Check out the beak on that thing. And the bird too.

This boy says goodbye whenever someone is about to leave the house. Always. No matter who, and no matter when. What I haven't figured out is how he knows. We don't say the same things when we leave. We don't always take the car. But as soon as anyone starts getting ready to split, Stanley here starts saying goodbye.

He will also bless you whenever you sneeze; however, he is not nearly as charming as Matt Dillon as he will also finish your sneeze with a hearty "Achoo!" should you start the preliminary "Ah, ah, ah's." He recites most cheesy lines from cheesy movies, but you can blame my mother for that.

Despite the fact he's loud and obnoxious and sheds a whole lot, for the most part he's an entertaining and friendly little bugger if you can just get him to shut up once in a while. Heh, come to think of it, he and I have more in common than just the sizeable schnoz. Only I don't bite as hard.

Usually.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 09:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

Ya know, an interesting phenomenon of digital music is that suddenly all the stupid songs you remember from your youth, the one hit wonders that caused you to bust out your best cabbage patch or running man, the embarrassing saccharine-sweet weep fests from AM radio that you are ashamed to admit you love, the totally random tracks from artists that you would never in a million years believe that you would like, the Vanilla Ice, have now all found new life on your iPod. MP3s and the iPod have basically put a VH1 special in your pocket. It's a K-Tell revolution.

But it's also a bit like going public with a fetish. Some of those songs you may not want people to know about. Sure I'm proud to have Radiohead and U2 and and Public Enemy and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club on my iPod, but should I admit to the Pablo Cruise? Or Right Said Fred? Or the theme song from National Lampoon's Vacation?

What the hell. If I can talk about my masturbatory habits publicly, I can talk about my download of Autograph's opus, "Turn Up The Radio."

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

I have iPod envy. I have the original 5 Gig version I bought two years ago and have seriously considered having the plugs surgically attached considering how often I find them in my ears. I have 995 songs locked and loaded and playlists for everything. The best $300 bucks I have ever spent. I mean who can put a price on being able to pull up the perfect Def Leppard tune for any occasion?

Since I love mine so much and love my brother and my sisters almost as much, I decided to be a little flamboyant this Christmas and purchased a shiny new 10 gig version for each of my siblings. And they are just so sexy! The iPods. Not my siblings. But come to think of it, they are pretty sexy too. And skinny! And with pretty lights! Again, the iPods, not my siblings. Well, they are kinda skinny, but not so much the lights.

I want a new iPod desperately, but I’m not sure shaving an eighth of an inch from the already tiny box in my back pocket is worth the extra three bills.

I should just wait until mine is full. It's one more excuse to download that Laura Brannigan Greatest Hits CD.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

A few very compelling reasons to get my ass out of bed early. Or to go to bed really, really late.

Click on the thumbnails for larger images.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 02:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Kids. Kinda like parrots. Never know just what they are going to learn to repeat. My three-year-old niece was sitting with us in church tonight. My menopausal mother handed her the envelope for the basket. She immediately started fanning herself with it and with a heavy sigh turned to me and said, "I'm having a hot flash Uncle Jimmy." It was all I could do to keep it together.

She's starting - or should I say finishing - early.

And with that merry little morsel from the house of Jimbo, I want to wish a very Merry Christmas to all of you, my friends, whether you are digital or not. Thank you so much for spending your time with me. Your comments and letters, your support and criticism, your very presence here has been a miraculous gift, and nothing that Santa could have stuffed into my stocking would have been better.

Except maybe a new M3 or Adriana Lima. But I'm pretty sure that Santa isn't dealing in Narcissistic yuppie fantasies yet. Maybe I should ask Jesus for those.

Shit. Now I’m getting coal for sure.

Merry Christmas.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 09:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (11)

Being home for the holidays reminds me of all the reasons I left. And all the reasons I return.

At one point today, my parent’s home was filled with every grandchild. As much as I love those kids, I have never once needed some “Jimbo time” more. A time when there wasn’t a Halfling of some kind pulling at my pant leg or a baby puking on my shoulder or a pig-tailed toddler giggling and screaming at me as I tossed her into the air to do it again! Do it again!

A nice time for an iPod and a closed door for sure. Unfortunately, closed doors don’t stay closed for long in this home, so I had to settle for a quick trip to the YMCA for a workout, despite the steady drizzle of snot from my nose these past few days.

In less than two days, the list of people in this house will expand to include every child, grandchild, grandparent, husband, wife, and more than likely, dog. And one uncle. And a very talkative bird. I’m sure my mother would bring the horses too if she could just find a place to fit them in the back yard.

