Feet like a dead Vietcong Soldier


feetNote to self:  refrain from scrubbing tubs, tables, walls, floors, sinks and buckets over the course of two to three days of delirious stopping and starting under the red hot sun while wearing cotton socks and Nike Running Shoes unless you want to be forcibly and very involuntarily awakened from said delirium purely due to the shock both visual and olfactory of your feet when you finally do have to remove the socks and shoes in order to make it to a prearranged appointment.   That sounds like an affectation to me.  Let’s strike it from the record and move on.  Well, lets talk about it a little first.  I’m sitting in the bathroom on my laptop typing this and I’m still trying to come to grips with how closely the smell inside this small enclosed bathroom resembles  the unforgettable horror stench that permeated my nostrils that day in 2002 at my penthouse in Downtown Long Beach when I allowed a homeless African American drug addict named Kevin to get cleaned up in my bathroom.  The pad smelled like death for days after and I’m starting to panic, hoping that nobody else gets a whiff of the sour, C02 poisoned air  in here and realizes that I, Anthony Mandich am responsible their singed nostrils.  My feet smelled like rained on rotten trash when I peeled off my shoes and socks a few hours ago.  The shoes that are still sitting on the tiled floor not three feet from where I am typing away at this story.

I’m afraid that it will be impossible to wear those shoes again without subjecting myself to an olfactory experience forged in Hell by Satan’s demons.   Fucking gross.  Now matter how engrossed  in my work I am, in the future, once the feet get wet and I am wearing socks and Nikes, they need to be taken off and disinfected immediately.  The alternative is bad enough that if John Monceaux, my cousin and the man who owns this house that I call home, happens to walk anywhere near this bathroom before I remove the offending shoes from  the house, I will be homeless once again.

With that being said, I am going to sign off of this post and correctly rectify the situation voluntarily.  Thanks for reading.

 

Cleaned the Hovel I call a Room


Today was a topsy turvy crazy kind of a day.  Memorial Day and to be honest I still have not taken even a minute to remember the men and women who have died in support of the political machine i mean quest for more oil i mean fifty united states of america.  Well I threw in (and then used the incredible strikethrough feature on) some rather snide and sarcastic remarks before rallying and pulling “fifty united states of america” out of my asssssssssss.

I’m not really looking to fight that battle to be honest.  I think I just did it to impress my militant punk rock friend and brother Steve Jacobson.  He’s a pretty intensely politically incorrect sorta fella and what not.  Anyways.  Should we bow our heads now in a moment of silence to remember not just the veterans who have died for causes both just and unjust, but also to remember our loved ones who are no longer with us.

They don’t necessarily have to be dead, although thats the usual criteria I suppose.  Perhaps you are a psycho and someone you loved (obsessed, stalked, harrassed) obtained a restraining order against you so they are no longer with you.  Disturbing yes, fits the criteria for moment of silence?  Yes.

Perhaps like me, you were physically removed from a foreign country for overstaying your tourist visa by 716 days.  Its now out of your hands and you are no longer among many people and animals you have grown to love.  That fits too.

I’ve attended the funerals of my sister Natalie Anne Amador (Mandich), two of my much loved Aunts, Monica Monceaux and Nell Monceaux (in the last ten days) and they definitely count.  Aunty Nell’s funeral was today, this morning at St. Ireanaus Catholic Church in the police mecca, Cypress, California.  That was a lovely service.  It was incredible to see some cousins I used to get wasted with as a youth.  The service was presided over by a rather handsome priest Father Mac (i think thats his name).

Father Mac is interesting for a couple reasons other then the fact that he committed my Aunty Nell’s spirit to God.  He’s also the first priest I’ve personally ever seen who looks like Chris Cornell in the early Soundgarden days.   He’s also the first priest I’ve personally ever met who is John Wayne’s grandson.  Thats pretty bad ass actually. He was totally cool and of course for some wierd reason, he sought me out after the funeral  during the reception/lunch to ask me what my story was.  He thought I was either in a band or some kind of an artist.  Bingo.  So yeah anyways….

I saw my daughter Ciara over at my incredibly cool cousin Donna’s house in Anaheim Hills.  Man is she loaded.  They have a radical house, a full  skate park on the property complete with two bowls,  a bunch of ramps and a whole street course set up.  Sick.  And she has an excellent bar.  I turned her on to Caipiroskas.  I’m a bad ass bartender.  We’ll get into some bartender stories later but yeah I rock.  She was in love with them immediately and later when I was kicking my Uncles and Cousins asses at No Limit Texas Holdem (Blinds $1 and $2), she kept hitting me up to make more.  Thats when you know you basically dominate as a bartender by the way.

So I did see my daughter, who I love to death.  I bamboozled my family with poker skills, I shared lots of pics of my art with loads of family at the funeral.  I got to mingle with, chat to, and hug lots of people I love and I sat next to the hottest chick in church.  Actually I sat between two of the hottest chicks because I sat next to Donna, my cousin and this other nectar mama whose name I did not catch but whose arm and dress and sort of leg  I did come in contact with many times.  The sad thing is she must be young because she is my cousin Yvette’s daugher Alyssa’s friend.  But fuck man, she is definitely of legal age and smoking hot.  Yikes.  We hit it off definitely.  She thinks I’m hot definitely.  She thinks I’m cool definitely.  I want to bed her.  Definitely.  Yowza.

What else?  Shit I could go on and on because I am a pontificating wind bag who thinks nobody has anything better to do then read about my life.  Really I have no point in this post or any posts ad infinitum.  Trust me.  You don’t wanna follow me.  Thanks for stopping by today but really just spend your internet time more wisely in the future.  There are plenty of informative and incredibly interesting web sites out there that have the potential to actually enrich and nourish your need for worthy content.  This is not one of them.

God Bless us everyone!  Bye bye.

P.S.  Let me give a shout out to the following cousins, all children of my Aunty Nell, and some of my favorite people on the planet.

Alan Monceaux (wonderful man, balding, yet still ruggedly handsome, suffered a major heart attack at a young age and the telling of that story is frickin fascinating)

Cindy Monceaux (all time favorite cousin, we almost drowned together in Mexico, which is a special bonding moment)

Roseanne Monceaux (also all time favorite cousin, she gave me $40 bucks for a buy in at Hawaiian Gardens Casino when I was broke. I love that woman)

Richard Monceaux (unable to attend funeral but a very bald man who is a very cool cousin of mine.  His son attended in his absence and has a very wierd Pittsburgh accent, but a cool young bucka lucka nonetheless)

Patrice Monceaux (she is married so obviously has another name, I have no idea what that name is.  however her husband is quite cool, and she has two very pretty daughters)

Nadine Monceaux (for some reason I’ve always kinda thought of Nadine as a hippy  (Ish).  She is a lovely very cool and very hot cousin of mine. but yeah i dunno why she reminds me of the beatick  movement in all its glory)

Yvette Monceaux (two lovely daughters and she’s a lovely lady herself.  saw her ex husband today (steve) i haven’t seen him in years. so that was cool.

Ian McCall, MMA fighter and Facebook afficionado