The Longest 25 Yards

Anthony, I am more prone to being inquisitive to promote discussion. I want to find out what your thinking was. I want to find out what your feelings are. And did you learn anything?

This morning, I arose to find a court date looming. Usually, I carry myself before my birthday in a nonchalant manner, because I honestly don’t care about what’s going on. The more relaxed and carefree I am, the less I’ll pay attention to what happens. But no, this year was different. This year, I found myself in a small civil courtroom glancing at a defendant’s placard. I found myself defending my name from Pippa Bowen.

I love you, you love me, Pippa gave me HIV. It started with a kiss and ended in the bed; in six months I will be dead. I love you, you love me, Pippa gave me an STD. It started with a kiss and ended on the floor; oh dear God I fucked a whore.

Nerves have never been a problem. I’m a natural talker, or more accurately, performer. I spoke with my confederates, and they assured me if I did nothing stupid, I’d be fine. I spoke with a professor who specializes in oral persuasion; she gave me a few hints and theories I might like to employ. The situation got out of hand, even by my standards. There was no way I should have been on the defensive for anything other than…I’m not sure. I missed a couple classes in the meantime, which is never really good. If I didn’t pass the last couple of days listening to my friends cheer me up, I’d feel horrible. Hell, that Barney song was enough to leave me in stitches.

Once I saw her, all of my old feelings rushed back. I didn’t know how I’d react, but I just wanted to go over there, give her a hug, and say everything was alright. She had just broken up with her boyfriend (who discovered how crazy she was and got her to end it), and had pretty much alienated all around her, even those with a helping hand. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that, because facing me, everything wasn’t alright. I stood there in my sweatervest, counting down the minutes until my case would be heard. The funny thing is that I clean up nicely when I dress up; however, I feel fake as sin. Brandon, who graciously got out of bed to keep me focused, mentioned that I looked like I was trying too hard to not look guilty. I laughed, because it did fit how I felt at the moment. Seriously, me, dressing up? It doesn’t work. It just doesn’t work. What also didn’t work was old emotions flaring up, which is why Brandon kept whispering in my ear “heart of stone.” I knew it, he knew it, hell, Pippa knew it. After listening to a Vietnamese case, it was time to shine.

My voice had a reticient tone to it, something that hasn’t happened before. I didn’t want to do it, but faced with the judge and a stenographer, I didn’t have much of a choice. The proceedings did not go nearly as they should have in a fair game. When I first saw the judge, I thought “hmmm, what are the odds he’s going to see his granddaughter against the scary black man?” As it turns out, pretty fucking high; old white guy meets young blonde girl. She started crying, and that’s when I saw a warmth appeal, as described in chapter nine of a textbook I love. When I was allowed to speak, I started poking holes in her argument, practically getting her to commit perjury. Looking at the judge, facts didn’t matter. Pippa played such a good victim that it defies belief. By the way, since when is okay to file a restraining order against someone and then conduct surveillance? Really? I missed the memo, but I was clearly miffed at that revelation. As it stands, three years of 25 yards away from her, and I can’t own a gun.

What’s that metronome I hear? Perhaps the end is drawing near; you never hear the shot that takes you down.

I’m disappointed in the justice system. As a political science major, I expected impartiality, and did not receive it. A pat on the back from Brandon did enough to calm my nerves, and plan the next phase. First off, I’m looking at an appeal. If I followed procedure a little more tightly, I would have given myself an edge. The girl perjured herself for fuck’s sake; if that isn’t a sign, then I’m lost. I do not have a problem with staying away from her, because I’ve gotten nothing but grief in knowing her, besides that one awesome bang where I found out that I like spanking, hair pulling, dirty talk, and doing it during “that time of the month.” God, that was so much fun, despite the blood. I’ll keep it close that she did call me The Shaman of Sexy…in bed. LOLZ. There are few things that can top nailing a girl while she’s texting about your tardiness…very few things. I better keep that memory tight, because the idea of dating again doesn’t appeal to me. Even sex has lost meaning.