I think this works out to two parents, four children, four grandchildren, three in-laws, one grandparent, one uncle, four dogs, and a parrot. I can't be too sure. I lost count a long time ago.

Keep in mind, nearly everyone in this house is Italian and related to me. And in this family, I’m the quiet, shy one. If you listen closely I’m pretty sure you can hear us in Oklahoma.

But regardless of the noise and the aggravation and the slobber and the tears and the shouting and the arguments and the noise and did I mention the noise I love these people more than anybody on the planet. And if it’s only for one week a year I don’t mind having to sleep in the study or having to share a bathroom and having to hear the same bellyaching from my mother that I hear year in and year out. The Charmin-soft orange puppy chewing on my hands and the smiles on my nieces’ faces and that linebacker-thick baby nephew of mine who smells vaguely of vanilla and Handi-Wipes and the seven pounds of fresh baked banana bread I have been stuffing into my face daily more than make up for it.

And for the record, I’m pretty sure that calories consumed during Christmas vacation don’t count. Denial takes a lot of exercise. Now be a dear and bring me another handful of those chocolate almonds. And another loaf of that banana bread. And tell Santa to bring me a Total Gym for Christmas cause Lord knows all of this is probably just gonna end up on my hips.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 09:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

So my sister has a friend who has a dog. Not a particularly well-behaved dog. A bad dog as it were. And returning home one night some time ago, they found the living room devastated. The dog tore up the place. Pulled all the cushions off the couch and tore them apart. And on top of the debris, the cherry atop the doggie induced detritus of what was once their living room, was the chewed and slobbery copy of their new book, "An Idiot's Guide to Training Your Dog."

She swears this is the gospel truth.

And I swear this made me laugh harder than any story I have heard this month.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 09:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

I’ve only been in love three times. Well maybe four. Five if you count Paulina Porizkova, but since the trial I haven’t been allowed to talk about that. Damn restraining orders. Deep down I know she loves me too, but she just doesn’t know it yet. One day Ric will be out of the picture. Oh yes. And I’ll be here...

Insert maniacal laughter here.

Sorry. I digress. Only once was the love ever reciprocal. It was in many ways simultaneously the best and worst relationship I have ever had. The six people who read this blog regularly already know far too many details about this international love affair as perhaps too much of it was frequently and prominently on display.

It was also the only relationship in my life that, perhaps not surprisingly to many people, did not end amicably. I would have preferred to remain friends. I think it’s probably best that way, but in the end she sold our relationship to pay the rent. In retrospect, I’m not sure who got the better deal.

Despite those circumstances, the end of our relationship was made easier by geography. This is the one benefit of dating someone who lives in another country – aside from the exchange rate. I never had to be concerned about running into her at the supermarket or the gym. Never had to be concerned about an uncomfortable or awkward encounter while on a date or in a bar or in a restaurant. You know that’s rarely ever a good thing. Never had to share the friends. Frankly, her treatment of me those last few months ensured that none of my friends wanted anything to do with her again. Surprisingly, they are far more damning in their opinion of her than I am.

I always joked that there ought to be break up rules. Contracts. Like a divorce settlement, only not with property but with social situations. Who gets the house and who gets the car? Who gets the gym on what days and who gets the sushi place on what weekends? She gets Canada and I get the internet.

Or something like that.

Aside from our occasional passing in blogspace at some of my daily digital destinations the odds of us running into each other and aggravating old injuries were remote. Definitely a good thing, too. Lord knows I’m neurotic enough and spend far too much time picking at my emotional and physical scabs already. I certainly don’t need any more motivation.

However, rumor has it. gentle readers. that this is no longer the case. It has been brought to my attention that my favorite Canuck and source of bitter, emotional blog fodder may now be a resident of my own Orange County.

Although I can’t verify this rumor, and despite the fact that she has no financial or occupational means to make this bold a move on her own, it wouldn’t surprise me. She’s been an economic remora for most of her life. I have no doubts about her ability to find another shark. So she may well be here.

Funny thing is, a month or two ago I had a strange premonition. I don’t know where the feeling came from or why, but I spoke to my climbing partner and roommate about it. Just somewhere in the back of my gut I had a feeling she was in California. I jokingly told them that I wouldn’t be surprised if she was moving to OC.

Again, I can’t verify any of this. It’s all based on hearsay, instinct and some strange IP addresses. I wasn't about to call her to find out. But her own online admissions seem to confirm this. Should this be the case, our passing is inevitable. OC is not so big a place – especially along the coast.

Sure enough, today, at the airport, her name was announced over the PA for urgent boarding on a flight – and her name is not so common to go unnoticed. Kinda figures, actually, when you consider how much time I spend in that place. I admit, this could be a coincidence, but again, nothing surprises me anymore.

