Lost?

Just because I'm losin;, doesn't mean I'm lost.

Every time I feel lost something new comes into my life to encourage me to drive on, to overcome, even to achieve higher a standard than I have yet achieved.

I have told you of my riding days in the club .83. One ride we decided it would be great to see how much PBR we could drink and ride, figuring as long as we were in a large enough group, riding at a slow enough pace, we couldn't get hurt... wrong answer sol. Sol is a term used by many NCOs when talking to a lower enlisted soldier. Sol; soldier, get it? Anyways. So we rode. We rode until we hit Golden Gardens. We sat, drank some more, and decided it was time to go. I remember as we were leaving someone yelling "mechanical!" That means someone in the group is having a mechanical issue and we should wait up and even turn about to help if they need it. We decided to turn about. I guess I was going faster than I though and didn't hear the "nevermind..."

The very kid that I just shared a case of PBR with stuck me, and I stuck him; hard. I had more body mass so it hurt him more... Nonetheless I don't actually remember the contact. The situation is a complete blank in my mind. I just know a few facts. My jaw hit the ground hard as fuck; my left shoulder hit the kid so hard, it caused a category IV separation of my shoulder; and that the front wheel of my bicycle was bent straight into a "U" shape; not the perfect circle it once was.

I woke up in the OR of Harborview Medical Center, Seattle; the major trauma center for everywhere from Alaska through the Pacific Northwest, including British Columbia. Harborview is also ranked in the top 10 for neurosurgery hospitals in the United States; to say the least i was in good hands. As good the hands may be, I awoke screaming in the OR as an oral surgeon ran 10 gauge wire through the gums of my mouth to stabilize the remain anterior teeth and jaw bone.

My shoulder would naturally heal which was good. It didn't require any surgery which is better than requiring a surgery. I had lost six of my eight anterior teeth; all four upper incisors, and my two lower central incisors. Quite ironic that I was trained as a dental assistant once upon a time eh? My parents were at the hospital bright and early the next morning to take me home. Good times. I would sleep most of the next three to four days.

Why this is coming out and into the light now you say? Just four days ago I had an oral surgery emplacing three dental implants; which eventually will be the anchors for a bridge and one lower crown to full-fill my mouth with near-natural teeth once again. I chose to stay awake during this surgery and have only local anesthetic induced. My Army oral surgery said, and this is a quote: "Cowles you must have three balls for doing this without full anesthesia. Going local on this...well it going loco."

Yeah, it was an experiences. You could see him draw in the scalpel to cut the gingival tissue back to flap it open to reveal the bone. I'm a trooper though. No crying, no sweating (except it was actually hot in the room from the sterile covering they put over me), no screaming, nothing.

You know what though, I can take it. I am an American Soldier. Good Night.

Why is Sarah Silverman considered so funny? And.......GO!

A Little Stray From The Norm

I thought I would type mellowly about a few thoughts right off the top of my head. Call it an outlet. I received some good news today. The news had me in a great mood all afternoon and evening. I then contacted a key-note person from my past. I female to be exact. Probably the wrong decision, but she always made me feel good, and I had been wanting to reconnect and contact her for such a long time. Her response was not quite mutual. The response I received was more or less that everything her and I had ever done was in vain. And I quote:

"I don't hate you. I hate what I was with you. You were just a mistake.... [What was I? she asked] A lying, cheating, slut. It hurts to say that, but it is the truth. I've faced it and am still facing it but I'm become better than that, better than what we ever were. I've grown past what I was when with you, far past it. I told you that I didn't want to be your friend as I don't care to be that kind of person anymore. I don't have your number and I ask that you delete mine if you still have it. Don't contact in anyway, shape, or form. No calls, texts, emails, Facebook, anything. I wish you best. Have a good life."

My heart sunk. How I understood it, we had split on good terms, and I don't recall any of our relationship being that as she portrayed. I still responded by saying, I don't agree but either way, I am happy if she feels better about herself compared to what she believes she was. I added that I would still like nothing less, nothing more, than to be good friends and that she may contact me if she likes. I don't expect that to ever happen again. I loved this woman. I love this woman, differently than before. I love her as a friend that will always be there. This is a curse to me.

After said conversation via the world wide inter-web of information, I was still expected a call from another female from the past (and once again present), but a more friendly candidate than female A. Her and I met literally years ago now, and I enjoyed her company from day one. That being said, I can't remember if she reconnected us, or I reconnected us, but either way we have been conversing quite profusely by way of text message viz cellular device. Her and I have found a friendly companionship of sense, and we were going to have what I believed would be a lovely verbal chat this evening. Something has come up.

