This is a fannypack for beers. I’ve never come across a situation where I needed it, and yet it remains in my possession. Fascinating. Hopefully, someday I will be around when some guy’s penis falls off, and I’ll go, “Throw me your penis, guy” look at him confidently and say, “Trust me, bro, this fannypack can hold ten penises. Meet me at the hospital.”

The sun is sitting on my chest, spitting hot lava loogies on my face and punching my sternum with fists of melted tungsten, fucking bully. Dog just split in half and out stepped a gnome riding a grasshopper with six Air Jordans on. I knew it! My will to live needs a nice sandal. The mountain lions. The mountains lions are coming down from the hills, and they are sick from eating yellow grass. Hoo! Hoooooooo!!! Come Rainbow Sherbet Eagle! Take me to your nest of 31 Flavors so that I may curl up under your lime wing in a bed of mint chocolate chip instead of spraying myself with this piece of shit broken hose attachment.

This is the filmmaking kit I bought in 1947. It was really hard to come by because I was a sperm within an embryo– which at the time were unprotected by presidential veto– so dropping a c-note on a hobby was a risky call, especially considering the bills would have to permeate my spermatozoan membrane, pass through the tiny penis of my dad’s embryo, down through Grandmother’s creative parts and into the hand of an authorized Bell & Howell dealer. But, 56 years later I found it sitting in my hand and was happy to have it because, in 2002, nothing was easier to come by than 8mm film stock, and I have the vaults of footage to prove it.

I bought these dominoes off a kid who came to my door in early Spring claiming he was raising money for a school trip or something. A school trip to Fuckingliartown. I don’t remember how much I paid, but it was approximately ten dollars too much. The box is roughly the size of a box that might hold a normal-sized set of dominoes, but my box held a tiny suitcase made of cardboard and plastic which held a set of wafer-thin dominoes. It’s like a Matryoshka doll made of worthlessness. You might notice that the dominoes are still in the wrapper. This is because I’m sure they would crumble to dust if I took them out and because I sit in a tree at night with my dominoes waiting for that kid to come by again so I can exchange them for something better.

This is Juan, the caballero with a margarita trough on his head, God bless him. As you can see, or not, he commemorates Macayo’s Mexican Kitchen’s 60th Year of serving hot beans and tequila to the residents of and visitors to Tucson, Arizona. Juan and I became friends when I celebrated my grandmother’s 90th birthday at Macayo’s back in June, a festive event filled with rib-tickling family jokes and the singing of children. Grandma’s lived in Tucson my entire life, so I’ve had the privilege of eating at many of the city’s fine novelty restaurants, the names of which escape me. One, though, if you wear a tie, a beautiful waitress will come over and snip it off and nail it to the ceiling. My tie is in the main dining room above the third table along the righthand wall and is a navy blue knit number that was all the rage in 1986. I wore it with a light blue oxford and some Duckhead khakis. I ate a 60-something-ounce steak that night and won the five bucks wagered on my failure by my family, which I then spent on putt-putt and several boxes of Nerds. Speaking of which, Dairy Queen used to have Nerds Blizzards, which were basically vanilla shakes until you got to the bottom (something about the relative density of Nerdrock and ice cream) where you would find an inch of Nerdsludge via which you could deliver yourself to epic levels of mania, especially if confined to the shared backseat of an Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser. I’m talking torso-out-the-window-screaming-at-road-signs-hallucinatory glee here. *sigh* But Macayo’s was never that, just good, if somewhat gringofied, Mexican cuisine and a friendly staff. Of course, the last time I was there, I was not of drinking age, it was not an anniversary of any kind, and Juan wasn’t around. He cost me (my dad) an extra $7.50 (someone’s making a big profit on Mr. Made in China) but what you can’t really appreciate from the photo is how much liquor he holds in his green sombrero. Even in person, it’s deceptive. Maybe it’s the odd, oblong shape or the concave walls or deep green recesses, but Juan is a deep well, to the point that I thought maybe I’d stumbled upon some sort of magical portal that led directly to the agave waterfalls of El Dorado. Nope. Just a narrow straw and ingenious mug design. I don’t even remember what I ate, tacos? Flautas? Maybe I didn’t eat. Who knows? Juan knows. Don’t you, Juan? Juaaaaaan. I’m drinking out of your hat, amigo! Blaaaaahgghck. What? Juaaaaan. I love you, dude.