And no, I didn’t go down to that gate to check.

So if indeed she is here, I wish her no ill will. Despite my recurrent grumblings here, I never have. Admittedly, I’d personally prefer to keep my neighborhood ex-girlfriend free, but last I checked, it was still a free country, my repeated attempts at world domination notwithstanding. A large part of me would very much like to phone her up and bury the hatchet, but frankly I'm still having a hard time getting it dislodged from my back.

I kid, I kid. And again, I digress.

I hope she has, in fact, pulled her life together. I long ago lost faith in her ability to do this, but whatever. There is always hope, or so I’m told. And I hope she has actually found someone who will make her happy. I harbor no ill will to him for sure. Sympathy perhaps, but like I said, whatever. There is hope for them too. Hell, I’ll even wish her happy birthday. And if it was, in fact, my ex at the airport this morning, I even hope she managed to make her flight.

Like I said, there is always hope.

And with that in mind, I hope I don’t run into her again.

At least not for a long, long time.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (18)

I feel like the Hubble telescope. I think my mirror is broken.

I really need to focus.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

More evidence that my life is becoming increasingly surreal.

After seven years of living about a mile from each other, I have only recently started to see our local Balboa Peninsula celebrity around town - Dennis Rodman. I'm surprised it took this long. Frankly, he's pretty hard to miss. A 6'7" black man covered in tats and with three massive hoops in his face. He and I work out at the same gym, and for the last few months I have been running into him quite frequently.

However last night was the first time I had a chance to speak with him. Michelle and I sat next to him and his wife at Zen Bistro. Apparently he too is a regular there.

We were chatting about Jinu and his veggetarian creations for me, and they asked me why I became a vegetarian. I told them I read the Book, "Diet For a New America" and it changed my mind about a lot of things. His wife inquired if it was a difficult choice.

TMJ: "It's kind of like a religious decsion."

Dennis: "God told you to eat vegetables?"

Without a doubt, the funniest thing to happen to me yesterday.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

I came to San Francisco looking to meet some new friends. Somewhere along the way I lost my pants.

I realize this blog has taken a sharp if not totally unexpected little turn toward my masturbatory habits, but I’m gonna stick with what works. And yes, I know private time is supposed to be “private” (it’s right there in the name), but since this blog is basically psychological masturbation anyway, I figure the topic is totally apropos. I apologize to those of you who are subsequently and appropriately horrified.

For the past few weeks I have been infrequently involved in a little virtual threesome. A digital ménage a trois. Ah, the magic of the internet and a few conveniently placed web cams. Welcome to the broadband bedroom. Perhaps not as much fun as the real thing, but it’s a whole lot more sanitary and with none of that messy clean-up.

Well, sort of.

What people don’t tell you before you embark upon this particularly kinky path to intimacy is that despite the lack of a physical connection, there remains a social and possibly an emotional connection - and their subsequent consequences.

The woman who has invited me into her virtual bedroom is exploring some deeper, darker corners of her sexuality. She is flexing her seduction muscles. Pulling her stilettos out of her closet and pushing her boundaries in a way she can control. My participation is simply an example of me doing the same. It’s a way for me to be more comfortable in my own skin, a way to assuage some of my own socio-sexual neuroses, and a powerful source of validation for someone with self-esteem issues that go way further than skin deep.

Besides, I’m unashamedly voyeuristic so it’s a helluva turn-on. Yeah baby. I like to watch.

However, before our little electronic encounters began, we were beginning to develop a real friendship – at least through the limited capacity of Yahoo and the two-dimensional images of ourselves we portray on our websites and through our web cams.

Even before I saw this woman naked, I was looking forward to meeting her. The picture she paints of herself is compelling and deep despite its pixilation. And as we continued to chat we discovered we have a lot in common. We both agreed that in all likelihood, we could be good friends – although we should'nt underestimate my uncanny ability to agitate and aggravate even the most patient, forbearing female. Regardless, even the best friendships can become unexpectedly unusual when you get undressed.

Personally, I think I’m capable of dealing with this. I’m still friends with most of the women who have seen me naked – one obvious recent example notwithstanding. I think she feels the same way.

But here’s the catch. We aren’t the only people involved. She has a boyfriend. Someone she loves quite deeply and who loves her in return. Personally, I can’t imagine being in love and still having the urge to get naughty on the net with a stranger, complete or incomplete. But I’m not here to judge. We all have out boundaries and we all have our turn-ons. Some like the bedroom. Others like the balcony (and you know who you are). Some like the carrot. Others like the stick. Some like the feather. Others want the chicken.