And since we’re on the whole surveillance aspect, yes, I still know you’re reading, as you’ve come here twice today, and a couple times yesterday. Since the judge said it’s okay for you to “know where I am”, just know I’m in my room enjoying Chipotle. I’ll respect the order, but expect an appeal so we can drag this out and make it painful. Or who knows, I might grow tired and move on with my life, which is what I was doing. I’m sorry your boyfriend found out about your instability and tried for three weeks to get you to break up for him; he’s a smarter man than me. How do I know this privileged information? While you voluntarily check on my actions, the people you piss off somehow seek me out and enlighten me that what I said was true about your tendencies. Get help. Get some rest; you filed your order against me, so there’s no reason for you to be afraid. Well, there is a reason. You acted dishonorably and in bad faith during this whole proceedings, so hell will be calling your name. If you can sleep tonight, I’ll be shocked, since fear is so abundant in your mind, and the giant rugby player isn’t there to stroke your ego, because again, he’s smart. You got your wish, you’ve done more damage to my name, and well, be proud of yourself. You humbled me. However, in the process of humbling me, you’ve brought me back to my roots. Speaking of roots…

I came to terms with CSULB for a multiyear extension to study Communication. That’s right, I’ll be back expanding salsa and cultivating awesome. Since I still have my popularity and cult hero status here, I will be here plenty. About the only thing that’ll change is my living arrangements, or so I think. This fall will see the dream reunion of The Modern Stallions, Guy and McIntyre. Alright, the name might need work, but yeah. I’ll be on campus more than the past, because my job is TEACHING on campus! Who knows, you’re a Communication minor…you might come in contact with me. And rest assured, if that does happen, I’ll keep it professional as long as I can before I call the cops to escort you out before I consider failing you.

Suddenly, I don’t feel so pissed off at the judicial system: whodathunkit? Skibbedebebop. Much later

Current Track – Eminem “Despicable”


Salsa Tropical

CSULB Salsa has existed for four years, and in the fourth year, Anthony Guy rose to power as the face of the program. Although originally teamed with his best friend in the group, he later broke out as the sole presence that decided the activities of those around him. Thus, it was no surprise that at the 4th Anniversary of the organization, he would bring the power and the funk. He enlisted his favorite instructors, as well as the most exciting dancer in Los Angeles to front his show. Yes, Rodrigo Guzman was my guest at the party, and I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the smart choice. The final totals are in, and it looks like there was a bigger than expected profit. I have a reborn set of sleeves, and I do have everyone referring to me as the Shaman of Sexy. If that truly is my last hurrah, I do think I have arrived. Wait, I have been saying I’ve arrived for the longest time. I must find a new phrase for arrive. I could use ascended…who knows.

After the party was the after party. I ventured to Denny’s to offer my pleasantries to the founders, and of course, I enjoyed it considerably.  However, another place offered free food and booze, so there I went. The chief lesson I learned was never go without eating food while preparing for the biggest party of the year. I battled a headache since early in the morning, and it’s attributed to not eating. Now, I didn’t plan to starve myself, but accidents occur. Once I had food and shots, I was a clean man. Besides making people uncomfortable and receiving a lap dance, no shenanigans took place. An interesting conversation took place, though, on the road towards Sourceville.

Sean and I spent the wee hours discussing what happened at the last party, which was the proverbial coin flip. I love this particular venue for parties because it was the site of my greatest success, and subsequently, largest gamble. At the time, I was on top of the world with a choice to make. Either the hot young blonde or my dance partner would be my primary interest going forward. Tough choice to make, because one had history, the other promise. However, seeing as everyone (with one exception) knew the full story, I was on borrowed time and fresh off taking a shot of toilet water off some guy’s ass. Yes, it was that kind of a night. I’ve never been presented with that sort of dichotomy before: two girls, two different futures, both accessible. I can’t differentiate between what made them separate in my eyes, because they both had equal factors that weighed in on my heart. However, it was the freshman that held on to me for dear life and comfort, and while the teacher was respected as my chief companion, the future apparently was then. Now, the smart thing to have done was to let it ride, hold the freshman’s hand, and just let it evolve naturally. Since my position is never quite that easy, I had to leave an emphatic stamp on my night. With a drink in my hand and my girl smoking a cigarette, I dared the teacher to make out with Sean. Twice. I tossed her aside for instant gratification and the hope of a new dawn with the freshman. The reason I did this would be to leave no doubt in my mind who I wanted; obviously, I had my doubts, but I needed to go to the point of no return. When I discovered that Sean might have a crush on her, I was overjoyed, albeit halfheartedly. Do note, though, that I had the situation I wanted: no safety net. If I was going to step to the table, I really was going all-in.

