The hollowing path.

Hindsight is not always kind. As time separates my dad and I, the more I realize just what a source of strength his existence was in my life, just knowing he was there. Reachable.

There’s been a deepening sense of sadness and loneliness I’ve felt more and more as time goes on. So far I haven’t been able to shake it. The world seems bigger and emptier. My house feels bigger and emptier. I feel detached from just about everything other than my daughter. I’m still working my hardest at my career every day so I suppose it’s more accurate to say that outside of my mija and dog training, I don’t feel……anything.

He reached out to my mom the other day which made me feel such relief for my mom. My brother and I have been praying for him to find a way to do that since he died and boy did he ever. It does, however make me miss him all the more and reminds me of that. I feel no anger about it anymore, just a deep sense of sadness and defeat. For now, the world seems grey. I wish I could talk with him again, see where he is. I almost feel like I’m flying blindly through life now. I’m sure many men feel this way when their father dies so believe me I’m not asking for pity.

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I am Domesticon

Mark 1:38 pm Sunday, August 11, 2013. Credible sources confirm that Alec has become boring and no longer leads the exciting life of his past. According to eyewitness statements, he speaks of the Shark vacuum vs. Dyson as if it is Lucifer rebelling against God and the epic battle of good vs. evil is once again underway.

I squeal with excitement upon finding out that baking soda, vinegar, and hydrogen peroxide are effective household cleaners that eliminate the need for harsh chemical cleaners like Drano and Febreeze. Fu*k you, Febreeze, you can go drown yourself in Drano. I’m happy about it. And then I’m sad that I’m happy about it because other things used to be exciting and now anything positively domestic is cause for celebration because life has necessarily become mundane. I have become Domesticon, transformer of the home & hearth.

You know that scene in The 40 Year Old virgin where, at work, Steve is asked how his weekend was and he responds by talking about wanting to make an egg sandwich but it doesn’t work out the way he wished? That’s me, that’s how my weekends are now, hahaha. Oh the sadness!

Fatherhood and career. Not much time for anything or anyone else.

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Negotiating with a newborn.

Let’s begin this with the Father’s creed:

“I have been transformed and am no longer a person.  I’m a changing facility.  I’m a feeding station.  I am destined to lose my hearing to constant exposure to audio explosions averaging 100 decibels, praise the Lord.  My education consists of puppets living on a street named after a seed.  I hate seeds.  The only reason I disliked cartoons as an adult was because I was not intellectually advanced enough to appreciate them.  I despise sleep.”

Being a new dad isn’t too easy.  Originally I thought a maid robot similar to the one featured in “The Jetsons” would just show up and take care of things for me.  After seeing “I, Robot” I’m a little wary about that kind of arrangement.

At the supermarket I noticed my self-checkout pace increasing with my lil ones fussy noises.  The louder she became, the faster I moved just hoping she wouldn’t have a meltdown and force me to leave my raspberry lemonade and tortilla chips at the register to run her back to the car while awkwardly trying to gently swing her in her car seat to calm her while sprinting through the parking lot. God help me.  I would have looked like Quasimodo on methamphetamines.

Her mother can more than relate I’m sure, since she has her a majority of the time since I’m working 10+ hours a day six days a week.

I was at the bank this morning and realized I was swaying my hips back and forth as I stood in line, apparently holding my invisible daughter. Sentimentally ‘shhhhhh’ing’ the banker as she spoke to me at the window also made for an awkward moment.

She burped formula all over my shirt today.  I’m thinking about owning it and posturing myself as a man-fashionista ahead of my time.  Instead of having bleached and stressed jeans let us now rock dried and crunchy ‘burp aftermath’ on our apparel.

And yet I still can’t help but smile every time I look at her Winston Churchill cheeks.

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Under the phalanx.


Left side below the pinky. Spiral fracture.

The following took place between 12pm and 1 pm on Tuesday, the day before Friday and any other day of the week if you’re looking forward on a calendar.

“Thane, no.”


“I need an adult!”

