My time in the Empire or how kissing your sister, even in a galaxy far,far away, is still nasty.

Back in 2005, a few months before Halloween I had an epiphany. I wanted to dance. But not just dance, I wanted to dance dressed up as a Storm Trooper from a movie franchise I had little interest in. I had seen clips of men or women shaking their money makers under the white armor and I knew I should purchase a suit of trooper armor to do just that. So I found a suit, assembled it, then got invited to a party where I stood amongst 5 guys wearing the same mask from the Scream movies, and several young girls who kept pointing at me. Alcohol can do amazing things but it cant change the fact that you're in Storm Trooper armor and several women are in front of you pondering the likelihood of whether your virginal status is still active, or in some cases, elevated. And with that, the armor went in a box for several years.

Sometime around 2007 I read an article about a local Star Wars costuming group that functioned as a charitable entity. The costumes were all self made, high quality suits and all functions the group attended were done under the premise that the functions host would make a charitable donation to Shade Tree, a charity for women and children. I made contact with the groups Boba Fett who was a great guy simply trying to bolster the groups somewhat meager ranks. Boba invited me to meet with the rest of the group and so I did.

The initial feeling I had upon entering the house where the meeting was being held was that I was a CIA operative attempting to infiltrate a nerd cell operating in Las Vegas. I knew the nerds would recognize my poser smell and reject me for the non-Star Wars fan I was. At the core of the group was Darth Vader. A man of undetermined age who was a later-life trust fund kid who spent all his time covering his nerdy bases ranging from a fascination with dragons, renaissance fairs, Star Trek and of course, Star Wars. I didn't begrudge Vader for his lifestyle. I begrudged him for being an asshole. Vader sized me up and without any provocation called my bluff by asking me "why am I here?" He explained I didn't seem too interested in Star Wars and he found my interest in the group puzzling. I explained to Vader i was simply trying to get some use out of an expensive costume. He said he could understand that.

I figured that if I was to join this group, I should familiarize myself with the original trilogy if only to be able to differentiate between Jango and Boba. And so I bought the dvd box set and formed a few thoughts about the movies while working my way through them.

1. Vader is a bad father with severe anger and self-esteem issues.
Vader fails on almost every level of child rearing throughout these movies. He cuts his kid's hand off while attempting to kill him. In Jedi, as a last ditch effort to redeem himself as a father, he stops his buddy from killing his kid, only to be killed by the buddy. Shortly before dying, Vader's helmet is removed to reveal a man that looks like Jonathan Winters whose sinister, baritone voice was provided by Eddie Murphy's dad in Coming To America. And in a classic managerial misstep, Vader is fast to choke his employees rather than simply point out their errors and follow up with some positive reinforcement.

2. Luke kisses his sister.
I couldn't see tongue, maybe that's visible in the Blu-ray versions, but I did see a guy kiss his sister. Nasty. People seem to gloss over this, but even in a galaxy far far away, incest is wrong. Yes, even intergalactic incest.

3. C3PO and R2D2 are a couple.
This might be far fetched, but I'm feeling a sort of life partnery vibe from these two. C3PO is the passive bottom. R2D2 is the aggressive top.

4. Hahn hooked up with Chewy, at least once, maybe twice.
I only say this because there's similarities to Chewie and Hahn's relationship and R2 and C3PO's. Contentious yet passionate. Stern but loving. I don't know if the Millennium Falcon had auto pilot features, but you have to think they might have made use of it and had a tryst while smuggling from doomed planet to doomed planet. Nothing big, a little Wookie on reckless mercenary experimentation while paying off debts to Jabba.


So I joined the group, not a difficult feat to accomplish, you just have to have a decent Star Wars costume in your possession and be willing to participate in a few functions per year. One thing I quickly noticed while walking around in public dressed as a storm trooper is that drunks and children respond about as well as you'd expect drunks and children to respond to Star Wars characters. The drunks like to antagonize us and the children like to start off being friendly only then to join the drunks in antagonizing us. I once saw two drunks try and jump Vader. Vader is quite tall and stout, so he held his own even when the drunks sucker punched him, making his helmet do a 360 while still on his head.

Another time I was at a charity golf tournament sponsored by Zappo's and unbeknownst to me, Zappo's had been plying their employees with alcohol the entire day. The antagonistic drunks were now armed with golf clubs. You know how in Braveheart, if Mel Gibson was running at you with his sword drawn chanced are you were about to be taken out by a man wearing a kilt but not underwear, who also had his face painted blue? Well, the guy charging at me had underwear on, I think, but instead of a sword he had a golf club. He swung it at me, knocking the wind out of me. Then shortly after that, the Zappo's office drunk came by and felt my cod piece at the same time my thermo detonator dropped on the ground. The Zappo's office drunk had a buddy who apparently was irked by her placing her hand on a member of the Empire's codpiece enclosed nether regions and tried to diffuse the awkwardness by asking if the thermo detonator on the ground was "my cock".