To say the least I am disappointed. I felt excited, delighted, intensified incitement, thrilled, titillated, and all around stirred up, that I would have a conversation with said beauty and have a chance to swallow in my pride and talk about her, not me. Instead I am once again left with my mediocre chilled room, with a laptop, good music, a bottle of chilled water, and my cold, lonesome, G.I. twin-sized bed.

I feel tired, but not tired enough. If I were to lay down my head to sleep, I would lay awake for a good hour or so at least thinking of everything. The possibilities of my past choices, had I made different choices. Thinking of my life and how I was a better person in my past, only with the aid of alcohol, and that I can go days and nights without the poison now. I would think that I could be more productive than lying here feeling sorry for the lonesome path that I am now involved with. I would think about tomorrow morning, picking weeds with a Sergeant Major and a Major; whether that task should be handled by any of the the three of us I still do not know. I would think about her hair, her eyes, he smile, he obvious excessive cute personality that I love so much. I would think of female A and the crazy nights we had; starting with the first night in the down-stairs of her grandparents with sleeping bags and the fire place. I would think of my joyous moments; my sad moments.

I believe by typing this I am doing just that; thinking of everything. It just so happens it is easier to organize your thoughts if you type or write, instead of lay in a bed and just think. Just tonight I have came up with God's overall plan of action:

"Let's make everyday shit, no matter the positives, there must be stronger, more prevalent negatives."

Really God? I mean really? I can't tell what the deal with this place is. I can't tell what is up, what is down. I look around and see bullshit.

Some may say I am just bitching, and to grow up and suck it up, drink water private, drive on. Well fuck you. I want to know why females can own our hearts so easily, even as friends. How can they own us to the point where it is near impossible to hate them no matter what they say or do. Are men's hearts that weak? I like to consider myself of above average intelligence, in specific topics in the least, but I will be the first to admit that female rule is not on inevitable, it has always been; and I have no idea why.

As I lay down to sleep, I am sure all these thoughts will come back to me. Maybe Jack Johnson will carry me out to another, more comfortable, state of mind.

A Day of Shopping at the Three-story GAP and the Day I was Sexually Assaulted by Jared.

Note: This blog may not be suitable for all persons. If you are offended easily, too fucking bad. I fight for freedom of speech, and I'm here to speak it.

Seattle is known as a city with great treasures and locales that provide the most avid shopper with a sense of "I might actually never need to shop anywhere else, ever." The fact is, anything you need, or want, to buy in the world you can find a store for in Seattle. There are multiple downtown malls, and neighborhood galleries of stores, and street vendors at neighborhood farmer's markets. Every neighborhood in Seattle has a farmer's market with a plethora of goods; everything from bread, to soap, to clothing. Each neighborhood holds their farmer's market on a different day, providing citizens with a farmer's market everyday of the week; and providing the vendors at said markets a full time job. Along with these farmer's markets are the random shops that can be found on any given street or alley. Most of these are small businesses that have their own style and pizzazz. Yes, pizzazz. A number of these stores cater to a small percentage of the populous, as they cost an arm and a leg for every single pot, rug, pair of gloves, or incense holder. Only the top of the scale of citizens can shop here, as most people living within the city live off $10 an hour. On the other hand there are many very affordable shops that cater mostly to females (personal observation). Of course that being said, Seattle, second only to San Fran has a large population of homosexuals. My point being a lot of the males of Seattle, specifically Capital Hill, have no issues shopping at said shops.

On that point, I can move right into the Three-story GAP. Downtown Seattle has multiple malls, and multiple, multi-level department stores; Old Navy, Nordstrom Rack, and the infamous Three-story GAP. Yes I will keep calling it the Three-story GAP. This GAP is a great store. The street level is that of women's fashion, and perfumes, and under garments. There has not been one-time of entering that store in which I have not seen a beautiful woman cruising that section. The lower level is for that of babies. Yes, babies have an entire level to themselves at this GAP. This is because Seattleites are known so well for procreation right? Uhhhh, no. Anyways, if you take the stairs up from the main level you enter the male domain, the male penthouse, the…..men's section of the GAP. This is where my story of the Three-story GAP takes place.

I believe it was October. I entered the GAP this day to buy a new winter coat. In fact, more like a winter coat, as I didn't really own one before this point. I was greeted by an overly flamboyant, loud, man-like person. Note I tell this story in the positive, politically correct manner possible. I instantly stated what I was looking for, but that I don't need any help at this time, as I am just looking. I am willing to receive opinions on if clothing looks good, but when actually looking for a specific item, I like to look. I found a jacket that suited me, and that I could afford. Again I was on a budget; I had alcohol to buy that night with my good friend Brit. I can't waste good money on something like a good, warm winter coat, when I could buy more shots of Jameson. That would just be illogical. So now I just needed to pick the right size of the coat to make me look even more sexy with my emo scarf and black billed beanie. Yes, I know my style kicked ass back in the day. So I started trying on the coats in the mirror. The same salesman, Jared, decided he would be my mirror. No literally he walked over and said "I'll be your mirror", with a heavy lisp nonetheless. I was polite and decided he might be able to help me, just to make sure the jacket looked good. Then I was sexually-assaulted.

