Porn Music

It was approximately 9:30 am on a lovely Saturday morning in Genoa, Nevada. Looking out from my perch in the pro shop, I saw hawks soar by at eye level as deer ran freely on the fairways below. It was enchanting.

“Hey! They got their goddamned porn music on up there. Better get somebody on it!” an old man shouted as he stuck his head in the door to notify us.

Porn music? Like bow-chicka-bow-chicka-bow-wow porn music? Isn’t that just a cheap form of smooth jazz? One had to have an extremely refined ear to even notice “porn music” without actually seeing the porn that it was set to.

I had to investigate this. Not only did it sound intriguing, but it gave me ample reason to get out from behind the counter. Something I always looked forward to.

As I approached my golf cart – lucky number 51 – I popped open the seat to expose the engine. I then grabbed a tee out of the console, sprung open the carburetor and shoved the tee in the gap. Now this puppy was gonna cruise at full-throttle. Wide-open baby. A little trick we in the industry were savvy to.

Cruising at a healthy 14 mph, I zoomed up fairways and dodged errant shots from our lovely guests – a group of retired car enthusiasts from Stockton, CA – most still drunk from the night in the casino before. Their leader, Earl, was the indignant bastard who notified me of the unsettling “music” that he’d been exposed to.

The golf course sprawled out in the Carson Valley below Job’s peak. A beautiful setting. The first 6 holes were on the valley floor. When you reached #7, you started climbing. By the time you got to #9, you were probably a hundred feet or so off the valley floor with views of the surrounding high desert.

As I sped up #8, I started hearing something. It wasn’t the usual smacking sound of a golf ball into the broad side of a tree or someone shouting in anger at another failed golf shot – the usual golf course sounds. It was an amplified noise. Coming from a house on the ninth hole.

Many of the homes on the golf course had speakers on their patios and decks so you could listen to music or the evening news as you sipped your pinot grigio and ate nuts with your retired friends discussing your stock portfolio or retirement packages and trying not to look at each other’s pale, veiny, wrinkly thighs exposed from your too-short golf shorts.

This muffled noise was growing louder and louder the closer I approached the ninth tee. A group of the Stockton Cruisers leaned on their drivers awaiting the fairway to clear and pointed at the house positioned to the right of the tee box.

Now the sound was definite. Moans and groans and slapping noises with generous profanity and the word “daddy” blared from the porch speakers of the house. Someone was watching porn in that house and didn’t realize (or maybe they did realize) their porch speakers were on. Cranked up to 11.

Like a shining palace of ill-repute, the McMansion broadcasted an audible net of hard-core porn far and wide across the beautiful retiree-laden Carson Valley. The men teeing off were hopeless. Some of them laughed and made foul gestures with their drivers between their legs thrusting at the house. Some shook their heads in disgust and defiantly stared in the opposite direction. They say golf brings out your true personality. I’d say golf while subject to a compulsory heavy stream of audible porn brings out one’s true personality.

They say golf brings out your true personality. I’d say golf while subject to a compulsory heavy stream of audible porn brings out one’s true personality.

As I approached the Cruisers, I noticed my good buddy, Dan, our cart staff supervisor, had beat me to it. He was hanging out of his golf cart laughing uncontrollably just out of sight of the group. We both paused and took it in. This was incredible. People live their whole lives and never witness anything this absurd. It was beautiful, really. I could have watched how these guys

We both paused and took it in. This was incredible. People live their whole lives and never witness anything this absurd. It was beautiful, really.

Things were “building” on the audio and the voices were getting louder. The female screaming was like a bad Stephen King flick set to smooth jazz. The male character had reached full primal mode and was growling like a wildebeest on ecstasy.

That was enough. I felt bad at this point. Someone was going to have a heart attack. All these guys were on Viagra. Not a good combo – old retired men, viagra, all night drinking, greasy casino breakfast, and a straight shot of hardcore “porn music” could likely mean death for someone.

Much like EMT’s or a rescue crew, Dan and I approached the group to make sure no one was bleeding. We assured them that everything was going to be fine and headed over to the house. We knocked on the front door. No answer. We tried the back door. Negative.

The porn blared on.

Soon, we were faced with a pickle (pardon the pun).

After failing to get an answer at the door, Dan and I walked back to our golf carts and were met by an angry group of elderly women. Yep, the Stockton Cruiser’s wives had reached the 9th tee.

“You’d better make them turn that shit off or we’re outta here,” shot one of them. She had a look in her eye that meant business. As the howls from the speakers reached their full crescendo, I looked back at her, then I looked at Dan, and knew what we had to do. Get the authorities involved.

Minutes later, the police showed up. By that time another flick had started – this one with two female costars.

Dan and I met the officer in front of the house and explained what was going on. He took in what we said, raised his sunglasses, observed what was happening, creepily stroked his mustache, and then chuckled, “Hell, guys, you shoulda made some popcorn.”

Officer slimeball was able to conjure a mid-30’s male to the door, dawning a bathrobe and a 4-day beard. Some slight discussion took place, the man retired back into his cave (or, his parent’s cave), and the “music” stopped. The golfers went back to golfing and I went back to the pro shop. All was well in the Carson Valley.

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That guy

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That 50-something guy in the coffee shop you’ve seen before and, sadly, struck up conversation with.

That guy who, 28 seconds into said conversation, makes you wish you’d been hit by a bus on your way there.

