/goobs

Seriously.

Make You Feel My Love

When the rain is blowing in your face

And the whole world is on your case

I could offer you a warm embrace

To make you feel my love

When the evening shadows and the stars appear

And there is no one there to dry your tears

I could hold you for a million years

To make you feel my love

I know you haven’t made your mind up yet

But I would never do you wrong

I’ve known it from the moment that we met

No doubt in my mind where you belong

I’d go hungry, I’d go black and blue

I’d go crawling down the avenue

There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do

To make you feel my love

The storms are raging on the rollin’ sea

And on the highway of regret

The winds of change are blowing wild and free

You ain’t seen nothing like me yet

I could make you happy, make your dreams come true

Nothing that I wouldn’t do

Go to the ends of the earth for you

To make you feel my love.

Tonight, I’m in this funk of sorts.

I’m contemplating love.

Love used to be my favorite thing in the world until it wounded me.

Now I barely think about it all…

Except for when I hear songs like Bob Dylan’s To Make You Feel My Love.
It has such beautiful lyrics that it kind of breaks my heart and reminds me of love..

And when I start feeling like this, I take a dive in the pain for a while.

Tonight, I’m listening to Adele sing this song and

It makes me want to feel this way for someone…

even if it’s only for a little while.

So I write my feelings out…

because once they’re gone and buried in my granite heart,

I won’t come by the way of love again.

Not for a long time.

-goobs

If you know me (which most of you undoubtedly do) you know of my serious Separate Ways obsession which borders on the crazy. I can’t get enough of Journey…but Separate Ways stays a staple in my obsessive song playlist. It might be the only song I can listen to a bazillion times in a row and not flinch. In fact, there was a time when I used to play this song over and over at work all day. EIGHT HOURS of Separate Ways is pretty fuckin’ serious. lol But some of you will say, “Why? Why goobs? Why Separate Ways? I don’t get it!” I know… I barely get it myself. But I am going to attempt to explain because I am not satisfied with just saying “because” to people. I need to give you the full explanation.

I think that my obsession with this song started back in the day when I had no cable. You see, we were poor. Not, like, living in the hood poor, but poor enough that my single mom, supporting me, my brother, my abuela, my great-grandma and my great-grandpa on her nurse’s salary couldn’t afford to pay for cable. So I had no MTV until I was about 13 years old. (For those of you that know that this is when my stepdad came into the pic, you also know that this is around the time that i also started celebrating Christmas. No MTV or Christmas in my childhood might be the reason why I am the mad genius that I am today. No toys and no mind-eating TV really leaves you with a lot of learning, pondering and reading time as a child. lol)

Anywho, so my mom’s friend, who is probably to thank for the inception of this obsession with Separate Ways, used to make VHS tapes of videos for my brother and I to watch. (What a good person you were, faceless Samaritan!!) I used to see videos like NKOTB’s Step by Step and Janet Jackson’s Rhythym Nation on VHS. And it just so happened that one of the first videos I ever saw was Journey’s Separate Ways. (Go Figure.) (That and Oh, Sherry, by Steve Perry soon became staples in my afterschool VHS watching.)

So, I watch Separate Ways. Here are these dudes and Steve Perry singing and playing instruments that weren’t there…keyboards on the walls. Steve Perry’s punk/spike/mullet. A lady in trashy hose and heels who apparently walked on the docks forever. It was heavenly. But the song itself is a masterpiece. It is the very essence of epic rock. The synthesizer-esque beginning riffs. The keyboard. The percussion in the beginning. The opening lyrics…

Here we stand,
World’s apart,
hearts broken in two, two, two..
Sleepless nights.
Losing ground.
I’m reaching for you, you, youuuuu.

(I think that the three-peat of the words TWO and YOU is fuckin’ genius.) The amazing guitar solo around the 3-minute mark. The amazing, soul-wrenching scream Steve Perry lets loose about 3:41 seconds into the song. The Someday love WILL find you! lyric that is more like a threat and a promise than a wish. It drives me crazy! It is full of angst and longing and love and drama! The delicious tragedy of this song is almost too much to handle. Jesus.