Five months later, I am at the same venue with no freshman, while the teacher and Sean are exchanging the looks that I once shared with her. Girls don’t come between friends (or they shouldn’t), and this is one of those cases where it won’t. Naturally, my executive decision made things awkward on both parts, because I think he’s a better guy for her than me. Would I like another run at the teacher? Of course I would; I didn’t give it a fair shot the last time, and whether people admit to it or not, they didn’t help the matter. In fact, I was pushed towards the freshman because of the teacher; only after shit went wrong did they push me back. Now, I’ve got my thoughts of what was, and Sean has his thoughts of what was. We both agreed I took one hell of a risk, and I’m pretty damn comfortable with a pair of dice that seem to be loaded against me. That weekend five months ago had its own dividends that made it look like the coin was fair. A sobering reality leads me to believe I made the wrong choice, but for the right reasons. There was no way I was going to win that battle, and I didn’t want to admit it. The safer choice was tossed to another safe choice, while I took my walk on the wild side. And if I had my way, I’d like to walk on the wild side again, because the freshman really did something that altered my perception of power and affection.

After discussing this situation, the multiple shots I had left my system sober as whistle. I threw the biggest party in club history where everyone toasted my will to thrive and put on a show. That can’t be all I’m worth. Soon, I’ll return to a class I haven’t been to in awhile because of the grief I’ve endured. I heard from a couple of classmates that they thought I had died since I possessed the highest grade in the class, yet went missing. I usually tend to go MIA without word during stressful cases. Odd enough that I’m super public, but I can dig a spider hole like no one’s business. Thus, Tuesday I’ll make my way back to the persuasion course where undoubtedly, I’ll be greeted with open arms, a slight bit of compassion, and hopefully, a punch to the shoulder. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Luis Enrique “Yo No Se MaƱana”

Deja Vu and LA River Water

I feel like I’ve been here before, or at the very least, looks very similar to a situation I had last year. Quick aside, I haven’t bought a jersey in what seems to be years, but the San Francisco Giants have orange jerseys, and I’m tempted to splurge on one. It qualifies as one of those ridiculous purchases that makes perfect sense for my collection, like the lime green Seahawks jersey I never bought. Anyway, back to the story of being in the same place at the same time.

Last November, it was a date at Alegria while managing the salsa team. Wednesday, it was a date at Sevilla while getting ready to manage the salsa team. November, awkward first kiss after being nailed in the gonads. Wednesday, awkward first kiss after having my foot crushed. Hell, in fact, the only thing that was different this time around was I had alcohol…copious amounts of alcohol. She opened up, I opened up, and voila, the ice is broken. Last time, it took Our Lady Peace to break the ice. The night ended at a late hour outside of the dorms, just like in November. Funny how that works, history repeating itself.

Tomorrow’s the Anniversary, and I’m not sure how I feel. My date backed out on me, and I can’t help but think that’s a good thing as I want to be free to micromanage the event. Also, it’s not quite the date I wanted. There’s just a bit of knowledge that I’m familiar with the level of crazy I had, and I’d gladly take her back to give things another shot. I had the workshops tailored to her interests, while…eh. It hurts thinking about it, to be perfectly honest. I’ve got my legacy waiting to be written in a few short hours, and my head isn’t in the game. When do I not have my head in the game? When I’m nursing a broken heart, of course. Tomorrow will be my coming out party among all things, and I did arrange my attire to suit the purposes. For this spectacle, I will break out the Shaman of Sexy shirt one more time, accented with John Morrison’s glasses, stoned sleeves, sequined shoes, and an armband memorializing Eddie Guerrero. The shirt brought me the girl of my dreams last time; this year, I need some sort of jackpot to help me cope with the tides that rise. But for now, salsa keys the ruins. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Oscar D’Leon “Lloraras”

Bill Russell and Jambalaya

Have you ever slept with the enemy? I have; I often have strange bedfellows that keep the mood lively, and when the deed is done, I wake up with an assault rifle shoved to my temple. How did I manage not to die after all this time, you ask? I train with banshees. Yes, live banshees flown in from the South Pacific. Not sure how a banshee would help me, but it hasn’t hurt me. Eye of the tiger, mon amie…eye of the tiger.

