Manuel Rueda DeLeon (1952-2020)

Wednesday, Dec 2: 3:07pm
I received a text from my mother to all the children. My dad had began choking after having a great morning, and they weren't going to intubate again. They were just making him comfortable. This was it. It was time.

My father was born on August 25, 1952 in Bryan, Texas. He would tell us stories of growing up and working in the fields and whatnot. The "walking to school up hill both ways barefoot in the snow" story, but like, the Mexican version. He was the youngest of 7. Seven. That's a lot of kids. Back then, they didn't have no tv, I guess. He graduated from Bryan High School, where he played football. He loved to talk about football. And HATED the Dallas Cowboys. And loved to make sure I knew that.

I get to the hospital around 3:45pm. Walk in and he is awake. He's using a breathing mask, but still noticeably trying hard to breathe. My mother, who had been by his side since his bout with the West Nile Virus in 2011, was there. Yea, remember that one? When the mosquitoes were trying to kill e'rbody? Now it's just stubborn, unmasked folks. But I digress... I walk over to the bed and say hello. He looks at me, and I could tell he recognized me, but couldn't speak. I look at the monitors to see his vital numbers What do these numbers mean? Which is the heart? What does this 102 mean? Slowly, that number began to decrease. 100....99....96.....94....

My mother and father met each other at a bowling alley. My aunt invited her sister and her husband invited a coworker of his to join them. They were married on May 27, 1972. Less than a year later, Greg was born. Less than a year after that, Secilia was born. And just over a year after that, Manuel Ray was born. A couple years later, my dad was going to get a vasectomy and he and my mother decided to have one more. And 6 years after my brother was born, here I come. Growing up in the DeLeon household was meager. We didn't have money for vacations and whatnot. The only "vacations" we took were to softball tournaments and when my brother graduated from boot camp in San Diego. But we never really "needed" for anything. My parents made something out of the nothing we had and it was fantastic. To a fault, my dad had no concept of money. One of the most GENEROUS people in the world - if he had $2, you both had $1.

86....84....80.... now I'm staring at it. This practical countdown is making my heart race. My whole family is there and I am sitting on the couch, not able to look at him. He keeps looking around the room at all of us and still unable to speak. I know he's wondering why we're all there. If only he knew that it was to say goodbye.
76....75....72....

Dad was stubborn. And a bit of an ass hole. BOY, was he stubborn. And my mother tells us all the time we are the same way. I don't believe her; proving her point.  Diagnosed with diabetes circa 1991, it was obvious when his blood sugar was high. "Did you take your pill?! Dang!" My mother knew him better than anyone. He was a stubborn ass hole, sure. But he was so hilarious. My dad had his own version of, "that's what she said".
"I'm going to come in the back door."
"E'scue me?" or "Uh uh". Quick. So witty. So witty, it was almost frustrating. I'll miss that most of all.

50....49....38....36.... and we are all gathered around the bed. They removed all of the tubes, all of the IVs, all of the mess so we could gather without all the drama attached to him. I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not ready. 

I was so angry at my father for so long. There were things he did that were so hurtful and angry. Mostly had to do with his love of alcohol, but nonetheless painful. I was angry for what he did to my mom. I was angry for not being around a lot. I was angry because he made it obvious that he didn't want to be home. I would try to find relationships in people that would fill his spot. Typical "daddy issues". It wasn't until I made changes for me that he had I started to develop a real relationship.

32...28....27....24.... they want to move him to a different floor now. Since he is in ICU still, they want to make sure we are all safe, and we have the privacy we need. To say goodbye. 

My father loved music. We shared that, for sure. We would talk about songs, listen to tapes and write down lyrics, and SING all the time. He was in bands here and there all throughout my life. He invited me to one practice of his where he wanted me to sing a song for a gig that was coming up. I was about 23 and I was so very nervous. I told my dad that my friends and I had been doing karaoke, but he'd never heard me sing. I had to prove, not only to the band, but more importantly to HIM - my inspiration, my motivation - that I was good enough. After squeezing out, "Neon Moon", and listening to them rehearse, I drove us home.
"I've never heard you sing like that. It was really good - I'm so proud of you."

