Showing posts from May, 2005
We should discuss only those things we are intensely passionate about. Even at the risk of embarrassment. Anything else is prostitution or wasting time. Or both. (…what I’ll be trying on the next pretty gal I meet…)
Swear to God, the notion of pissing into a sink never ever occurred to me until, one night, said notion was proposed by nearly all of my college housemates. Because, at first, they all refused to believe I’d never done it. And then, after assuring them that I hadn’t, they peer - pressured me into immediately departing the living room for the nearest bathroom for the explicit purpose of pissing into the sink. Didn’t matter that I didn’t have to go. Which reminds me of the too-many times when the other red-headed housemate, very proud of his accomplishment(s), would barge into my room and shout, “Come take a look at this shit I just took!” Once, when I was too young to remember, I led my mother to a collection of bushes on a playground; proudly pointed to a small clearing, and said, “Look what I made!” And, apparently, I was pointing at several stinky brown logs… Anyway, excepting that one time, I’ve never again pissed in any sink. I don’t get it—though, maybe, were I a few inches talle
Here’s the sink that used to drain so well. Resting upon its highest ridge, left of the doming silver faucet knobs (polished to mirror your fun-house reflection): two tubes of Hydrocortisone—ever-present for the Master’s ever-itchy ass. One tube’s almost flat; the other’s chock-full of that mysterious white stuff. This powder green (powdered with dust?) sink and matching toilet are contained within a restroom the size of a Port-O-Potty. Incidentally, you’ve lived in studio apartments no bigger than four Port-O-Potties cubically configured together. Both the toilet seat and its cover’ve been white-plastic replaced. Lots of green in this house—the wall paper, the bathrooms, the carpet—lots the color of money. Not incidentally because the Master’s an accountant, maybe? After the Draino, a mountain of black-grey bubbles erupt from the sink’s drain. Its stench smells deadly. Making-you-cough deadly—after, say, a fifteen mile sprint. Around and around Chernobyl. Making your eyes heavy—afte
When you reach the age everyone accurately guesses it , it’s clear you’re running out of time. It’s when you’ve reached that age—where everyone pins you; where the checkout gal doesn’t ask to see your ID, where the bouncer barely eyes you over as you walk on through—you haven’t the courage, or you haven’t the energy, anymore, to conquer the planet. As you might’ve, perhaps, five years ago. And if the desire still lingers—you’re fully aware—it’ll be twice as hard five years from now . Or, so you’ve been led to believe. Accomplish before thirty, or never at all. This is what you’ve heard. Out of so many mouths. A generality, to be sure. Yet, seemingly true, at least, in your case. You keep starting over. Life for you is always starting over—though never in a “fresh start” sort of way. Who’s that dude ever rolling the boulder up the hill? His name should’ve been your name. But here’s the real discovery: the best part of aging? Is the dulling of the senses. Truly. After all, you’re in
Q: What are you doing right now? A: Reading a book I’m not supposed to be reading until I finish that other book there—the book that’ll be overdue in a week. The book I’m reading instead , it’s a bought book, so there’s no rush. But the book, the checked-out book, I’m halfway through—the writing isn’t what I want it to be, the ideas aren’t as insightful as I had hoped. So I’m cheating, in a way. Mr. Palahniuk, Ms. Hempel, and, to a slight extent, Mr. Lish have all spoiled me rotten with writing (or, at least, the expectation of writing) that’ll sink its teeth into you.
YODA Careful you must be when sensing the future, Anakin. The fear of loss is a path to the dark side. ANAKIN I won't let these visions come true, Master Yoda. YODA Death is a natural part of life. Rejoice for those around you who transform into the Force. Mourn them, do not. Miss them, do not. Attachment leads to jealousy. The shadow of greed, that is. ANAKIN What must I do, Master Yoda? YODA Train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose.
So, I suppose, approximately 2 hours, 26 minutes into tomorrow morning, I’ll have nothing else left to live for…
Why do we have to smell so bad? And everything that comes out of us, why does it all have to smell worse ? Why does shit have to smell so bad? Is it so we won’t eat it? Is that really why? Was that just how stupid our prehistoric ancestors were? God said, “They might eat their own pooh—so, uh, I’ll make it real stinky—yeah, that’s what I’ll do.” Did prehistoric man (or woman) take a look at what they just squeezed out of their assholes and say, “Huh. That’s kinda like what the chickens do—although it’s brown and more cylindrical than spherical . And, yeah, it doesn’t have a shell—THANK GOD. But I say we drop it in a pot of boiling water for 12 minutes and see what happens. I say, we scramble it up with cheese, ham, onion, and green peppers and call it something from Denver—” That’s when God stepped in and said, “No, no, that’s shit . Nothing like an egg. Believe you me.” God waves his magic finger, “And, voilà! There’s the stink to prove it.”
The Game Plan Blow my inheritance on cheap hookers and bad heroin; then die of AIDS or an OD. (Should take between a year and a decade.) Or, Hit the Big Time, make a bunch of “Popcorn” movies; then blow my fame and fortune on pricey hookers and the finest dope. End up like Bruce, Belushi, and Farley. (This, only if I’m very lucky.) Or, Meet my Soul Mate, find a cubicle that offers a regular paycheck, buy a house, a dog, raise kids, and lead the happy-sunny Disney life that the Triskkahs, to all outward appearances, live. (Now, this last one’s the real Pipe Dream.)
Anyway, at the supermarket—and does anyone even call it the supermarket anymore? Anyway, you know you’re inching closer to middle age when find yourself humming along to the tunes being piped in through the speakers; when it’s music that’s part of your own collection. Happens to me all the time. Scares the fuckin’ shit out me. Here I am trying to choose between Frosted Flakes and Honey Nut Cheerios and coming from above, between “Clean up in aisle six,” or, “Nancy to cosmetic,” there’s Bob Seger’s Night Moves . Here comes my spot-on Seger imitation… [Sings] “And we’d steal away every chance we could / To the backroom, to the alley or the trusty woods—” It’s not right! It’s not what I want to be thinking about when considering my breakfast options. I don’t need a woody at the Piggly-Wiggly. Does me no good.
Typically, or so it seems, it’s a black dog or it’s a black cat wandering through our backyard. Really, it’s not “ our ,” it’s Pop’s backyard. Pop’s looking out the window at this black Labrador and he saying over and over to it, “You should be on a leash.” Not that Pop doesn’t enjoy watching you-name-it creature crossing through his backyard. The visits from these larger furry beasts (as opposed to the ubiquitous squirrel and chipmunk) are seemingly few and far between. Sometimes, it’s a deer wandering through; typically a brown dear. But, I suppose, the deer may have black spots. And because one of our neighbors has a fence, now Pop wants a fence. And, really, for no useful reason. Why that neighbor has the fence is a mystery. Though, it’s a nice enough looking fence—a scalloped picket with rough sawn Northern White Cedar boards and framework; treated Red Pine posts. Still, this neighbor has no kids, nor pets. And not a garden, either. But Pop's dead-set on a fence because, i