Even writing this blog, I have listened to it about five times already and it just is so good. I am not the only one who thinks so, either. I once posted a bulletin with about eight parodies and moments inspired by this song. And they were all FIRE! I had to share it with you.  Regardless, I recommend that if you don’t have Separate Ways by Journey in your iPod that you get it. Listen to it. Ride around town blaring it loudly and other drivers will rock out with you. It is a must. On that note, I will say that I must run. I apologize that we have touched and now must go our separate ways. lol Enjoy!

.xoxox.
goobs

A taste of softness I savor from your lips,
As I drink you in as tiny sips…
Of salvation.
Mouth to mouth I find temptation,
To be a sensation,
Akin to starvation.
I never knew hunger until I knew your kiss.
Never knew passion could insist,
A certain throbbing through my hips.
You make me wild with anticipation,
Of carnal communication.
Of your fingers entwined in my hair,
Of sexy bedroom stare,
That makes me laugh without a care,
When it’s only skin we wear.
I long to stand under the moon,
Entwined with you within a swoon,
Of perfection.
Of a deep midnight reflection.
That on this night we can be lovers,
While jealous stars may gleam and hover,
Overhead, Desirous of desire’s glow we emit,
When flame of love is finally lit.
Cover me! Adonis of my soul,
This woman’s heart you deftly stole,
And in the darkness I do blush,
And a soft hush,
Of breath on my neck,
Reminds me of your being.
And your lips guaranteeing,
That in your arms I will succumb,
To all the kisses yet to come.

When Love Comes Around,
I hear not a sound.
When Love Comes Around,
I feel tightly wound.
When Love Comes Around,
I run and I bound.
When Love Comes Around,
I hope I’m not found.
Because Love has left me,
hurt me and lied.
Love has ripped me,
until I felt like I died.
So when Love comes seeking,
I run and I hide.
Because I can’t let Love get close
to who I am inside.
Love is only good to those who it sways,
And Love only spares those not caught in the fray.
And Love takes over all my nights and days…
Then when Love turns familiar…
Love goes away.
Unstable Love…
is not able Love.
So I label Love…
It’s a fable, Love.
Oh, Love, how you haunt me!
Taunt me and flaunt me.
But yet I wait for more.
Love how I want thee!
Yet you allude and you daunt me.
Love, you live in my core.
So when Love Comes Around, I’m wary.
Oh, all the weight Love wants me to carry.
Love leaves me frazzled and harried.
Love, oh Love… is scary.
-goobs

TheBeach

by Oscar Brown, Jr. (10/10/1926 -- 5/29/05)

And now I’ve landed on this beach,

it takes sixty odd years to reach,

as this generation of mine

is ordered onto life’s front line.

The targets of a fusillade

that forces us to think of God.

Reluctantly, we storm this beach,

advancing to fill up the breach

created by that fallen corps of elders who charged here before,

while we enjoyed our middle age,

removed from fire; we now engage.

A withering barrage breaks this beach.

It’s bullets bear the names of each

of those who set foot on these sands,

Old General Calendar commands.

Advancing to a sure defeat

without the option to retreat.

We knew, before we hit this beach

the enemy that we besiege

has ammunition for us all

who, as casualties must fall.

Not one will manage to survive.

Nobody leaves this beach alive.

For those arriving on this beach

there is no prayer to pray or preach

to beg us off in any tongue

since we’ve outlived dying young.

And for surviving in exchange,

now face the fire at point blank range.

The witness we bear on this beach

has only one lesson to teach.

Here, the carnage never stops,

as every day another drops.

Some classmate, relative or friend,

whose attack comes to abrupt end.

So on into the breach, my peers.

Who knows how many weeks or years

remain till you and I are hit,

as we inch onward bit by bit.

We only know our lives will bleach

eternally, out on this beach

(Dave Grohl and I are gonna DO IT, too.)

(Christmastime is the best time cause of ELF.)

(You’re my boy, Blue.)

(USC coach Pete Carroll was honored for his work in the community by the Summa Children’s Foundation in April 2008. Fortunately for the rest of us, Will Ferrell misheard the name of the organization and here offers his thanks to Carroll for his work with “Sumo” children. )

(Will Ferrel’s episode of Man vs. Wild with Bear Grylls [whose face I wanna hump] is amazing.)

