How did my life get so awesome? This is so funny I might pee my pants. [out loud] Jackson! You totally hurled on the orthodontist’s floor!
JACKSON: (spitting): Pah! Yup.
BHJ: I totally love you you’re crazy you just totally hurled at the orthodontist ha ha ha! Ahhh ha ha ha!
JACKSON: Pah! I love you too, Dad.
BHJ (to orthodontist, giggling): This is never going to work. He’s gotta mad gag reflex plus he’s all amped up. Do you have a valium?

I’m glad you’re reading. Really. It’s blowing my mind that you’ve even read this far on this long post. But I gotta tell you I’m a lot gladder about this (and so is my family): The Wind In Your Vagina is having some magical goofy transformative effect on who I am and the way I live in the world. I’m more alert. I’m excited and enthusiastic to wake up in the morning. I’m more engaged with my life. And best of all I’m a lot less of a dick. So thank you. Thanks for reading. Thanks for teaching me how to be less of a dick.

Wednesday
Jul022008

Dear Satan,

Hi Satan. How is Hell? How the Hell are you? I’m fine. I don’t know why I write “I’m fine” in letters like the other person just asked me how I was doing, but I’ve been doing it since middle school. It’s an ingrained quirk. I’m babbling, Satan. It’s intimidating to begin a letter to the Prince Of Darkness.

I have read Goethe’s Faust and I’m familiar with its many derivatives throughout popular culture, such as Devil Went Down To Georgia by The Charlie Daniels Band. But “Chicken in a bread pan picking out dough”? What does that even mean, Satan?

O never mind. I’m writing to express my interest in trading my soul for worldly success beyond my wildest imaginings. I’ve had a recent bit of blog success, but Satan, between you & me, I want it all. I want to be on the tips of everyone’s tongues. I want book deals. I want movie deals based on the books from the book deals. I want the clouds to rain down Prada purses and Nintendo Wiis. I want it all.

But mostly I want to make love to my wife on a big bed of money like in those rap videos. That would be so dope, Satan.

That was a joke, Satan. This is really about my wife. Her shifts are 12 hours (sometimes longer) and she looks so tired when she gets home from work. She is so tired. So all I’m really looking for is just enough writing success to insure that my wife and I could both stay home. I would write and she, after sleeping a few minutes past 9, would do things at her leisure like mess around barefoot in the garden. I would watch her from the window and love her completely. That’s worth a soul, no? O wait. Is this too selfless for your taste? Because I’ll take the sex on the big pile of money too. I’m flexible, Satan.

Though I’m looking forward to doing business with you, I’m a little fuzzy regarding what it will mean for me to not have a soul. A handful of my past girlfriends have already accused me of being soulless. O God (sorry)! What if I don’t even have a soul to trade? Shoot, that would put me in quite a pickle. Um, maybe we could work something else out. Like maybe you could give me worldly success beyond my wildest imaginings, and I could just go about being very cruel to everyone. I could sneer at them or shake my fist in a threatening manner.

I’ve got it, Satan! I could extend the attack on Western metaphysics via self-conscious blog storytelling where I blur the distinction between what’s real and what’s fiction! I will serve as the acid that eats away at the myriad false notions of Truth. Now, that could work. I’ll be the herald of deep change, relativity that radically relativizes everything—even the bones and marrow of rock, and an impermanence that exposes infinity within every blinking second. And most importantly, Satan, I will love my fate with a terrible love and never, ever look to a moment and ask it to stay.

I think with my brains and your evil that we could really make this go. Perhaps we could meet and further discuss what I might offer your fiery realm. I look forward to hearing from you.

Word Is Bond: Black Hockey Jesus

PS I understand that this worldly success beyond my wildest imaginings may take a bit to get rolling. Until then, if it suits you, please buy a BHJ T-Shirt of Coffee Mug. —BHJ.

Tuesday
Jul012008

One Leg Running

I like to imagine Jackson as some goofy little enlightened Buddha who was reborn into my life to unlock and free me from the shackles of my egotism. But this would mean that Jackson’s purpose in life revolves around me. So Jackson’s actually doing a pretty sucky job of unlocking and freeing me from the shackles of my egotism. His allowance is dwindling.

But he really is an egoless little dude. We’re still running in the mornings, but Jackson’s times are actually slowing down. Trapped within the tunnel vision of the rage for improvement, I search out ways to horsewhip his ego. I get right in front of him, run backwards, and shower him with a bunch of sweet ass Rocky moves. Jab. Jab. Left Cross! “Dude! Come-n-get’chole mann. Lookame! I’m runnin backwards ova here.” Jab. Jab. Left Cross! This doesn’t fuel Jackson’s fire. It makes him smile. I told you. Egoless.

When I was 9, I got my 3rd Dad (who is still married to my Mom and is a King among men. I love you Bill). But I didn’t love his ass when I was 9. This dude married my Mom and all of a sudden I was sweeping the garage. I was outraged. This is another one of those scenes I’ll never forget (like the one where me & my Mom were dancing to Elvis). Me & my brother Jeff (11) were sweeping and I was beginning to show signs of a tendency toward revolution.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: We don’t have to do this you know? He’s not our Dad. He can’t make us sweep anything.
JEFF: Just shut-up & sweep, Black Hockey Jesus.
BHJ: Plus there’s 2 of us & only 1 of him. HE CAN’T MAKE US SWEEP!
JEFF: Just shut-up & sweep, Black Hockey Jesus.

And I’ll tell you what if Bill would’ve taken me out running and did some fancy backwards running thing while egging me on, I would’ve ran myself silly. Chest heaving and throwing up. All you had to do was tell me I couldn’t do something and I was gung ho. (Come to think of it, Bill, you should’ve told me I was too stupid to sweep the garage or that I was too young for the lawn mower.) My point is that I was tenacious. I wanted to win faster bigger more go go go. And still do. How many days have I went without posting on this blog?

The luckiest days for me as a parent are when I remember that the kids are teachers, that they didn’t arrive in this world merely to be Black Hockey Jesus II & III (Good God!). If I fall into the habit of instructing them all the time, I get locked into that relationship with them and miss all their spontaneous, original ways to be. Jackson will sometimes just stop running.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: C’mon C’mon. Overcome yourself, Zarathustra. Push it. You’re better than you let yourself be…
JACKSON: DUDE! CHECK OUT THIS CRAZY ANT! Dad. He’s carrying a little piece of bread that’s 5 maybe 6 times his mass!!!

Indeed Jackson. Show me your ant. Show me your original face before your Mom & Dad were born, you perfect little boy.