Mmmm…chicken.

I kid, I kid. Everyone knows I’m into vegetables.

Sorry, I digress. She has a boyfriend. And while he remains comfortable and perhaps once even enthusiastic about me in cyberspace, my meeting his lover in meatspace changes me from a bunch of pixels to a real person. I’m no longer a fantasy but a reality. And everyone knows the reality of The Mighty Jimbo is a frightening thing. Though probably not for the reasons he is concerned.

But his concerns are justified. In his shoes I would have the same concerns. They have a relationship and he too has his boundaries. Although I have been invited to play in their sandbox, it’s still THEIR sandbox. It may be digital intimacy as Halcyon coined it, but it’s still intimate. Subsequently, my invitation to their fantasy has some consequences. It may in the end keep our friendship two-dimensional. Only time will tell.

I understand this, but it also disappoints me. Like most everything else, real friendships are far more rewarding than virtual friendships. And if I had to choose between digital sex and an analog hug, I’ll think I’ll take the hug every time.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

So the head shrubbery in charge thinks Saddam deserves the "ultimate penalty" for his crimes. I'm OK with that actually. But I wonder what we deserve for supporting the bastard for all those years.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

If you could only see what I see. Sitting in 5C. Taking the scenic route over the San Francisco Bay. The Oakland hills and harbor on my right. Turning slowly out over Sausalito. San Francisco on the left. The sun just beginning to set on the Pacific. I may have limited leg room, but I have a 12” x 20” window on the world. And at times like this, at this altitude, the world doesn’t looks so bad at all.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 09:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Isn't it a little ironic that I need a utility knife to open up the packaging on my new utility knife?

Sometimes the lunacy of the world just scares me.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 09:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

I just have a whole collection of random Jimbo shots for you. This is an MTV entry. It's Short Attention Span Theatre for my life. And if anyone other than Sarah Brown understands that reference, you, like me, spent way too much time watching late-night TV in college. It's basically just a whole bunch of individual blog entries rolled into one. My gift to you after a week of relative silence.

Well, as silent as I can be.

Down on ups.
I just realized that I can't for the life of me remember when I last had the hiccups. And I don't mean that I forget the totally useless minutia of my life. Ask my ex-girlfriend or read this blog - that CLEARLY isn't the case. What I'm saying is that it's been so long that I can't remember the experience. It's gotta be close to a decade. Is this strange? I really haven't the foggiest.

Jerkwerks?
While discussing the intricate details of porn with Halcyon today, I came to the conclusion that branding is perhaps MORE difficult in that industry than any other. If Anderson Consulting became "Accenture" and all they do is consulting, can you imagine finding the right name for your company when you deal in smut? Let alone an available domain name. The MO for tech companies is to take some technical or scientific term and combine it with another. I'm not sure "Smutech" or "Cocknet" or "Snatchsys" or "Bangworks" looks all that good on the side of a building. It's worse if you are peddling the uber-popular "teen" porn. "Hotwetteens.com" might raise some concerns with the association committee. And I'm fairly certain that "Pedo-files" isn't gonna be any better.

And all of this makes me wonder how "Winger" managed to release "17" back in the 80s and still turned it into a hit. How did that not raise any eyebrows? "She's only 17. She'll show you love like you've never seen?"

Christ, I can feel the mullet growing in again.

THICK.

I so need to add this to my life's "to-do" list.
A certain person who for obvious reasons will remain nameless "accidentally" wrecked her ex-boyfriend's $90K Porsche last week. How totally fucking rock-star is that? I love her so much more.

Buzz worthy.
I am an agent of change. A force to be reckoned with. And the tireless supporter of the female orgasmic experience. I convinced a friend of mine to purchase her first vibrator last week. Her battery-powered "Blueberry" boyfriend arrived last Thursday. Sales of "Eveready" batteries skyrocketed last week, sending the stock price into the stratosphere and bolstering the recovering US economy. Investors around the world responded and global markets have been climbing steadily, fueling the growth of new jobs and feeding families and children the world over. Aside from her neighbors who haven't had a good night's sleep in several days and her next lover who is bound to have a helluva a time living up to her new expectations, the world is a better place today. And it's all because of me and a vibrator. I'm doing the Lord's work here, people. And I'm proud.

I'm Going to Memphis.
I have found my favorite bar in Orange County. For years I have lamented the fact that I haven't had a place in OC that I could drink and meet pretty girls and genuinely enjoy myself. Orange County has two types of bars. OC has loads of dive bars for people who want to watch sports and drink beer and play pool, but frankly I'd rather sit home alone and masturbate than spend any extended amount of time in that kind of place. What the hell do I have in common with those people? I don't regularly drink, I don't like sports, I think cigarettes ought to have MORE cyanide to speed their inevitable end result, and I couldn't win a game of pool if you gave me a geometry lesson and paired me against a one-armed tweaker with AD-HD and an advanced case of Parkinson's.

