Month: December 2008

Boner Detour

This morning I thought to myself, hmm this will be the last time I have sex in 2008. It’s New Year’s Eve. The 31st. December 31st. Then I stopped and said out loud “Oh my God I have to call Simon, its his Birthday!”


C’mon… Just a Peek?

I stumbled upon an ex’s blog that mentioned my name the other day. Anyone with a healthy obsession with themselves googles their own name right? Well I do. I don’t do it enough to warrant to much of a concern but I do it enough to make me kinda embarrassed about it. Its not Like I’m looking up Mike, or Joe or Muhammad though. There are like ten Dugaldo’s out there and I am one of them. I’m curious about the other ones too but really mostly myself.

Just the same the search often results in re-runs of the same links. I have a namesake in Daly City CA who’s sister I once passed a latte to in a San Bruno Starbucks. There’s some punk kid in Carson or Torrance or some other God awful pavement shit hole (uhh… no offense?); well he shares my name as well, we exchanged myspace messages a few times but never bothered to friend request each other. There are some doctor/lawyer types in South America don’t really understand the jargon. And that’s usually it, I don’t find much more than that. But the other day I found two new mentions that had me sitting up straight in my desk chair and my eyes glowing in the light of the computer screen.

The first was a copy of Where The Trade Wind Blows:West Indian Tales by a Mrs. Schuyler Crowninshield in full text! Yeah I’m not familiar either but it looks like my name makes a cameo as that of a bartender. Not to far off.

The second find was the afformentioned blog written by the afformentioned ex (which isn’t all that accurate a title). The reason I’m writing about it is quite honestly to keep my ass busy. I haven’t read it. Yet. But I don’t want to. The Dugaldo of the past would have devoured that blog quicker than it would take for the link to come up. But there’s a major part of me now, that has laid dead in response to this nice little apple of a find. I think I’m happy with my life for a second, though the eeriness of actually typing that out tingles cold in my spine. I’m not really up for messing with my emotions or anyone else’s right now. Maybe later. But right now I just wanna chill with my wonderful boyfriend, and our new cool little kitty Mac, catch up with all of our imaginary friends and eat a little bit to much but be ok with it because we say we are going to the gym tomorrow. I like that.

And for the time being its going to remain like that. But I know curiosity will bat his eyes at me again…

and it has… 

So last night after I left this blog unfinished, I got a text message from Xinthia, who knows that chisme is best served among friends. She simply informed me that she ran into said ex and that she thinks he’s still mad at me. Ok really by now I would have refreshed that blog like sixty-three times, my legs shaking from holding in the three cups of coffee I downed, reading and re-reading every nuance and un-posted detail. But not today. Really, I feel I can honestly say without hesitation or doubt, that I think I just may pass this time. For a little while.

I wrote this for you…

Don’t you ever feel like you’re the next big thing? And no one else knows it.  You are the underdog just waiting for your musical movie montage. You know what you’re capable of despite the fact that you haven’t actually done it yet. But you will. And its gonna be fucking fantastic. And when your friends see what you have done they will shake your hand and say something that almost sounds slow motion. Your past lovers will send you short emails stating they’d recently read an article about you and just wanted to say congratulations… oh and that maybe you could meet up for coffee sometime. Your parents will tell all their friends, not to mention the aunts, uncles and cousins you lost touch with a long time ago. The professors you turned in B work to will tell their students how they pushed you to do A work, even if it was always late. Your ex-bosses will claim they always wished they could’ve given you that raise and your contemporaries will welcome your anticipated point of view. The money will be just enough. The fame; unsolicited but not unappreciated. And your love will have long been by your side never having doubted you. And when you look back as you sip your tea, or coffee or smoke your pipe or do some sort of bull shit breathing exercise, you will remember me and laugh at the day this all seamed like some unattainable dream. 

First Sight

He first saw her in the second grade with her brown hair flailing about and her yellow dress whipping back and forth as she pumped her legs to get higher and higher on the swings as he waited his turn. When she finally let go of the chains to soar through the air he flinched as her Mary Janes hit the dirt hard, surrounding her in a cloud of dust that sparkled as though it had tiny diamonds floating in it. He blushed and ran away never daring to venture toward the swing set again.