(Love me sexy. lol)

(What an idiot! What a loser! Good. Good. More for me and you…)

So fuck you. And your untouchable face.

And fuck you, for existing in the first place.

There comes a time when you look back at the life you’ve lived so far and you take stock. You think about what you’ve done, what you want to do and how you’re going to get these things done. You start to think about the bad things you’ve done and about the good you’ve spread around. And ultimately, you think about the things you are thankful for. You think about all these things that have graced your existence and have made your life better.

And when you start to think about said things, you start to make a mental list…so you can keep it all in order and look back on all the wonderful things that have played a role in your life.

Being only human, I found myself amidst such a list recently. I found that I was grateful for many things in my life: My family and friends, laughter, good memories, knowledge, love, hugs, kisses…

But mostly, I looked back and I said with great conviction:

I AM GRATEFUL FOR ZIPLOC BAGS.

Seal in the freshness.

Ziplocs have been good to me.

As a child, I looked to the power of the Ziploc to hold many a tuna- or egg-salad-sandwich-goodness for lunch. My mother was not a fan of bologna. But that is a story for another time. Ziplocs held my crayons when they became refugees from boxes demolished by frequent use. Ziplocs held my many Barbie outfits and small and strange Barbie shoes that never managed to stay on Barbie’s odd-shaped feet. Yes, Ziplocs were good to me in my youth.

As a teenager, Ziplocs became the safe haven for my drugs. Many a fluffy blossom of Marijuana and many sedative-like pills stayed firmly ensconced in the plastic shelter of Ziploc bags. Many a handful of mighty tabs of E lay quietly inside a Ziploc sandwich bag stuffed ever so graciously in my bosoms during my “VERY HIGH” school years. And, if it were not for the power of the mighty Ziploc, I would never have gotten 25 hits of acid onto my Grad Night bus during my senior year, and never would I have proceeded to make the “Good Girl” population of my AP classes HALLUCINATE with fervor at the sight of a spinning floor at Pleasure Island. Yes, Ziploc bags were good to me in my teenage years.

When I was 19, I was handed a Ziploc bag that held the only remnants of my father’s tragic life inside. A set of keys, an ID card, an ATM card, a battered AA 12-steps leaflet, and one un-mailed letter to me pressed between the sheath of two plastic sheets held in place by a white zipper-like clasp that perfectly married one yellow strip to a blue one and made a beautiful shade of green in their union. A man’s whole life put in a bag that promised to lock in the flavor and seal in the freshness. That same bag lays in a box in my closet now. I assume that the freshness is still sealed in as I haven’t opened it in 11 years. That Ziploc was indeed good to me. It is keeping the memory of my father safe for the future. Yes, Ziploc bags are good even during bad times.

Now, as an adult, Ziplocs have done even more for me. They have held my toothbrush and Colgate separate from other toiletries on transatlantic flights. They have imprisoned my lotions from spurting out gooey creaminess all over my clothing when crammed into luggage haphazardly in an attempt to get to airports on time. They hold about 30 mini-dv tapes apiece, about 400 in total, in my desk at my job…each Ziploc full of tapes holding hours of XXX material that makes sure I bring home a paycheck every two weeks. Ziplocs have even kept a set of clothing dry when everything else is wet and soggy after a day out on the high seas on a boat with the wind in my hair and the salt spray on my face. Yes, Ziplocs are good to me on a daily basis even now.

So looking back, I can say that the role of the Ziploc has been mighty. ZIPLOCS have seen me through the joys of my youth, the madness of my teens, the despair of the worst of my losses and the adventures of my adult life. Not many things will ever have such an active role, or such an enduring impact. At least not the way I see it.

I can only ask that one day, someone out there fills a Ziploc with memories of me and keeps it ensconced somewhere special. That I make such an impact that someone wants to keep a part of me sheltered and safe from moisture.

I hope to live a life so full that it prompts someone out there to want to SEAL IN THE FRESHNESS.

Hopefully it will take two bags.

-lol,

goobs

I have a few things to say about the state of LOVE in the world today.

LOVE is a mess. Period. Pointblank. Done.

Don’t question my judgment on this ya’ll.

I know.

The state of love today is a HOT MESS.