Alternatively, OC has a handful of pretentious restaurants and lounges filled with strenuously glamorous, animatronic versions of Ken and Barbie only with less personality and more plastic. And less realistic bodily dimensions. Like I really want to spend time with Chet and his meticulously sculpted locks held in place with no less than 12 applications of Bed Head's "Uber Sheen" made with 100% natural buffalo semen and jojoba oil and all the shiny party girls with their haughty yet vacant expressions and surgically enhanced bodies - now silicone AND personality FREE.

And people wonder why I'm single.

So I have going to Memphis, a bar in Costa Mesa (which is rapidly becoming my favorite city in OC). Memphis is a tiny little place on Bristol with a few tables and friendly bartenders in black who serve a wonderfully tasty cocktail and a hipster DJ spinning funky, eclectic stuff that you will not find in any juke box in OC. The people are generally a little cooler, a little artsy, a little more punk, if a little more jaded. Think Huntington Beach - only with a higher IQ. I have met more friendly people and received more phone numbers and had more interesting conversations and laughed more there in the last two weeks than I have at any other bar I've been to in Orange County - period.

And this week I met a woman in a green velour jump suit. Any woman in OC with the balls to wear something so wonderfully tacky it's cool is OK in my book. Her number is OK in my book as well.

And for the record, my roommate Carrie is the best wingman EVER. You can't have her. I'm totally keeping her.

Duh.
To my new neighbor: Welcome to the neighborhood and I appreciate your holiday spirit and all that, but perhaps midnight isn't the best time to break out the staple gun and hammer to hang your Christmas lights. Just a suggestion.

Duh again.
I'm not sure Jackson Brown is the right choice of music for the gym. Tender might be the night but it sure isn't a hard squat set.

And finally, it's time for me to fly.
"Finding Nemo" made me happier than any movie I have seen this year, and I am not ashamed to admit that. I'm also not ashamed to admit that I have seen REO Speedwagon in concert twice and consider "Roll With the Changes" to be one of my all time favorite songs.

But perhaps I should be.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

You know it's a dive bar when can you feel your hair growing into a mullet the second you walk in the door.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

I hate to admit this, but I'm spoiled. I'm not just a travel snob. I'm a retail snob.

I've just been shopping in San Francisco again. You know you have too many choices when you have to schedule a DAY just to get through a Macy's. Everywhere but the sole exception of NYC else just pales by comparison in terms of selection.

Sure, I had to blow an afternoon wandering around the men's store, but hot damn, I look good in this suit.

Trust me when I tell you that right now, you want me. Bad.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 04:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

When cutting and pasting links into an instant message window, remember to check your text BEFORE you hit send. Or you might send something embarrassing, like, oh, an open porn site instead of the URL you intended to forward.

Not that I would know anything about this.

The potential embarrassment of this situation can be dramatically reduced if you are chatting with Halcyon , but again, not that I would know anything about this.

Props to Ernie for the inspiration behind this particular post.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

You know, there are days I'm reminded that I just should not be allowed to bitch about the quality of my life at all. An anesthetist friend of mine called me to tell me she participated in a penilectomy yesterday.

Fifty year old man had penile cancer and had to have the whole thing removed. All of it. Gone.

*Shudder*

I really ought to be thankful that a) I have a penis, and b) I don’t have to watch ANYONE have theirs removed.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring except me at my mouse.
My towel was set by the laptop with care
In hopes internet porn soon would be there.

My body was nestled all snug in my bed
While visions of boobies bounced in my head.
One hand on the mouse and one hand in my lap
I had just settled in for a nice evening slap.

When out from my inbox arose such a clatter
I arose from my stupor to see what was the matter.
Away to that window I flew like a flash
Shut down explorer and cleaned out the cache.

The light from the glass made my eyes all a glow
As I gazed at my inbox now open below.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear?
But a hundred new emails I now had to clear.

With so many messages, like some evil plan
I knew in a moment it all must be spam.
More rapid than eagles the emails they came
I cursed and I grumbled as I read them by name.

Cheap Xanex! Refinance! Hot Sexy Women!
Viagra! No Debt! Waistlines are slim'n!
From the top of the inbox, spam it was all.
To the trash! To the trash! To the trash with it all!

Like flies to a carnage, the spammers will fly
So much junk in my inbox, I wanted to cry.
To the max of my bandwidth the messages flew
For cheap toner cartridges and kiddy porn too.