Drunks and Vader aside, I enjoy being in the group. Its a great way to interject a bit of joy into a little kids world, or the world of a man on his 10th Pabst Blue Ribbon. I do my best to absolve myself of any of the politics of the group and in an awkward moment that had me, Luke, jumping through the nerd looking glass while responding to Vader's asking me "Luke, why are you here", I thought "Why am I here?" I guess I'm here because the galaxy is big enough to accommodate even those who feel Lucas is a one trick pony and his movies are little more than Pink Flamingos in space, minus the dog doo.

Love your decidedly non-nerd, occasionally embedded in the ranks of Dungeons and Dragons lovers friend,
Luke

Talking Heads at Coachella? I say hells yes.

Dear God: I don't ask you for much. I've learned to accept things I cannot change and to stop asking for sports cars I can't afford the insurance on. I've learned to accept that I'll always be 5'9 and that you feel I don't need/deserve one final growth spurt hurrah, and thats okay. But recently, while surfing the net, rife with penile lengthening offers, pyramid schemes, Brittany Spears' exposed hoo-ha, I came across a glimmer of hope I feel you can turn into a radiant shower of sparkling rays of fabulousness not seen since the rise of Liberace.

I read that a Talking Heads reunion might be afoot. What does this mean to you? Probably not much. But what does this mean to me? Lots. For you see, I have seen David Byrne solo numerous times, and it was good. I have seen the Tom Tom Club and it was, well, for having hit the AARP age, the Talking Heads' rhythm section is still keeping better time than most Caucasians. And Jerry Harrison produced a great deal of records in the nineties that sold a great deal of records, but didn't say a whole lot.

People need to, no I NEED TO, see the Heads shake their collective money makers before I die. Anything less would be cruel and unusual. Mr. Byrne and company still have what it takes to make their CBGB/Mud Club borne gospel believable. They're graying and the bassist might not be quite the sexy librarian she once was. Now looking more like a grandmother who plays the bass really well. But nonetheless, do what you can to put them on stage at Coachella.

Thank you and peace out.
Luke

Damn "The Man" and a thought about Michael Jackson

The Bearded one started working again, after a 6 month period of unemployment filled with a momentary dabbling in hashish (not really, I just like the word hashish), a brief attempt at a career in heavy drinking (eh, it was brief but i made friends), abject poverty proceeded by flirtations with the Peace Corps that were deterred by my dad's mentioning of the probability of my developing dysentery or encountering someone in a grass skirt that shrinks heads as a hobby. Then I thought about the word derelict and how my dad always used it to describe the hippies that hung around the university that he worked at. I thought that derelicts might not shower as often as its "suggested". And they might wear berets and grow their beards to lengths that most office managers would deem "unruly and indicative that you might be eating primarily from cans of chili". Office managers are keen like that.

But I looked up the meaning of derelict, and I don't think being one pays well. Some women like derelicts, but only if they call themselves something ridiculous like "The Lizard King" and can properly fill a pair of leather trousers. My brother, who happens to be the CEO of Derelict Inc., hangs out with a woman who calls herself Miss Kitty Kitty Kitty. I know this, because in trying to reach him I called her number and someone notified me that I had reached the voicemail of Miss Kitty Kitty Kitty. I thought one Kitty was ample, but Miss Kitty x3 felt it needed saying twice more. So all things considered, I couldn't move forward past the summer of dereliction without an indication of looming employment.

The only real qualm I have with regular employment is having a boss and the hassle of showering regularly. I entertain delusions of an eternal life filled with stinkyness and ginger ale. Or maybe that's just retirement. But bosses I can deal with. It's a matter of properly gauging what your boss will tolerate and then exploiting or exploring his threshold of tolerance. I had a boss that would harp on me about clocking in early and I pointed out to him that he was the only man in history who had a menstrual period and that he should mention that to someone at Ripley's Believe It or Not. He then proceeded to express his dissatisfaction with me through a flurry of f-bombs and telling me that i was about to have " my own period, period of unemployment that is". Not true. I quit and found another job.

But yeah, I'm working now which meant the unabomber beard had to come off. I never got a chance to wear a robe and dance like Allen Ginsberg, but i did manage to find remnants of previous meals in it. I don't think i could go full derelict anyways. I'm not much for wine or heroin.