I say this, not as an active participant in this thing called LOVE, (cause between you and me, LOVE don’t live here anymore) but as someone who has LOVED, lost and LOVED again. As someone who has LOVED and let go and hoped that LOVE would come back, and no…It didn’t. (Whoever finds that LOVE I let go…I don’t want it back now…It’s used.)

I say that LOVE is a mess because I’m checkin’ it out from the sidelines baby.  In fact, I’m all over this LOVE thing kiddo. ALLLLLLL OVER IT.

I’m an assistant coach during some people’s game of LOVE, and a medic helping nurse other’s wounds sustained during some Hail Mary play. Sometimes I’m sitting in the stands hoping’ for a big ole’ LOVE touchdown!! And other times I’m booing a bad LOVE call and screaming’, “Hey Mofo! That was FOUL!!!!!” And god forbid I catch the other team cheatin’ during the game. That’s grounds for some serious shit…let me not even start.

I own the franchise on the remains of LOVE lost and I sell collectibles of LOVE remembered. I see people run around high on LOVE. High man. Thinking’ they’re invincible and untouchable and the mightiest of lays this side of the Mississippi. And then I see the ugly side of LOVE. The listless, can’t-get-out-of-bed, Breyer’s-Ice-Cream, same-pjs-for-days drama that frankly is too desperate to go on about.

What the F.

We got people crazy in LOVE.

We got people having LOVE hangovers.

We got people in some bizarre LOVE triangles.

We got people in real LOVE, tainted LOVE, endless LOVE, addicted to LOVE and my favorite, havin’ a little LOVE on the rocks.

People who know LOVE hurts, who know they’re all out of LOVE, that say you can’t hurry LOVE, that know they are louder than LOVE and who want to rock the cradle of LOVE.

People who will tell you they got nothin’ but LOVE for you baby, to stop in the name of LOVE, that you’ll never find another LOVE like theirs, that it must have been LOVE, but it’s over now, that they got a whole lotta LOVE, that you can’t buy them LOVE, that LOVE is all around, that you are nobody till somebody LOVES you, that they did it all for the glory of LOVE and of course that LOVE bites.

It does sometimes. LOVE does sometimes bite. Hard.

We have shows about people being able to choose LOVE from gaggles of men and women who are available for LOVE. Just like that. Like LOVE candy dispensers…except these candies have had teeth whitening and/or boob jobs.

LOVE is being marketed as super-uber attainable everywhere you look. Drink some Diet Coke and instantly you will be able to make a LOVE connection and kiss some chick you LOVE. Pay for some guy’s dry cleaning, who drives a Ford like you, and maybe, just maybe, you might have a LOVE connection. Shit. Pop a Mentos and carry your potential LOVE mate over a mountain and into a small village where you will be happy forevermore. With no threat of lawsuit or Amber Alert. (Which begs the question, why aren’t we giving our armed forces Mentos? We coulda found Osama a long time ago…but that’s a whole nother blog.)

LOVE is such a commodity nowadays that we have become obsessed with finding it. It’s become that perfect pair of jeans. That perfect Coach Bag that although expensive, will go with everything. We just know it. Even if we don’t need it. Even if we don’t know what it is? Even if we can’t afford it. DAMN IT! We are going to have that LOVE if it kills us, because everyone else wants it, has it, or is getting a new one all the time.

And our arsenal for LOVE is serious.

We nip and tuck. We gel and iron. We spray and suck-it-in. We fake tan. We bleach hair. We wax. We MAC, Cover Girl and MaxFactor. We shave and polish and dye and try and try and try. We suffer in uncomfortable shoes, but convince ourselves we are hobbling like Beyonce and we are fierce! We say the wittiest of the wittiest things we have ever memorized. We practice our most-politically correct political banter. We order light and act like we are really intellectually heavy. We compliment and hope we have no little gremlin caught between our teeth that could blow our suave outta the water.

And then we hope that the arsenal of our NON-selves has met their offense of NON-selves and that hey, maybe we can do date number 2 over wheat-grass smoothies in the design district and then maybe go see an indie film that’s not too long because that wheat grass could kick in at any moment and then you know what could happen.

SHIT.

Shit could happen.