My siblings and I went up to the 6th floor to wait for him to get there. To say goodbye. And I'm not ready. We sit in the waiting room and it's hot. The furniture is shit. I hate that the nurses are in the other room are laughing. Don't they know what the fuck is happening?! Don't they know what a fucking great man he was?! Why can't they just shut up!!
A small nurse comes in the waiting room. Looks around and softly says, "DeLeon?"
"He wouldn't make it up here. He's back in the room on the second floor." I'm not ready. I'm not ready.
As we walk into room 214 in ICU, at Baylor Scott & Rite in Waxahchie, Texas on Wednesday, December 2, 2020...
2... "No count"...

He's gone. 

The man that taught me how to drive. The man who bought me the most RIDICULOUS toys I wanted just because I wanted them. Like, who wants a calculator? The man who fixed every car I owned since i was 15. The man who told me that he loved me at the end of every conversation. The man that taught me to shake the hand of everyone in the room I walk into. The man that made me so angry, I cried. The man that made me laugh so hard, I cried. The man that my mother loved with all of her heart, that she spent the past 8 years right by his side, making sure that he never felt alone. 

He is gone. 

"Though you can't see or touch me, I'll be near, and if you listen with your heart, you'll hear al my love around you. Soft and clear, and then, when you must come this way alone, I'll greet you with a smile and say, 'Welcome Home'."

Hug your parents a little tighter next time you see them. And give them one for me.

Until next time...

Me and Uber Eats

So I'm sure most, if not all of you are very aware that me and Uber Eats are best friends. I babysit his kids and he borrows my apt when he wants to cheat on his girlfriend. Like, they should be my emergency contact because they always know where I am. 

Although I am a VIP member of the Uber Eats community - self proclaimed - I have had several different incidents with these people that make it very much a love/hate relationship. 

First of all, I'm an avid believer in feeding the less fortunate. So, occasionally, I'll order food and then fall asleep before it gets here just so that the Uber driver can have dinner. I'm a good person like that. I've bought them pizza, Jack in the Box tacos, McDonald's ice cream sundaes, and even fried chicken. And you know how I am about fried chicken. It's all on purpose, too. I absolutely mean to fall asleep after I order food at 2am after a night out on the town. It's my way of giving back to the community. 

Now saying that, there are times these people test my nerves.
I ordered cheesecake once to be delivered to my apartment. I am not proud of this moment, but it happens. They are little cups of cheesecake with all sorts of flavors and they are fucking delicious and stop judging me. The lady delivering these little cups of heaven to me was in my complex and couldn't find my apartment through the parking garage and winding (one hallway) apartment corridors. She messages me, "Can you come to the front and I'll meet you there."
My response.
"Lady. What part of ordering cheesecake delivered makes you think that I'm willing to walk anywhere to meet you?"

Same apartment complex, I ordered Church's Fried Chicken. Again... you know me and fried chicken. The driver was in the parking garage and going around and around, as I could see his whereabouts on the app.Circles and circles, messaging me that he was on the way.
And then I see him exit the complex.
With my chicken.
And then he cancels the order.
Uh. Sir. Did you just thieve my chicken?! Where the hell do you think you're going?? I contacted Uber and they said that I didn't meet the driver. I told them I tried to, but he kidnapped my goddamn chicken.
They made me pay and I went to bed hungry.