*rolls onto back and kicks the air like a drunken beetle*

I am a wee bit fuzzy from Percocet as of this chronicling.  Is that a real word?  Anyway, I was prescribed Vicodin by a mysterious hooded man at the hospital.  He certainly gained my trust when he got my attention by whispering, ” PST!  Hey kid, take this.” and tossed me a hand-sized burlap sack filled with something safe to take.  Initially I was offended that he called me a kid.  I’ve been without a wet bed for over two weeks now and I doubt he can boast the same.  The Vicodin didn’t work, no matter how many I took (between 6 and 60), my pain remained the same and I only felt slightly drowsy even though my pupils had all but disappeared into my stunning blue eyes.  I now have a friends-with-benefits relationship with Percocet and am not really enjoying it.  This loopiness is wack — nay!  It’s wiggity wack.  I feel more drunk than high from this maverick medication and I demand a report on how to proceed with it.

My hand is in a splint.  There will be a next paragraph.

Welcome to the foretold paragraph.  Jealous of my premonitions?  I am too.  On an unrelated note, last night I was woken by massive thunder claps, studio audience claps, and lightning.  Monsoon season is approaching.  Initially, I thought a ghost had turned on my computer last night, opened iTunes and started playing my thunderstorm tracks to wake me up and then relax me with said tracks to help me back to sleep but it wasn’t so.  I got up off the floor and peered outside and witnessed the bland drama of a mediocre T-storm!  “Egads!” I whispered and went back to sleep.

#worstblogever  #hashtag  ##

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4 centimeters dilated and thinking.

We have been at the hospital for over 10 hours now.  From here on out, the ‘B.C.’ for my life will be pre-fatherhood and fatherhood.  It’s a contrast that I could think about for hours, maybe days at a time.  Who I was before my mija, who I have become during her mother’s pregnancy and who I will grow to be as she grows up.  I have flashbacks of my early 20’s and my persistent attempts to move out west and stay out west.  The experiences I’ve had, the maturing I needed to do — the maturity that comes with age.  The mistakes, the adventures, the everything.  I don’t miss it.  I’m excited as hell to hold my girl!  I’m so proud of her mom.  And soon, life will never again be the same.

The last time I was in a hospital, it was for the exact opposite reason I am here now and I was losing my dad.  Here I sit, now ready to receive my daughter.  Within two months there has been death and life, the death of and the birth of two people so incredibly dear to me and close to my heart.  How has life come to such a state?  If there is anything that inspires one to contemplate life, it’s frailty, beauty, finiteness, and meaning, then the last 2 months have done exactly that.  I have gone into the intellectual and spiritual deep end and am content to not say a word about it to anybody.  I don’t need to.  It’s why I write and am content to think about it endlessly.  How a zygote — something invisible to the naked eye, and it’s genetic blueprint form a human is…..mind blowing.

What will she sound like?  What will the difference in her voice be as she grows?  What color and shape will her eyes be?  Her hair?  Her intellect?  Will she be mathematically oriented?  Artistically oriented?  Both?  Neither?  How amazing it must be to watch as she marvels at the fact that she has hands and feet!  I look at my hands and feet everyday, occasionally thinking about the nature of their shape and their existence but usually underwhelmed by them because I am so used to having them accompany me on my body on a regular basis.  But to her, she is going to look at them and have this look in her eyes that says, “Holy phalanges, Batman, what the shit are these??”  She won’t even get her own Batman reference!  She will learn of Batman, rest assured.  And Iron Man.

I love this wee-lass more than I can convey and she isn’t even here yet.

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Eat your saw dust & paint chips and shut up.

This morning’s breakfast was trippy.  Literally.  They aren’t joking when they label this cereal “shredded wheat”.  It’s so shredded that it’s no longer wheat-like.  In fact, I doubt it’s even shredded wheat.  I love recycling just as much as the next person but rebranding saw dust as cereal is a little extreme for my taste.  Ha.  Taste.  Puns and such.  Observe the picture.  I was lucky enough to score a few white paint chips in my bowl of industry this morning like they were extra marshmallows.  They were potent and within two spoonfuls I began hallucinating and fell halfway into outer space and out of my chair.  Vitamins and minerals go hand in hand with the final frontier, fuck yea!  Way better than my bath salt smoothies.


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Of shock and awe.

“He’s gone…”  “He’s gone…”  “He’s gone…”  It repeats every day in my head.  Every night in my dreams.  Every morning it wakes me up.  How can this be?  It’s been almost three weeks since my father died but some days feel so normal, like he will show up in June, ready to accompany the rest of my family to the hospital when Makayla is born.  Other days I feel like I am suspended within a multifaceted tornado made of broken glass where I am not harmed but surrounded by fragmented reflections of myself.  I look closer and ask the shards of reflections, “Who are you?”  “Who were you?”  “Where’s your dad?”  “How could you not have known this would happen?”  Irrational, understandable, panic, and peace throw themselves on top of me like wet blankets and I want nothing to do with any of them.  What do I want?  I want emptiness, a place where I can meet my father, a place that transcends the finite halls that are plagued by mortality and it’s shortcomings so I can say one last goodbye.  I want to feel or see where he is, I want him to tell me that he will watch over us, that he has met his granddaughter.  I want to know what he thinks about her.