Oh yeah-Michael Jackson.
My mom said to me the other day "You know, that Michael Jackson was some dancer". And I thought, what a raw deal. You write Thriller, then O.D. on anesthesia. And therein lies the beauty of Keith Richards. Long after all the amateur junkies have been laid to rest, Keith is still plugging away. Mind you, not in tip top shape but existing, breathing air, still beating the cash crop/dead horse that is a Rolling Stones tour. Makes you think Michael should have spent less time getting nose jobs and more time shooting speedballs with ol' Keith. He might still be around.
Yer pal, Luke

How I spent my 2010 or how Does This Beard Make Me Look Fat Got His Groove Back

2010 wasn't the most enjoyable year for the bearded one. But it wasn't all bad, there were highlights to accompany the low lights. I experienced all of the following in various portion sizes. And since I love you, and feel that since you keep coming back for more you're either glutton for punishment or love me back, I've assembled a list of what made this year a hybrid of bullshit and beauty. Raunchy and redeeming. But also, lets not forget that this is our first year together, that is, you and I, us dear reader, and if things keep going right, we might be headed for a Vegas wedding with an annulment included in the price. All right readers, let's roll.

1. Traffic citations
The fuzz got me for $300 after I made the mistake of pulling out in front of a bike cop while making a mad dash to Trader Joe's to get some bananas. Had I had noteworthy cleavage, I might have walked away from the incident 300 bucks richer. I'd have pulled my pants down to show some testicles, but I'm guessing cops respond differently to things like that.

2. Scholastic failure as an innate reaction to the prospect of having to address a lady and her face that was peeled off by a stop sign (true story).
That pretty much sums it up. That, and the fact that I'm afraid of needles and turn into a 3rd grader when I see them during routine doctor visits. So I'll never get to live my dream of wearing a white hospital coat while saying "Don't you dare die on me" or saying I need this or that STAT. So now I just demand things from people STAT. It doesn't work. They just think you're an impatient jerk. And I'll just buy my own lab coat, with those pens that look like a syringe.

3. What The Hell Happened To Your Eye?
I spent my 31st birthday fielding questions in regards to what bug, alien or overwhelming unimpressive siamese twin had decided to begin squatting underneath my right eyelid. There's nothing quite like having a nasty bulbous item grow to a tangerine-like proportion thus wrecking my session I had scheduled at Glamour Shots. I learned a few things from the 3 weeks of dealing with my bulbous facial friend: Nevada's healthcare system sucks, doctors don't like playing "cowboy", and even if you ask very nicely you won't get a ride on a helicopter unless you're in dire straits. I'm not talking about the guys that wrote Money for Nothing. I mean, you're losing lots of blood, a person is getting ready to emerge from your holy hole, or you need to be attended to by guys in lab coats yelling STAT alot.

4. I saw Devo.
The men from Akron, Ohio rocked my ear hymen and reconfirmed that they are the progenitors of nerd rock. Let the whipping continue.

5. I got back the Tom Waits bootleg the (expletive expletive expletive) from the Killers stole from me.
Yes, he fucking stole it from me. He's a rat bastard for that. And I hope he crashes his Lamborghini for doing it. Well, not really. But i hope he gets herpes. But who wins? I do. Cause I got back a recording of Mr. Waits' finest 2 hours in the mid nineties. And you know something? That guy was a creep, not Tom, the guy from the Killers. He liked to watch porn while other people were in the room. Porn viewing should be a solo act, out of general courtesy of others. But El Creepo liked to watch it while other people were in the room and referred to a woman's nether regions by the single worst slang term for said nether regions, that being "the gash". Holy beejesus that's nasty.

6. I found (insert your religious figure of choice you're supposed to find that leads to enlightenment, kind of like Waldo, but responsible for a lot more wars. )
I didn't "find" anyone in particular. Not Jesus, not the elephant with numerous arms,not Buddha. Not even the flying spaghetti monster. I guess i just found balance, enlightenment and a bread crumb trail of happiness I hope will lead to prolonged contentment and goodwill. Let's assume I found Waldo. Waldo illustrated to me that my purpose is being a good Samaritan. But also, I started reconsidering materialism and the concept of keeping up with the Joneses. And I realize that giving far exceeds gaining, projecting love exceeds the harboring of hate. So I do what I can, when I can. And it feels good. I think if i keep it up, that an eternal life of not wearing pants or having to shower because "the man" tells me I have to awaits me. And in my eternal life, the Afghan Whigs playing Gentlemen from start to finish. How often? All the god damn time. Why Gentlemen? Because it might be the best record of the nineties. That's why.