Last night, we had some bad storms here in Dallas for about, I'd say, 45 seconds. Tornado warning went off and was quickly canceled by the National Weather Service. I had ordered Chicken Express - stop judging me - and was waiting on Karen to pick up my order. She calls at one point and says, "The sirens are going off now and I think I need to take cover." No problem. Be safe. Just bring me my chicken. Again, I can see her driving on my app. I see her going toward Chicken Express to pick up the order, and then turn right.
And she kept going.
And kept going.
And kept going.
Bitch. Where the fuck you going?! Chicken Express is the other direction! I WANT MY CHICKEN!! I messaged her, "Are you still going to pick up my order??" And she calls. "I'm looking for cover." Where you looking for cover, in your garage?! This bitch made it all the way to Mesquite before I canceled the order. 

All in all, I love Uber Eats and should be part owner with the amount of my money they have. I completely endorse it and will always depend on them to feed me early morning and late night and all the times in between. And from time to time, I may even still feed the drivers. You know. On purpose.

Until next time...

Will the Real Roger D Please Stand Up?

Since Katy likes to call motherfucker's out on how NOT often I post shit, here's another post in the same month as the last. 

In yo face, Katy Beth.

Some of you know that I tried a stand-up comedy night a couple of months (since COVID, it could have been 4 years ago for all I know) ago and it went like this:

I went to a bar on a Monday night just to chill. Sitting, talking to some random folks at the bar, the bartender tells me there is an open mic night for comedy upstairs at 8pm. It's 6:30pm and I have had enough to even consider it. I get a little excited. I text some people to ask if I should do it. Being the GREAT friends and also dummies they are, they encourage me to do so. So I go upstairs. And sign up. And IMMEDIATELY start drinking heavily. I have HORRIBLE stage fright. Karaoke is one thing, but if you've ever been in a place where I had to give a presentation, you KNOW I suck at public speaking. And I just signed up to public speak on purpose. So. Fireball.

I tried to get anyone to come and be my hand to hold and no one showed. In their defense, I gave about an hour notice so I get it. No hate, I swear. I wouldn't go either.
The show starts. I watch several people go up and make the crowd laugh. I laughed HARD several times. With each chuckle, my confidence level is diminishing. "I CAN'T DO THAT SHIT" keeps running through my head. I get closer and closer to my turn to go. And they call me.
And. I. Am. Hammered.

Usually when I am doing karaoke or something, I can drink a couple and be cool to go. This was different. I had to APPARENTLY get hammered to even stand up. Literally.
So I walk up to the stage. And try to remember what I wrote to say. 

Three sentences come out. I got exactly ONE person to chuckle one time. And I completely forgot anything else I was going to say. I said, "Ok. That's it." And ran away like I was Wayne Campbell getting caught taking pictures on a phone pole. I would have run into a gay bar like he did except I was already at one. It was DEVASTATING. I bombed worse than Hiroshima. 

My comedian friend, Bryan Kellen (look him up - he's fucking hilarious) told me that everyone does so on the first try. His incredibly encouraging and I love him for it. But I also wanted to punch him in the throat at the same time for saying that. I ain't trying to fail! But. I get it.
So... taking his encouragement to heart, I am going to now post what I was SUPPOSED to say and hope that my thirsty ass will get the laughs I wanted to get that night if I had been able to speak english like a real person instead of a belligerent fat boy with a microphone. 

So. Likedtohearit, hereitgo.

Hello. How’s it going? My name is Roger. And I am a homosexual.

I don’t wanna say that. That’s too strong. It’s just been too damn long, I don’t even know what going on down there. It’s basically whoever touches it first. I’m like the next election. “I guess this is what we’re doing now.”

I did recently go through a breakup, though. Yea. I know. Sad. It was with my dentist. Apparently, I’m too “damaged” and “out of money” to continue our relationship. Ass hole.

He was fine, too! I met him on Tinder. Starting flirting and shit. Then asked me to come in. At the end of the day, too. So of course, in MY nasty ass mind, I was picturing the shit I done seen on PornHub.
Or the porn site of your choice…
Like, I walk in the office. He’s with someone so he hollas from the back. “I’ll be right with you!” Goddamn RIGHT you will. The last patient leaves and he calls me back. Awwww soookie soookie now!!! I seen THIS movie. I sit in the chair and he tells me hello. He says, “Put this on” and instead of a bib, he hands me a condom and shit. OOH WEE!