The last time I checked in Guyworld, things were not as rosy as they should be. There are problems concerning the competition team, or so I hear. There are problems concerning the performance team, or so I’ve witnessed. There are problems with broken hearts, or so I’ve endured. There are problems with restraining orders…what the hell? That last one didn’t fit, but to be honest, the first few didn’t either. Hooray for circular logic. Poodles!

After throwing yet another successful social dance party, I had to travel to The Shore with my comrades to perform for the masses that paid to watch me move. Did they pay to watch me move? Yes, didn’t you read the last sentence, assclown? I sat on stage with the sleaziest look I could muster; I think my face said “I’m going to get you pregnant.” If my look went anywhere near that vicinity, I’d be happy, but the crowd reports point to affirmative. I only had a double hammerlock and a dip, yet I was the most captivating performer up there. Woo-hah! I chatted with my comrades in arms, danced a few songs, and enjoyed myself. The blue cocktail didn’t hurt, either; the bartender remembered me because of my funky sleeves. She asked why they were conspicuously absent tonight, and I stated “bling surgery.” For Saturday’s party, I will debut rhinestones on my sleeves for the first time. I’ll also bring Rodrigo Guzman to the stage as my replacement for Walter Jones. I’m so proud of myself that I upgraded. I couldn’t stop telling everyone that I freaking succeeded, yet again. This has been a rough road, and a much needed boost, and it goes back to Friday.

Fuck me sideways, got served the order at the party. Of all the places in the world, with all of the tactful ways to deliver it, Friday? I was hurt. Sad. Embarrassed. Pained. Pissed. Stressed. More or less, I was out of it, which is bad considering the party needed me to be stronger. A network of supportive friends did their job by keeping me relaxed enough to focus, gather myself, and continue the domination. I felt sorry for the girl delivering it; I’d never want to be stuck in that situation. Actually, I could do it if I was impartial to the matter, but eh, it could’ve been worse. If Jordan was the one giving me the missive, I’d probably deliver Codebreakers to the house. So, what is a guy to do? In all the cases I’ve encountered, I’ve never had to go against someone I had this much feeling for. I’ve broken my fair share of wills, but never a former student. Personally, I’d rather sit this one out, because there’s going to be stress on both ends, and while I can deal with it, I’m not sure she can. Dating me and putting up with my wild antics is one thing, but facing me on the other end of the field is different. The last time I had to seriously face someone close to me was Jared, but that was relatively minor in comparison. This, on the other hand, is the battle for everything. My future is on the line, my name hangs in the balance. I’m scared to think what awaits me next week as I enter the halls. I did not deserve this. I also didn’t deserve what happened in high school, so I can’t necessarily bitch here. I’m still leaning against going, because relatively speaking, this is not going to be a pleasant experience.

However, the girl is a pleasant surprise. I’m wondering why we’re working as well as we are, but I’m smart enough not to question things. Didn’t expect to get back on the dating horse in these conditions, but something fell in my lap, and I enjoy pleasant surprises. Taking her out tomorrow, and she’s already said she’s going to be my date for the Anniversary. I had better relax that night and have the time of my life, because one week before my birthday hits, I’ll have a choice to make. Walk away from a situation and jeopardize my freedom, or lose my humanity as I defend myself against my first love. Never figured that she’d give me hell before she gave me sleeves she promised to make for Christmas. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Selena Gomez and The Scene “Naturally”

Old School Hollywood

This year’s Social Dance Party had me worried. I wasn’t planning on attending because of how the friend and the girl changed the plotline, but it was necessary to see how I’d adjust on the fly. I worked, sweated, assembled, and conquered. My wardrobe was simpler than previous years due to my redoubled efforts towards comfort and shock value. I had to be ready for anything, and when anything comes in to play, literally, anything can happen. I walk in to set up shop, and voila, my date precedes me. She looked beautiful, and most importantly, comfortable. She helped out and shadowed me as I dictated my will to everyone entailing what I needed done and how it was going to get done. We made smalltalk, joked with the staffers, then I left for Title Hall to suit up for the show. Wig, belt, sequins…I brought sleazy back. No, it’s not just a joke, the shirt actually said “I’m bringing sleazy back.” The only bummer about it was my glasses didn’t show up yet. However, the party didn’t start until I walked in.