As I read all the mail I went through the roof
I'd make millions in Nairobi, but they just wanted proof.
As I clicked and I dragged the messages around
I read of a lady who had sex with a hound!

New herbs that would make my dick long as a foot
And systems to make bad credit kaput.
Pills that would help flat girls grow a rack
Others to make lots of sperm fill my sack.

I learned of a girl that for now we'll call Terri
Who can be seen on the net busting her cherry.
Grants could be had for those in the know
On webcams big boobies young girls want to show.

As I deleted the junk, I just gritted my teeth
For the end of my patience I was starting to reach.
A new letter told me I could get rid of my belly
Another for condoms with spermicide jelly.

A message told me about a girl screwing an elf
And I laughed when I read it, in spite of my self.
Tonics to grow new hair on my head
With more messages arriving I had plenty to dread.

Not reading them all I went straight back to work
To delete the lot, and return to my jerk.
Tossing the notes for hot teens and debt woes
In the middle of it, my laptop, it froze!

Frustrated and angry I began to bristle
At the spammers I wanted to launch a missile.
You could hear me exclaim as I gave in with a sigh
Merry Christmas, you spammers, hope you get ass cancer and die.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 02:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (27)

I promise I have stories to write, but I just haven't been able to find the words. I have good stories too. Sordid, kinky, personally embarrassing tales of lust, sex, and illicit behavior. I have stories of fear and adventure and exotic locales. And I got gossip. And it's all coming to you soon. I promise. But maybe not today.

The well is full, but my bucket has been in use.

So how about some puppy pics instead? Ever try to take digital photos of a fast moving sweet potato? It aint easy kids. It sure aint easy.

Not into puppies? How about horses?

Still not happy? How about pretty sunsets and Jimbo from 31,000 feet?

What? Now you are bitching this page took too long to load? You people. Nothing is ever good enough. How about some beefcake instead?

Psyche. None of that today.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 04:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

Grumble. Vegas never happened. On Friday a fog so thick you could have spread it on toast covered the coast of California while simultaneously the whole northeast was getting hammered by snow. Subsequently, the boards all went haywire. My first flight was cancelled, the second was two hours late, and by the time I got to San Francisco for my meeting, it was already after 2 PM. Returning to Los Angeles just a few hours later, I was trying to catch the 7 PM connection to Vegas, but all the flights were delayed. As a result, I was going to miss my connection - the last flight to Vegas. My only other options were to switch airlines or switch airports or switch days and frankly, that just wasn't gonna happen.

Socal then gets rain, so I'm stuck pulling on plastic at the local rock gym this weekend.

On the upside, I did hear the best gay pick up line last night since the "don't worry, the first time doesn't make you gay" was sprung on me in New York. The ultimate fauxmosexual, a hair stylist from Corona del Mar tells me that a guy once used this on him: "Don't worry, you're only gay if you're on bottom."

See. It's lines like that one that make me wish I liked boys.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 11:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Mr. Police Officer, I know you were well-meaning and all that, but I was following that blue Honda so closely because I was following her back to her place. And as I didn't know where I was going I didn't want to lose her at the many Laguna traffic lights. And when you shined that light into my face and asked me to follow your pen with my eyes, it was only obvious that I was going to squint. Bright lights have a way of doing that. And when you asked me to get out of my car for a sobriety check, I understood you were just doing your job to keep dangerous drivers off the road, but your job caused me to drive around South Laguna in a dangerously dense fog while reading a map for 45 minutes all just trying to figure out where her house was located based on directions I had from a totally different area. By the time I got there, it was 3:30 in the morning, and she was asleep. Thanks for the concern, but your attempts at keeping the peace only kept me from getting a piece.

Grumble.

On a positive note, off to Vegas today to freeze my ass off on some big red rocks for two days.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

You know that old "Friends" episode about the celebrities you would be allowed to sleep with should the opportunity present itself? Most people I know have a list like that. What's funny about it, however, is that MANY of the women I know have Angelina Jolie on their list of celebs they most want to fuck - usually right behind George Clooney and Johnny Depp. Is it her personality? That dangerous grrl power combined with a sultry femininity? That body? The over-ripe forbidden fruit of her lips? Or is it the suspicion that if you told her about your dirtiest, nastiest, most secret sexual fantasy, the one with the rubber gloves, the Cool Whip and the bunny outfit, she would be like, "Ok."

Posted by themightyjimbo at 12:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (29)

I’m not necessarily the picture of the prototypical American male. In case, you know, you haven’t noticed that already. Sure, I like a nice rack and fast cars and pizza and rock and roll and an elegant window treatment and finding a bargain on a pretty, strappy pair of pumps like most American boys, but beyond that, I’d like to think that I’m unique.