So dear readers, members of Homeland Security and those thinking that my "beard" is slang for a woman that a gay man dates to create a facade of heterosexuality (honey, please, yes I like the Weather Girls, but the Bearded one currently only bats for one team) as we march, sashay or bum rush our way into 2011, know that I love you more than you know and my heart radiates pure blinding love. Like a disco ball spinning to Staying Alive, my love shimmers and pulsates in pastel colored pants.

Goodbye 2010, you succubus of a year. Papa's got a new bag, and it's name is 2011. Cue the Neil Diamond, it's time to get shitty.

Viva Las Vegas Vs Leaving Las Vegas pt.2 Vegas Strikes Back

You know, I thought I had you sussed out Vegas. And for the most part I did. You thrive on income mistakenly designated as disposable and the willingness of tourists who are obliged to sit and watch Wayne Newton gurgle Danke Schoen long after he has surrendered his ability to change facial expressions as a result of one too many trips under the knife. Yours is a haven of Ed Hardy movers and tiny dog in purse shakers. My love for you reminds me of those Don Henley songs I liked when I was 12 and didn't realize that Mr.Henley was just a yuppie who drummed for a band largely responsible for the proliferation of country rock. Yes he wrote songs about hotels in California. But he also wrote songs about the demise of relationships, the losing of oneself and I think he wrote a song about Tequila Sunrises too.

So I got to thinking about you when I found myself in one of your more unsavory locales performing community service to obtain some much needed extra credit as a result of my predilection for not reading any chapters assigned to me by an instructor teaching a course that encourages people to run into buildings on fire. I tried to explain to the instructor that I did in fact perform charitable deeds throughout the year by way of dressing up as a storm trooper, while raising funds for a local women's shelter. I do this while wincing underneath the helmet from verbal shrapnel sounding something like "Holy crap, that's a lot of nerds." Then there was the time someone sucker punched Vader, which isn't nice despite how you might feel about his actions in the Star Wars franchise (remember though, he did save Luke so he too deserves a break) but to compound the galactic bitch slapping, the attacker brought along an accomplice to help jump Vader. Vader clotheslined one, and punched the other guy in the face. True story.

When the teacher explained to me he couldn't award me any extra points for dressing up like a Star Wars character in my free time, I was forced to seek out alter options for charitable deeds. I stumbled across a program where volunteers fed the homeless at 8 a.m., every Saturday. I must admit, I was purely in it for the extra credit as I'm a chronic slacker who wants only a C but somehow manages a constant B or A. But I needed those 15 points, so Main Street and Bonanza on an early Saturday morning it was for me. The program is a relatively bare bones one, consisting of sandwiches and coffee in addition to donated odds and ends. All of the donated items are sorted through and organized over a series of tables. And I just stood there and watched as the people shuffled by, picking out various items of varying degrees of necessity. A jacket for the man riding a serious wave of crystal meth addiction, or shoes for a man that goes by the alias Mr. Miyagi. Even still, I wasn't affected till the women and children started filing in.

And that's when you surprised me Vegas. Like any other person you have or will, or need to break up with in your life, its the undeniably awesome, cute, sexy, hip streak or attribute that complicates the complications. Maybe she liked Sonic Youth, or maybe he had a great laugh that contained no snorts. Or maybe she was there for a death, or he was there for a birth. And you Vegas? I thought I had you pegged in all your superficial velvet rope glory or your ability to import the magic of other cities only to dilute it in a dizzying display of a neon lit skid row. And you know Vegas, I was right to an extent. But I was wrong in another sense.

For all that you exude on the surface, you harbor the antithesis underneath. For all that I knew that was rotten about you, somewhere in you someone is countering that odiousness. Yes, you are a transient town where everybody comes from somewhere, just not from you. But I realize now that you have heart, and soul and are not merely what you are illustrated as in ad campaigns and movies with dead hookers in the plot line. i realize you have people who care about and act to counter the despondency of others and that alone convinces me that you have potential Vegas.

So where does that leave us, Vegas? Well, I still think we should see other people. I still think I'd be happier with someone who likes public transportation. Someone that doesn't get as hot as you in the summer. Someone who enjoys a little bit of rustic character in their buildings. But I love you Vegas, I really do. And one day, you'll rise above the din of nay saying and prove them wrong. And by then, I'll be elsewhere but I'll know i can come back and what I'll do will stay with you.