And when I walked in, people noticed. The looks of a matinee idol, the belt of a champion, and the soul of a conquistador set the world on fire for perhaps the last time. I saw a bunch of old faces who could very well have been psychopomps, stayed clear of girls who didn’t seem familiar, and generally directed traffic. Of course, my date kept me plenty of company to say the least. I’m sure there were girls that I didn’t get a chance to cavort with because of my handcuffed status, but it’s all good. I’m not sure what it is about having someone there who only cares about what you care about, but she made my night memorable. I blew her kisses when I was running the line dances, and shared some contraband to ease the nerves.

“You know I didn’t bring you here to dance. I brought you here because I like you.” Kiss on the forehead.
“And I like you, too.” Kiss on the neck.

I had to stay late to make sure everything was cleaned up, because good help is so hard to find.  By the time I did make it to Denny’s, my staff was there, ready to make jokes. To my left and holding my hand was my angel, nodding and laughing with the jokes. I find it funny that my friends approve of her, partly because she’s quiet. Maybe it’s the fact that she doesn’t give me any grief; could be that she doesn’t mind hanging out with the guy who walks around wearing the title of a madman. Considering what happened during the last hurrah, I get the idea that people are pulling for me to walk out in one piece.

Obviously, the night didn’t pass without claiming victims, and I do believe I was first. Once I fell, the others fell, but we all had rum to pass the time and forget the troubles that may come forth. Surrounded by my old friends at the party, fresh blood at the relaxation station, and the Anniversary coming up, I do think it’s time to put on the loafers and revel in the pageantry. Then again, the news I’ve recently received bugs the piss out of me. Damn Walter Jones…I was going to love showing him off at my party. However, maybe it’s for the best. My girl’s birthday happens to be this Saturday, and it would be weird if I spent the whole night ogling the Black Power Ranger. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Mike Posner & The Brain Trust feat. Big Sean “Cooler Than Me”

Grievances Acknowledged

This is my public forum where I’ve spilled my guts for the last…it feels like seven, maybe eight years. I’ve learned some stuff over the time, especially when I retrace my steps through high school and college through my own words. Vividly, I see where I came from that led me to take a nap under a campus tree two days ago. That was one of the things on my bucket list: lounge on the lawn as if I didn’t have a care in the world. I did have quite a few things on my mind, but it went down the drain the minute I laid supine. I aced my performance in class, which was pretty decent. I barely rehearsed, improvised, and well, did my thing the way only I can. Funny, I aced my last performance, but it didn’t feel quite as good as this one; last time, I had to pull myself out of a hole because of what I saw beforehand.

I talked to Skylar today for the first time in what could be a month or two. Productive conversation, it seems we’ve both had our ups and downs. You never truly appreciate the effect someone has on you until they’re gone. Of course, it could be minuscule, but every little second counts. It’s been on my list of things to do, but you can never be too sure of when the time is right. I took a gamble, and what followed was a brief conversation that was long on substance, yet short on words. Or at least, on his part. Overall, the debriefing went well enough where there was no more damage done, and who knows, we could tear shit up again down the line. Well, probably not, but we’re at least open to the idea of not killing each other. A lot of time has been lost, but the world didn’t end. We have two more events this semester, possibly a couple more; who knows what Those Young Knockout Kids could do if given the time to collaborate. Funny thing to note, we’ve both been sick the whole damn time we weren’t speaking. Not sure if it was a sympathetic illness, but that’s pretty awkward with all due respect.