My muscles are quivering, these are the aftershocks of shock…..of awe, the remnants of my last desperate reaches and attempts to follow my dad when he took his last breath, foolishly and selfishly demanding that he not leave his family, taxing my intellect and imagination to it’s maximum capacity to create a memory of where he is right now, trying to trick my senses into convincing me that I have touched it and in turn, followed him into the beyond if only for a moment so that I can feel reassured that he still IS.  God, I miss him so much.  Just months before he died, he and I hiked Camelback mountain with my mom.  It’s not an easy hike and he apparently had a tumor in his lung when he did it.  That’s a fucking Iron Man.

Why did he have to die?

It’s fucked up, but I miss and ruminate on the days of Eisenhower Hospital; he was in his last month of life but he and I shared some of the most powerful moments of my life during that period.  I can remember in exquisite detail when I groomed him.  Right before I started, we each made a lame-ass joke to one another and then….we were completely silent from that point forward.  The energy in the room changed as if it snapped to attention.  Time did not stop, but it felt like it slowed down significantly.  The clippers hummed but I was hardly aware of the sound, I heard something else that I cannot explain, I felt something I cannot explain — nor do I have any intention of trying.  It still makes me cry because it was so sublime and…real.  It was cerimonious.

His hair was short and snow white with strands of dark grey.  He was “sweating” his cancer.  He allowed himself to be vulnerable with me and relaxed his head into my palm, allowing me to care for him.  We breathed slowly…synchronously.

I find myself at a loss now, so few words left to type.  Perhaps it is best.  All I will say is that’s the most significant thing I’ve experienced with my dad.  As verbose and exaggerated as this all might sound, I learned more about manhood in that moment than any other in my life, as if it was transferred to me intuitively.

You were a fucking rockstar, pop.

You were a fucking rockstar, pop.


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You’ve reached awesome stranger. Teshia is not here.

I urge you all to do this once a month at least.  My texts are on the right.  Text the wrong person the right thing.


2G service in the year 2013 should be a capital crime against artificial intelligence and robot progress.

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Iron Man. I am not an i-ron.

At some point during my early 20’s I got the nickname Iron Man.  I didn’t mind it because everyone needs iron to fortify their cereal.  Back in iron’s heyday it was the tits.  Yea, I just said tits.  This means that I share a connection with the tits of times past and cereal.  Fuck yea.  After interrogating nobody, I found out I had that name given to me for three reasons:

One, I went to the gym before work every morning and showed up in swimming trunks, sandals, and a tank top.  Why would I show up in such a relaxed and daring attire?  Because I would go swimming or hit the hot tub after alpha male-ing those 5 lb iron weights.  5 lbs in each hand, might I add (you may swoon now).  I wasn’t about to show up for work in my work clothes, that’s an idea that has no place at the workplace!  I forced everyone to acknowledge that I was entering my mediocre job feeling relaxed, feeling like a million bucks.  Nay!  A million relaxed bucks.

Two, it was a metaphor for how I would act when stuck in a glass box of emotions like Ron Burgundy.  I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve.  I wear it in my chesticle, where it belongs and where the Lord of Hosts intended it to be when he drew out the blueprints for my body.

There is not a third reason, I lied about that.

As I got older I contemplated on what was initially a joke and simple observation but it has taken on a meaning of it’s own.  Or not.  I have probably given it meaning and to me it has become a symbol that I take seriously now.  It’s a symbol of strength and reliability.  Now that my father has died, it’s meaning has matured and amplified.  I’m the head of my family now and I am starting a family with Sonia.  Iron Man is not invincible, but strong.  Iron.  Followed by man.  To me this means acknowledge the feeling and human part of my personality, avoiding the pompous idea that I’m an invincible superhero or a martyr, neglecting myself while being everything for everyone else. There is a man behind the iron and that should always be remembered.

It’s his heart that powers the suit.  It’s his mind that powers the idea.

Random thought complete.

Mark IV

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