And nowhere in the equation of LOVE does SHIT make an appearance. EVER. In fact, if your bowels even emit the idea of SHIT in the form of FART during this strange LOVE-dance we call dating, just kill yourself. It’s over. You might as well go get some of that Breyer’s Ice cream from paragraph seven and rent Beaches. Because nowadays LOVE does not tolerate gas. Or any other honest bodily emission that doesn’t smell like something from a counter at Macy’s.

Now, gas withstanding, you may get to a place with said LOVE-potential where the sex could happen. Now this is where LOVE is the shiniest of the shine. Because nowadays, nothing says I LOVE you like the most serious lay of your life. I’m not joking. Nowadays you are expected to study like a mad person for two things; the first being your career of choice. The second being how to bring a potential LOVE mate to the most earth-shattering climax of their despondent fuck-spanse. Cause LOVE is a many splendid jizz. In fact that might be in the bible somewhere.

Now porn-star moves withstanding, and your Don-Juan-esque-ness now firmly in check, two things can happen. You can move forward and take the plunge…get married, pump out a few puppies, and have the house, the jag, the vacations, and the infidelity. Or not. The divorce.  Or not. The mid-life crisis. Or not. Be satisfied or dumped out the other end back where you started, all alone. OR you can become distracted.

Yeah. Distracted.

Cause while this whole thing is going on, so is the marketing of LOVE. What did you think? Just because you found the LOVE of your life version 3.0 that the world would stop trying to sell you an upgrade right away??

Ha.

That’s the problem. The problem is that from day one we are told that LOVE is the greatest thing in the world. And so we say GREAT! And then we say, “Hey what’s LOVE?”  And the great contingency of THEY tell us what it is. They tell us LOVE is Rhett Butler and Scarlet O’Hara. They tell us LOVE is West Side Story and Casablanca. And in the same breath, they show us LOVE is Baby and Johnny having the time of their life and Samantha and Jake Ryan on that table blowing out birthday candles. They say to us, dont Let Go Rose! Even though Jack is sinking down into the cold, blackness like an ice cube into Coke and the whole goddamn Titanic has gone under.

And at the same time THEY are selling us Pilates, Ab Masters, Playboy, Hustler, Minerals and Pills, Lypo, Extensions, Splenda, Diet Coke, fake tits, Proactive, Porsches, and Herbal goddamn orgasms in the shower Essences…so that we can either get LOVE, keep LOVE alive, arouse LOVE, keep LOVE interested, have dazzling LOVE lives and be number 1 stunna LOVAS.

That’s the problem!

LOVE has been taught to us. LOVE has been advertised to us. It’s been MTV’d to us. It’s been Barnes and Noble’d to us. It’s been late-night Time-Life Series’ed to us.

And honestly, can you do that? Can you teach LOVE? Can you sell it? Can you buy it? (I think the Beatles would say no…You can’t buy me LOVE.)

When you were a kid and you got that new box of Crayolas, you know, the 64-pack, and you first smelled the waxy goodness and saw all those colors and knew it meant a whole day of coloring fun…Did anyone have to stop and say to you, “Now here are a few examples of JOY…” Or, This is how you act HAPPY…” Or, “Now, this is how you show CONTENTMENT.”

NO MAN.

It just happened. Cause we emoted.

And thats what LOVE needs to do.

LOVE is not commercials, or songs, or gifts, or movies or even pre-fabricated moments that we think should go down the way we think they should because we have seen it work that way and we figure hey…it could work for us. LOVE is not us being prissy, and metro and acting fake, faux, fabulous and FABRICATED. LOVE is just LOVE man.

Just be you.

Just smile. Act real. Play hard. Laugh harder. Fart for Christ sake. Lol

Say what you need to say when you need to say it. Be politically incorrect. Be alive. Be whole instead of skim. Be skim instead of soy. Bust your illest 1986 dance moves. Sing in your car. Watch re-runs of the A-team. Wear your Van Halen t-shirt proud.

Cause you know what?

Somewhere out there, someone will LOVE you for it.

LOVE you for you.

And that’s all there really is to think about.

Everything else is just someone else’s version of your great LOVE story.

And between you and me…I’d rather write my own ending.

-goobs

“Leave the gun. Take the cannolis.”