Most obviously, I don’t like sports. Wait, that’s not true. It’s not that I don’t like them, it’s just that I don’t really care about them. High school, college, amateur, professional, baseball, football, basketball, and God-help-me, hockey, frankly, I just don’t get it. I was never good at them as a kid, never felt any overwhelming desire to play them, and never had any interest in watching them on TV. I have never once read the sports page in the paper, I couldn’t name five quarterbacks playing professionally today, I haven’t watched more than four Super Bowl games in the last decade, I have never been to a basketball game, and I could probably recognize more porn stars than baseball players - although I probably shouldn’t admit to that.

Keep in mind, I’m not talking about athletics or athleticism. I spend at least two hours a day typically five or six days a week doing something athletic, and I’m not talking about high-impact masturbation to jazzercise videos. But I think that counts too. I just tend to do sports that are more internally competitive. How hard can I climb? How fast can I ride? Can I make it up that hill without something bad happening, like dying? How many minutes do I have to sit on this Life Cycle to keep those tofu chili dogs from ending up on my hips?

Maybe because I was never really that coordinated or maybe because I was never really good at any game that involved a ball or maybe because I was less than 120 pounds until my second year of college and spent way too much time taking shit from meathead jocks in junior high. Then again, I don’t mind the shit I took from them. What comes around goes around. Most of them haven’t seen their abs in more than a decade and can’t make a lap around the Home Depot without getting winded. I can still look in the mirror and see the same body I had in college. So hey lard-o, bite my perfect, muscular, 32 year old ass. Fucker.

Sorry, I digress. We were talking about sports. We can talk about my muscular ass later. I did spend most of my youth swimming competitively, lettered in high school, but never really had the motivation to be all that good at it. I used to enjoy watching the San Francisco 49ers during the 80s and 90s, but I suspect that was more because I felt like I had to have a team to support than because I really wanted to support a team. And honestly, who couldn’t enjoy “Montana, Rice, TOUCHDOWN!” Or watching Ronnie Lott just knock some poor defenseless wide receiver into a coma.

So with that in mind, I have certainly enjoyed moments in sport. Dan Jansen getting his Olympic gold in ‘94, Keri Strug and that vault on a broken foot in ‘96. The McGuire/Sosa homerun race. The Angels world series win. The final two minute, 90+ yard, Joe Montana drive to win the 1989 Super Bowl. Highlight reels are entertaining, almost nothing beats seeing a double or triple play happen live, and watching Michael Jordan make, well, everyone look like they were moving in slow motion was as beautiful as ballet. But in the end it’s all just entertainment, and aside from those moments of spectacular athletic artistry or competitive drama, it all just seems like a whole lot of sitting.

I’m not so keen on sitting. It seems to me that passion for sport is just a way for people to live vicariously through someone else’s accomplishments instead of making their own. Sure, I love watching Chris Sharma send a 5.15 route, but I promise my first 5.11 was far more exciting. Chris Sharma is perhaps the best climber in America (possibly the world) and 5.15 is the single most technically difficult route (on a scale of 5.0 to 5.15) ever climbed by a human - for all of you staring at the screen blankly right now. He remains the only person to have done this. Surfing videos are always fun, but the first time I paddled a body board into a fifteen foot set was without a doubt one of the most terrifying and subsequently memorable moments of my life.

But I guess that’s why they are called spectator sports. It’s right there in the title. It’s about being a spectator. It’s all a lot of watching and not a lot of doing. Frankly, I’d rather be doing. Sure, it’s fun to cheer the porn stars, but I’d rather be getting laid.

Maybe I’m missing the point. Maybe it’s about the sense of belonging, a spirit of community or brotherhood that comes from being a fan. Maybe it’s a way to be part of something bigger than we are. Maybe it’s a way to feel in someway connected to the dreams we had as kids. Maybe sport is just an arena for the display of the qualities we find most (and lately least) desirable and honorable as humans.

Maybe it’s about wearing stupid hats, drinking massive quantities of beer and screaming obscenities and other people without fear of ridicule or repercussion.

Maybe I’m just not a man. I also don’t like beer, billiards, steak, fast food, theme parks, suburban living, chain-restaurants, golf, monster trucks, professional wrestling, hunting, fishing, Las Vegas, anything made by GM, dumb, violent action movies, Republicans, I have never been to a strip club, and honestly, I do actually like tofu.

Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted to any of this, cause I’m pretty sure I’m gonna get kicked out of the union as a result.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 07:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (25)

My three-year-old niece Summer Anna has an imaginary friend, Emily. Emily is three and looks like Summer but has wings and can fly. She also has another friend named French Fry. But he is not made of potatoes because French Fries are not made of potatoes. Or so I have been told by Summer. I used to have three imaginary friends when I was her age. Barney, Cody and Coke. I don't see much of them anymore, but that's probably because I haven't been hitting the peyote as much. I have another imaginary friend now named Adriana Lima , but I'm pretty sure that's different. At least I really, REALLY hope so.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 09:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

So I'm still here in McKinney, Texas. Not the most cosmopolitan of towns, but it's been good to spend time with my family. I have not seen them in eleven months or so. If it weren't for the magic that is the internet and the dirty pleasure of a couple of well placed web cams, I think I would be going just about batty by now.

McKinney and the rest of the DFW area for that matter have never been high on my list of cool paces to visit. All in all, Texas and I don't get along so well. I'm a vegetarian, mountain climbing, beach dwelling, liberal, Italian, Bush-hating agnostic. And I think country music is for people who want their music like they want their politics: slow, derivative, and uninspired. Which pretty much means most people in Dallas hate my guts. Not that I care so much. Most of the people here drink Bud Light for breakfast, so their opinions are clearly suspect anyhow.

How my east coast Italian parents have spent more than a decade here is a mystery to everyone.

Regardless, I'm still happy to be here. The weather, oddly enough has been great. A change from my usual MO. I have the unique ability to time my visits to Dallas with their coldest day in a decade. Complete with ice storms. Blessedly, this hasn't been the case this time around, and, like I said, it has been good to see everyone.

My sisters both have new houses here in McKinney, so I got to tour through them and consult on the faux-finishes on their bathroom walls and consider the paint color for the guest bedrooms and explain why that window treatment just isn't a good idea with that ceiling. Basically, I got to be gay. Which as we all know would be a good lifestyle choice for me if it weren't for the whole dick-sucking bit.

I also got to see the new Bordeaux Mastiff who has been relentlessly chewing on my toes (and hands, and ears, and head) since I arrived on Thursday. He is a doll, although I know it's just a matter of time until he is another 140 pound drool machine with a bad case of gas. But until then, is there anything better than puppy breath and puppy paws and that heavenly puppy fur so angelically soft that God-forgive-me I desperately want to turn it into a sheet set for my bed?

The family has finally decided that "Titan" is the correct name for this plodding, gnawing, stumbling, stinky little bundle of orange fur. My precocious three-year old niece doesn't agree, however, and has decided independently that his name is in fact "Potato" and will tell you in no uncertain terms that this is indeed the case. Frankly, I can't really argue with her because the dog is the same color as a sweet potato, and honestly, what self respecting uncle can argue with a three year old anyway?

My suspicion is that this is the name that will stick in the end. Three year olds have a way of doing that. My first girlfriend was renamed Mimi by her sister. No one has called her Cecelia since. And for years milk was referred to as "bert" in my own household as result of my brother's tenacious if a little strange re-branding efforts.

She is also convinced that “Shaft,” the horse I was riding on Saturday is her own. My parents keep three horses at a ranch near their home and go riding regularly. I’m thrilled to see them so taken with a hobby, but honestly, I don’t quite get the appeal. I won’t hold this against them as they sure as hell don’t understand why I get off on hanging my ass off the side of a cliff. To each their own.

I’ll keep the rocks. Let them have the horses. Sure, it’s fun to pet the animals, but I get a little nervous around any animal that’s taller than I am. Besides, after a thirty minute ride I’m usually a full two inches shorter than when I began. Spinal compression is not what I call a good time. And if I’m gonna have to deal with chaffing and chaps, well, I know of a few places in Hollywood where I’m bound to have a lot more fun than desperately clinging to a 1500 pound animal intent on showing me just who, in fact, is the boss.

And a quick note to all you masochists out there making saddles. It’s called “foam” or “padding.” Look into it. You’ll make a killing.

My new nephew is cute and all, as babies usually are, but honestly, I’m not a baby kinda guy. I like them once they become little people. The stinky little fluid factories they are before the age of one or so is just not my thing.

My other niece is nine and as she was the first I am still quite fond of her. She, like most kids her age, is home sick with the flu, puking and coughing and snotting on everything in sight. Kids are just germ wholesalers. Wal-Mart wishes it had a distribution model that good. She just better keep those germs away from me. On Wednesday I have to be in San Francisco for a meeting I have been planning for the better part of two months, and if I get sick Santa Jimbo is definitely skipping her house this year.

Posted by themightyjimbo at 08:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)