Sincerely, LMF

The Christmas Chronicles pt.2: Amateur rhinoplasty in the house of the cradle robber

I used to be a raging alcoholic. I'm not advocating it, glorifying it, or otherwise. But i'm not denying. You know that terrible song about how "everybody's working for the weekend"? Well, I guess I was just waiting out the week to end it with an asinine display of equal parts inability to hold ones liquor and an inability to consume that much liquor. And you know, I just didn't make the greatest decisions when I was drunk. And for the most part, I did what anyone put me up to when I was intoxicated. Which is how i ended up nursing a broken nose during the holiday season of 1995.

I was invited to my friend Phil's girlfriends house to drink and watch some movies. I forget the girlfriends name, but I know she was significantly older than Phil, or Chris. Or any of the teenagers she had milling around her apartment. She was 16 years Phil's senior, which in high school seems like the thing you'd want to have happen to you. When you're younger you think older people read the Kama Sutra and have "skills" and nothing seems more edgy than hooking up with your own Mrs. Robinson. Which as you get older, just seems like a feminized version of the guy that hangs out with teens just to mentally block the aging process. I knew a guy like that by the way. His name was Ed. He had the biggest set of breasts I'd ever seen on a man, and he went on to take too much LSD, then proceed to drop trou and run down Stewart Avenue naked till he was eventually put in a mental ward that looked like something Chuck Norris would have, no COULD have, broken out of.

Anyways, we're at the cradle robbing girlfriends house drinking when one of my friends, leans over and whispers into my ear that I should pour salad dressing over my best friend Chris' head. Chris used to be an gold medal winning alcoholic himself, long after I had quit, he continued the good fight. But Chris, much like the Wu-Tang Clan, wasn't nothing to fuck with. I never fucked with the Wu-Tang, but I failed to see a reason why my best friend status wouldn't ensure that I'd walk away from antagonizing Chris with little more than punch in the arm, or something similar. And never wanting to deprive my friends of a laugh, I walked over to the cradle robbers fridge and withdrew a bottle of salad dressing that could only be purchased at Costco, economy sized it was.

I walk behind Chris, lift the bottle over his head and squeeze as hard as I can, but only after I had removed the lid to ensure that the dressing poured all over his head. Chris was one of those guys that wore tennis visors tilted sideways, got tribal tattoos, liked 311. Chinese arithmetic and NASA combined could not formulate how Chris and I became, or remained friends, even to this day. And I guess I counted on that friendship to rear its head and save me from a respectable uppercut. Chris was wearing "fresh new gear" and the salad dressing "ruined his chances with the honnies" that night, so he said. They say that as the salad dressing made its way down his face, the dressing began to fill in the creases in his forehead, indicating he was leaving civil on a shuttle bus to incensed. Chris, now unrecognizable under a mask of Thousand Island dressing, gets up and turns to look at me.

I can't say a good portion of life's firsts are pleasurable. Drivers test, dentists office visit, open wound that needed to be sewn shut, sex. I can't say I enjoyed any of them the first time around. And getting my first uppercut for Christmas was certainly no different. Chris stood looking at me, shrinking in size as his muscles tightened, he stooped over and he slowly released his inner Hulk. I tried to offer him an apology but before I could get it out I was sent stumbling into the Cradle Robber's Christmas tree, breaking a host of gifts and ornaments underneath my weight. You know how in the old country and western movies when a guy punches another guy in the face, the guy getting punched flies back. Well, I didn't fly, but it lifted me off my feet.

He broke my nose. He sure did. The next day my eyes were blackened and the nose was swollen. My girlfriend, a part Creole transplant from Lafayette, LA who loved Sonic Youth, offered only "Who fucked you up" by way of consolation. I didn't appreciate that. And I swore I'd never talk to Chris again. It was 2 weeks after I had been punched when Chris called me to first apologize, which I thought was nice, only then to ask me how hard the punch was, rated on a scale between 1 and 10. I'm not even lying.

So my nose was broken, by my best friend no less. But i'm ok with that. Some people think broken noses are rugged looking and manly. I can assure you, it just makes me look like I had my nose broken. And did the wrong thing to a guy with an impressive uppercut. The moral? I guess it would be not to put anything past your best friend, do your best to not enrage an alcoholic and if you can't avoid taking an upper cut dont let your newly unconscious body land in a statutory rapists Christmas tree.

Merry Christmas, your buddy Luke

I gave someone 20 bucks today and felt ok about it.

It's poetry time!

When you feel alone
I know the way home
If you want to go
Lets leave right now
This love is an earthquake
One you will not shake
Yours is a steam train
That's soon leaving town....again

I'm running in circles
You're running on empty
Still surely regretting
That you ever met me
But love casts a shadow
That don't always follow
A sweetheart to the chain gang
And on to death row
... and then
you scratch the thought clean
maybe...till it bleeds