Instead this nigga hands me a bib and starts drilling my goddamn teeth. Instead of wanting my fucking phone number, this fool wanted my insurance group number and shit. Ain’t THAT a….

That's it so far. I'm working on the rest. The next time I go, I hope I have enough time to have the backup my thirsty ass needs so that you can be there and I don't have to get so goddamn hammered. Help a brotha out. 

Anyway. Thanks for your support and donations (hint hint) and help. I love you dearly. 

Until next time...

Life at Bowser Oaks

If you know me at all, you know that I usually move about every... ummm... 4 days or so it seems. I am not in one place too long. Mostly because of legal reasons but that's neither here nor there.

Most recently, I moved into a complex in Dallas called Bowser Oaks. And I love it so much. My apartment reminds me a lot of my apartment in New York, minus the bitchy cunt that lived across the hall. And the kitchen is bigger than the Easy Bake Oven of a kitchen I had there. But the size is comparable (that's what she said), the "central" heat and air isn't controlled by me, and the community is so nice.
Being where it is, there are quite a few people of the homosexual persuasion. They like the outties instead of the innies. And nothing is more obvious that this is the case than when the pool guy comes. He's a young buck that has that, "I probably haven't showered since I went and fucked that girl last night and I am still burping up Coors Light and Jager" bad-boy look. And when he comes to do the pool, the dudes come out to watch. He doesn't get shirtless or anything, but there are about 5 apartments that open their windows and/or doors and watch him work that pole. And by pole, I mean the one that's attached to the pool skimmer. It's pretty hilarious.

A couple of days ago, we had a little incident involving a hammer, a crackhead, and my window.

Earlier that night, I had decided to drink a bottle of premade watermelon margaritas. So around 1am, I was in the kitchen in my underwear and a tshirt making a salami sandwich. Cause what else would I be doing. All of a sudden, I hear glass breaking. Twice. I run out the front door - with my bare legs and hamster package showing. My upstairs neighbors tell me, "he went that way!" So I run in and put shorts on so that I don't get beat up and made fun of all at the same time. I go after him and, being not sober, confront him.
"What the fuck, dude? Was that you??"
"Yea, so what?"
"The fuck is your problem??"
As he walks toward me, holding the hammer with which he just spread glass across my walkway.
Still completely not sober, I wasn't afraid. I was just ready to break out my Berry Gordy's Last Dragon, Bruce Leeroy moves.
He stopped walking toward me and turned back to the street. I think he got intimidated by my dad bod and buldging biceps. And by biceps, I mean belly.
I called 9-1-1 and went back inside to grab my glasses. What I found out was that he had done the same to 3 other apartments in my complex, which is why the neighbors were outside. They heard the noise and were outside when he smashed through mine. He is standing in the middle of the street with the first cop arrives, still wielding the hammer.
"Drop it! Drop it!"
Crackhead turns and walks away.
"This your third warning, drop it! I'm going to tase you!"
He continues to walk.
The cop yells out to the group of us that gathered to both watch this dick nugget get arrested and sweep up the mess he created.
"You guys are my witnesses - I warned him!"
And taser.
And it was just as great as you're picturing.

Eventually, like, 10 other cop cars showed up. Not sure why. I guess there wasn't going on in Dallas on Thursday. They took my statement, my info, and I swept up the mess and went to bed. Didn't finish making my sandwich. Mostly because I took this as God's way of telling me to not eat that bread.

It's really the only incident that happened here and I'm a-ok with it. I get my own parking spot, the neighbors are fun, it's literally across the street from a bar, and the shower is something from Red Shoe Dairies. I already told my landlord to bury me in my parking spot because I don't plan to leave.

Come by and see it sometime! After this COVID shit is done. Don't be bringing that shit over here.

Until next time...