While I’m on the subject of fences and mending them, this one’s to you, Pippa Bowen. I’m quite sure by now you’ve gotten the idea that I know you’re reading here. Despite conventional wisdom stating you hate me, you still read my entries every couple of days or so. First, I’m flattered; I’ve always wanted my words to get out to the masses. But here’s my question: why? Twice, you’ve aimed towards killing my career and really, doing rehabilitation on my image was not my idea of fun. Countless times, we’ve fought and the last time, there were ramifications that pushed me back towards the physician’s office where I received unpleasant news that you probably have heard in passing. I thought the saga was unfortunately over, but I see your footprints in my feedback log. I’ve spoken with my friends about what the hell happened, and I keep hearing the same thing: too many differences. However, if I’m guilty of not letting go, you’re just as guilty because, again, I feel your presence here. Don’t think for a minute I haven’t heard the charges and arrows you’ve levied against me, because I’ve heard it all despite not really wanting to listen. On December 5th, I had the time of my life because I was with the girl I loved. Back in Arizona, I had the time of my life with the moment available. You can’t hate me for living life when I was practically left for dead. I cringe anytime I think of you being happy without me, because I wanted to be the one that made you happy, yet you walked away from everything. I sleep sometimes clutching on to what put the biggest smile on my face, seeing you hand me my glasses after I left your place after the party. Those were happy times; not all were perfect, but there was more good than bad. And hence, this is where I’m asking you to make a choice, which I’m sure you saw coming. We could have a conversation in any medium you prefer, or stop reading my journal. There’s no way I can enforce anything, so I will reserve the right to post my thoughts on every intimate moment we had if you choose to read without addressing me personally. You said you wanted to move on, and as much as you like your privacy, I’m quite sure you understand that my words do not ring hollow. You know my screenname if you elect the first option, and you understand how not to visit my site per the second option.

Thank you for reading, and as always, divide the day.


Throughout the course of human events, a time arrives when a leader must step out and visit every event as a goodwill ambassador for his organization. Starting last Saturday, I hit the trail as a representative of all things salsa and social dance, or something like that. Basically, my time has been spent with others that were once foreign, but now, have effectively become my family. It’s not the ensemble I’m familiar with, but the ensemble that happens to fit the bill at the moment. Replace a couple longstanding friends with a plucky group of newcomers, and the next thing I know, I’m ready to take over the world without sleep.

Saturday was the Underground Rhythm event hosted by Salsa Intocable. My first preference would be to stay home and sleep, because I’ve missed my room and comforts of being detached from professionalism. But no, the Last Emperor of Salsa arrived, performed, and showed a crowd what I could do while cold and wearing green sleeves. It never ceases to amaze me how many people stop and stare at something different, yet beautiful. My science has progressed into an art, and I appreciate the kudos. Same at swing club’s social tonight. I was there for a bit, dressed in traditional battle attire, and I rocked the floor for the couple of songs I had. I like the attitude and presence that swing gives; it’s calming and jovial. I wasn’t uptight for the first time in what could be months, because the music and dancing allows you to open up and relax.

Speaking of stressing out and not being where I want to be, this Friday will be the Social Dance Party. Normally, I’d look forward to this, but the times are a-changing. Hell, the times have a-changed. The original layout was supposed to feature me and my valet against my rival and his valet. That would have been fun; I was open to the idea of a lime green costume with my partner. Not sure how that would have turned out, but I would have enjoyed it immensely. Now, no valet, and no rival, leaving me with an alternate set of sketches. Contingency efforts will always be in vogue because people aren’t always able to keep their word. Despite my disdain for actually going to the event, I don’t have much of a choice. It is my club, my event, and I am sworn to make it a spectacle regardless of how I feel. With that said, I think I’ve settled on becoming the embodiment of sleaze. I talked to Jordan about what does it take to be a member of Prince Nana’s Embassy, and he said something about members having to be absolute bottom-feeders, scum of the planet. Our favorite local indy wrestler, Joey Ryan is a member of the Embassy, and while in Phoenix, I bought his shirt. Although it would conflict with the theme, his shirt does have neon color accents, which would go well with my lime green. I might can’t play in my chest hair, but I can have a look that says “you can catch a disease just by talking to me.” Accessorize the look with lime green sleeves, a title belt, and a smirk that says “I’m easy”…instant classic. Before my performance with the team, I pumped them up by bouncing off walls telling them we’re going to tear shit up. Friday night, for perhaps the last time, I will tear shit up on my home floor. No valet, no rival, no reservations. I’m looking forward to seeing just how much of my personality can drive the party from where it was to where it can be. Doing this alone was never in my plans, but flying solo this time just might be the inspiration I need to truly tear shit up. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Saliva “Never Gonna Change”