He touched me in multiple ways that made me uncomfortable and really didn't necessarily help with the sizing of a jacket. I am not a homophobe, but I am also not homosexual. It was not welcoming. I just wanted to buy a fucking winter coat. It wasn't like he cupped my privates, but all that was needed for the coat with a little shoulder tug or sleeve measurement. When all was said and done, I was disgusted with this Jared. He was what I call a fag. Too flamboyant for his own good, and decides that every male in Seattle is gay and will like him assaulting them. I mean what is the deal with that? I have plenty of homosexual friends, who are great, nice people, who know limits and don't ever over do it. They are males; they act like males. It just so happens they are gay. I have no issue with them; same for any of the lesbians that I have known personally. There would never be a time that any issue would come up. So to restate, this fag Jared, acted like what some call a fairy, and not only annoyed the shit out of me, but was completely unprofessional trying to hit on me. Unfortunately, after years of living on Capital Hill Seattle, I still cannot deal with this level of homosexuality. If I ever move back to Seattle, I think I might need to wear a wedding ring to save any future occurrences of this behavior.

That being said, I never had more than a completely harmless one-liner here and there when out at bars. Those one-liners are in a twisted way flattering. That means that a gay male in a city full of gay males, likes what he sees. Now if I could only harness all that positive energy and get women to do the same.

By the way, I know I'm not gay. I don't need to be gay; Jared has enough gayness for 6 billion people on earth. Jared knows he's gay and decided he would share is level of gayness with everyone else, including random customers. How comfortable would you be in this situation?

I couldn't judge my time in Seattle as great but that is only because everything I would judge would be biased. Have a good day.

The Single-subject Storyline: Hookah

Hookah: a tobacco pipe of Near Eastern origin with a long, flexible tube by which the smoke is drawn through a jar of water and thus cooled.

I loved hookah. I loved Hookah Bars. I loved using pine-orange-banana or passion-fruit juice instead of water, in my hookah. Grape was a delicious, favorite flavor of Shisha. To make our evenings of hookah more communicative, we would add a little extreme to the party. Instead of just having a hookah party, we may have a vodka-hookah party; or we may have a saki-hookah party.

One party I remember was almost our entire floor. Three of the six apartments on the floor decided we could connect and just leave our doors open. Call it an open-floor-concept. Alcohol, shisha, and one of the apartments was the herb center for those who chose to go that path.

There must have be 45 people meandering throughout the top floor of our building. Never failed, our building manager showed up to limit the noise. He honestly did not mind of our open-floor-concept, just the noise level had to be controlled. He was offered a tall-boy PBR. Situation controlled. Other than him creeping out three, maybe four females, he was harmless and we decided he could chill for a while. When he entered apartment 406, his level of "chillaxin" intensified.

406 was the apartment with two lovely ladies; whose names I cannot recall. They had a two bedroom, one bedroom having quite the large closet space. You could fit a few random pieces of electrical furniture; likely lamps. For all their skill in swaying of gentlemen with their soft words (and breasts), they were evicted in a few months.

Back to hookah. Before I owned my own hookah we would frequent hookah bars. Hookah bars were great, lazy, usually middle-easternesqe locations, where you simply paid a small fee per person and smoked hookah all night. The establishments sometimes had strict rules, such as no alcohol (even if of age), or nothing in a hookah, but water and Shisha. Despite it all, we still enjoyed the atmosphere.

Washington state decided that every public building, or even covering, was to (unjustly) be smoke free. Thirty feet from any entrance to said public locale; that was the distance you must be before you light up. In parts of downtown Seattle, legally, you must stand in the middle of the road to reach said distance. Hogwash! To make it worse, what are hookah bars, but a place to smoke? They even smoke all natural, no 2000 chemical tobacco; which may not be healthy, but for sure is no Marb reds. Hookah bars would be no more, especially in the city; where it is too easy for an over-staffed Seattle PD to enforce such an unconstitutional declaration.

Hookah bars, were not the only businesses infected by this blister on the hand of the law. Cigar clubs; some of which being in the city for 100 years; most of which being a membership-only establishment; would also be closed. If you pay for a membership, to a cigar club, I am pretty sure you (and everyone else there) will be smoking; willingly. I understand the law is to help reduce second-hand smoke, and blah blah blah; but all that particular law has done is help shut down businesses. I can sense a second go at Prohibition; if at least in Seattle.