That guy who, 87 minutes later, is still talking, ignoring your obvious cues that your hatred is growing deeper and deeper for him every word he utters as you type harder and harder on your keyboard and turn your headphones up louder and louder – ignoring him like you’ve never ignored anything before.

That guy you wish to never see, or even think of, again.

Weeks later, he’s appears. At a different coffee shop. At a communal table. All by himself. Tapping his fingers and playing air guitar with a small cup of coffee.

No laptop. No headphones. No friends. Just him.

Vying for your attention, he stares. Like a vampire, he thirsts for eye contact – his direct route to your ear.

Please listen. He’s back. That guy. How long can you ignore. That guy?

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The clumsy nature of human existence

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She pulls on the same drawer handle she’s been pulling on for months now. Persistent. Trying like hell to open it.

Finally, it gives.

But as it gives, it sends her directly to the ground where she staggers for a moment, in a daze, wondering what just happened.

Frustrated, she puts hands and feet in place to stand back up and whacks her head on the same drawer that, moments earlier, she’d claimed defeat over.

That, too, sends her to the ground, and she cries in defiance.

This little girl – Rory, my 1 year-old daughter – has come into her physical being from a place of infinity, a place of boundless strength and love, and she’s carnated into… This. This wonderfully intelligent but hopelessly clumsy human body. I can see in her eyes how frustrated she is. In her mind, she knows she can open that drawer and take every single dish out in a matter of seconds.

Although she’s a toddler, I can relate. At 35, I’ve been there.

This body. We feel trapped in it. It takes far longer for our bodies to grow to the level of our minds. That gap can be discouraging.

But as her mind grows, so does her control over her body. At first she was unable to roll over, let alone stand up. She’d just lay there and writhe in frustration.

But as her brain developed, like a million little nerve endings bursting to life, she gained control over her hands, her hips, her legs, and the thousands of other muscles and tendons that allow her to become mobile. And every day these tiny explosions in her brain allow her to stretch the limits of her physical body even more. Until soon, she’ll be flying.

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An invitation to share your amazing thoughts

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first of all, a mighty powerful thank you to Claire De Boer and crew over at The Gift of Writing who posted my guest post about what soul writing (journaling) has taught me about being a man today.

and a hearty hi-ho to anyone who has found my blog via that post. welcome to you!!

i know Claire has a rowdy, irreverently beautiful group of readers who’d love to hear your thoughts on the topic (it’s kind of a polarizing topic – men, socially speaking, don’t journal – it’s just not “manly”). so head on over there if ya don’t mind and add your two or three cents to the comments. love to see ya there.

if you do, throw a link in the comments section below here to your comment there so we can all see it.

thanks much! hope you enjoy the post:)

as ever,

jonas

 

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Christmas stream of consciousness

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The year was 1985. I was 6. I opened the K-mart junk mail ad to the main attraction: the Nintendo Entertainment System.

I had a commodore Amiga. 16 bits of unadulterated fun. The thing was awesome. Graphics were insane. Marble Madness. Xenon. Flight Simulator. I had all of them. Pirated, of course (my dad was a computer programmer, we didn’t PAY for games, come on).

But the Nintendo beheld something more fascinating. Even though it was only 8-bit, it hooked up to your TV. It was simple. My friend had one. Super Mario Brothers. Duck Hunt. The Legend of Zelda. Not complicated. Hours of good, clean, Coca Cola Classic-filled fun.

I wanted one sooooo bad. I looked at that K-Mart ad every day. Wishing. Knowing I’d have it. My family couldn’t afford it (my dad was bankrupt by then). No way. But my grandparents? Oh, yeah. They could. They were the ones who bought me the good stuff.

They came to visit and brought gifts. There was one box that I knew HAD to be it. It was big enough for the main box, gun, and 2 controllers. YES!

I’d stare at that wrapped package every night. As hopeful as I was, I remained skeptical. Maybe it wasn’t. I’ll open it just a little and take a peek.

One night, when my folks were asleep, I grabbed an exacto knife, edged away one piece of tape, and peeked.

What?! A f*king remote control car?! ARGHHH!! Ridiculous!

I never got the Nintendo. Then the next version came out and it was too complicated. Too many buttons. Too many options.

I hardly ever got what I wanted for Christmas when I was a kid. I wanted a Red Ryder BB gun, but I got it for my birthday. Not as magical as Christmas, but hey, at least I could shoot stuff.

One thing I always got was my grandma’s Christmas cake. It was a pumpkin cake with nuts, raisins, and a thick layer of homemade frosting made in a coffee can. Delicious.

My uncle, who I never met because he was in the witness protection program, always sent a shitload of gifts to our house on Christmas.

It was crazy. He was like Santa Claus. We’d all be hanging out opening our crap gifts (but having fun, nonetheless), get a phone call from him telling us to go out on the front deck, and when we did, there was 3-4 big, wrapped boxes for my cousins, parents, aunt, uncle, and I.

He’d throw random shit in there, like socks, pictures, artwork, cologne, deodorant, toys. Just threw them in big boxes all together like a buffet of Christmas randomness.

I guess his old mob buddies would drop them off or something. Never met the guy.

It’s funny how Christmas changes when you have a kid. She’s only 1 and her mom and I want her day to be magical.

She has no idea what’s going on at this point. All she knows is there’s an invasive tree in her play room that she wants to so badly grab the ornaments off of but the spiky green things poke her soft little hands.

She likes the lights, though. And the candy canes.

It’s nice knowing that we’ll get to relive some of that Christmas magic through her in the coming years. And maybe get her some better gifts.

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