Just the same he would not see her again until middle school when for a whole semester she sat behind him in algebra class and every now and then when she passed her homework to the front, he noticed that the sides were singed, but because no one else seemed to care, he couldn’t bring himself to ask her why.
And when in the tenth grade his best friend and her’s decided to set them up, they complied and for a whole week in December held hands all around school, and he thought they were the warmest things he’d ever touched. A week later she broke up with him, trying her best to politely tell him that when they got to close he smelled of gasoline. Funny, he always thought it was her.
After high school, working his first job at the postal store, he would see her through the large front windows, driving by unaware of him and always followed by the sharp sound of tires burning out.
And now, ten years later they stood the only two in line in that same postal store without an employee in sight. They could only look at each other anyway, both their faces congealing with recognition, both hoping that the other would either speak up first or not say anything at all. And finally when he felt gurgling in his throat the words “don’t I know you…” they both jumped at the sound of rubber screeching on asphalt and the window pane bursting into flickering little shards like fireworks. Headlights, grill, hood and windshield hurdling toward them, into them and over them. And there under the heat of a now flame engulfed vehicle all he could see was her in a yellow dress, swinging back and forth trying to get as high as she could before she had the nerve to jump.

Last Chance

There he stood, an uninspiring man in a blue tie, looking at his watch to break the discomfort of proximity on the otherwise empty platform of the Ríos Rosas metro station. I’d never been to this stop before but knew it would take me to my apartment by the colors on the metro map. I’d only wandered in anyways, to escape the rays of a new day’s Sun that insisted on finding me through gaps in between buildings. Before that I’d been content with meandering the dark alleyways of unfamiliar neighborhoods calcified by dwindling patronage and the crisp aridness of a January night. And though the cold pecked at my cheeks they were flush from the memory of a man’s large hand searing itself firmly into my chest.


Oh yeah, we were standing at the side of a blue sedan, his friend in the driver’s seat with the ignition on and he drunk and with no better way to communicate how he felt than to push me away and get in the car. This, moments after I’d declined an invitation to share a cab with a cute blond girl outside the Jazz club. The Jazz club where he had looked at me and nodded toward the bathroom with his tall head and crazy eyes, just before the security guard stopped me from following suit. The blonde girl standing next to me scoffed in protest that it wasn’t fair, that he didn’t know what I would be doing in there. The security guard knew exactly what I’d be doing in there, but hadn’t I just been making out with this girl?  Yes at the bar. “You should go for it,” she’d said, empty shot glass in hand. “Besides you’re a good kisser.”


“He’s Basque,” I informed her. “He doesn’t speak English or Spanish, his friend told me.” His stature was unlike the skinny young things I was used to picking up, but his large hands on my hips made me feel like a boy and when I finally asked his name he responded by licking my face, turning around and dancing with the woman behind him. But how did I even meet him? Oh yeah it was his friend; he liked the blond girl I was with and bought us all a round.


“He’s ugly,” she told me “But he’s good for drinks. Here, make out with me so he thinks we’re together.”


The blond girl. The blond girl. We’d walked to the jazz club together, from some place with brick walls, drapes hanging everywhere and a slue of African men who never let silence creep into their small drum circle. There, sitting on damp pillows, in some back corner we did lines together off a mirror she kept in her purse. She wanted to celebrate she said.


I had just told her I had a boyfriend. “Well kind of. We broke up right before I moved here. I got an email from him today though.” She was polite enough to ask what it said. “Happy birthday. But it was a week ago.”


I couldn’t quite place her accent but she spoke English well and when she saw me sitting at a bench surrounded by three empty glasses she stuck her face in mine and said, “You’re from America aren’t you?”


I had only ventured into this place because a boy I met on the metro coming home from work told me that was where he was going to be later. That I could get hashish there, and to just look for the African fellows. The boy never showed up and not even three rum and cokes gave me the gull to ask for something I’d only ever smoked at parties.


And that boy on the metro, he spoke so confidently in broken English, and had his hand on my thigh throughout the conversation. It was so easy for him, and when we came to his stop he made a quick but gentle grab for my crotch.


And now the man in the blue tie who only seconds ago seemed so far away on the metro platform, was now so close to my face that I could smell the menthol on his breath. My hand was firm on his crotch and I was trying to stretch my lips toward his. He grabbed me by the collar holding me still for a moment, his face oozed disgust and self-defense. He shook me once and then pushed me hard against the wall of the platform yelling “¡Cuidado tío!.”


“No… no…” was all I could muster “it’s my cumpleaños.”