So once hookah bars were removed from the vicinity of my studio; we decided it was time to step-up and smoke ourselves. We researched, and budgeted, and soon enough I had purchased a handsome (I recently named him "Chet"), black and gun metal in color, two-hose hookah, standing 3.5 feet. Game-on Washington State.

I researched enough, and decided just to practice the art to get perfect smoke. It was relatively inexpensive to smoke; with the addition of juice costs rose, but the value of the juice proved worthy of our Lincolns. We even tried vodka in with the juice, which had no inebriational value, but added an extra twang to the taste. One day, I will smoke the hookah again; though my current employment doesn't disallow the use, it is not only a suspicious item to have in a barracks, and does impede physical fitness performance.

I recommend, if you have not, to try the hookah. A Million Jews and Muslims cannot be wrong about this staple device.

Jordan the Jew, Bikes, Gemma, and Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Jordan the Jew stood 6ft giant and looked as tank. Jordan the Jew wore the largest black and white suit you would have ever seen. He didn't stick with a hobby too long, but long enough to know that doing it was fun, but there was something else he could move to learning. Jordan the Jew started as a vegan Jew, which may be one of the most difficult diets around. Jordan the Jew, to this day cooks better than the average chef; vegan or not Jordan the Jew knows culinary delite.

Jordan the Jew and myself were quite the bicycle enthusiasts. We would ride rain or shine, wind or calm. We would ride everywhere, and would ride until we decided the trip was long enough; then turn back and ride ourselves the miles back to our two bedroom in the Jewish neighborhood of Wedgewood. Wedgewood is the third most populated Jewish neighborhood in Seattle, behind that of Mercer Island and Steward Park. That means nothing to most people, but Seattle has the third largest population of Orthodox and non in the United States. (New York City and Los Angeles lead the way.)

Wedgewood is not an extremely known neighborhood, but is a quiet and simple, but nice neighborhood. Living surrounded by Orthodox Jews had a large positive effect on my beliefs and overall open-minded thinking. I orginally was not so open-minded. I worked at the Wedgewood Safeway; a grocery store that brought in only roughly 130k a week. At first cashiering for many of the Jewish population you would think they were rude or believed they were above you. The fact was quite the opposite. After months of working in this area, I had finally proven to most of the population for them to know that I was not their to judge or ridicule, but just to live and work.

On The Side:
Orthodox Jews are not a breed of their own. They act in a certain light because of how they have historically been treated, and how most of the general population views the faith of Judism. A rabbi explained it best once:

"I support any man who supports the one and only G-d. Methods of belief here on earth, of G-d, are irrelevant. Believing is believing; and as long as you believe you have the right as a human being to believe through any method you choose."

This man declared what I had, for many years, in my heart believed. I, to this day, do not follow Orthodox Judism beliefs. With that, I understand their belief and support them in their religious choice. Jordan the Jew introduced me to a world that most of man chooses to turn their face and not follow reason, rather spit their words to any who will listen. For this I thank Jordan the Jew, and made sure he was a mentionable in this storyline, as this simple act of sharing his (once) beliefs, have made me a better person.

Back to the frontline; PBR.
Pabst Blue Ribbon is a cheap, water, piss style beer, that was a stable in the cycling group .83. Jordan the Jew and myself rode bicycles so much that we even joined a biking group, who had named themselves after the distance they rode on their first trip before they had to stop for PBR; .83 miles. this group met twice a week and would have such outlandish rides to include that of ride to state parks in the middle of the night to make pancakes.

PBR, as terrible as it is, still is in my top fifteen of beverages to drink. A good friend Gemma, who has a fascination with beer and sweat, would agree that no cheap beer compares to PBR.

Gemma F., once of Seattle, now of Brooklyn is known for her antics at the hands of alcohol and pure fun. And rest assured that no sexual tension can ever exist when Gemma F. is near, as she puts down all the facts of everything sex in the first three minutes of every meeting. Every encounter with Gemma F. begins with the most intoxicated hugs you will ever feel. She is a 5 ft 7 inch, American-Filipino with ever bit of the physique you are imagining. And though she has dark hair, and slightly tinted skin, she lights up a room with her sometimes obnoxious, but amazingly comfortable laugh and shrieks.

You can almost predict what Gemma F. is thinking or saying, but then everything goes dirty and in the gutter. Realize, this doesn't make her a bad person, but quite the opposite. She's a woman that just knows what she wants and how to get it. She knows that being sick means she must fetch a friend to get her old fashioned chocolate milk and shock tarts from the corner grocery. She knows that pushing people isn't always a bad thing, but the best method to get ahead. Gemma F. is the 10th Wonder of the World.