THE DOG'S NAME? NOT SO APROPOS

This is pretty funny, eh?

Apparently, the dog has some Oedipal issues. That's his Mommy, and so he feels the need to "mark his territory," as it were. Back off, other dogs! And, too, businessmen!

Also, I feel bad for the Labrador. Poor kid. =o(

IN WHICH THE GROSS-OUT OF THE READER IS AN ADDED BONUS

So. I was driving down 10 Mile Road, on my way to the Get-n-Go for some Ben and Jerry's iced cream, some Mountain Dew and some cigarettes (I know, I know--I am the paragon of health) and I heard an advertisement on the local classic rock station for evercleanse, a product that promises to help the user lose unwanted pounds. I usually let commercials slide unnoticed between my ears, but this time, for some reason, I was all at-attention. I think this was the phrase that caught my attention (and I'm paraphrasing): "Evercleanse helps you to shed unwanted pounds! By ridding your colon of the accumulation of years of waste--sometimes 5 to 20 pounds!--that collects along the walls of your colon like spackling!"

I vomited all over the dashboard at the mental image that that garnered. No. Actually, I didn't. Actually, I threw up in my mouth a little bit, re-tasting the corned beef-and-bologna-and-onion sammiches that I'd had a few hours before. Again, no. I didn't. Actually, I burped daintily and wondered to myself just what the hell that "spackling" would look like. And then I got to thinking about just how this "miracle colon cleanser" would work.

How would it work? Why, it'd make ya shit. all. the. time. Wouldn't it?! And then I got to thinking that maybe Evercleanse should have the following listed, its lawyer speak, in small print:

Evercleanse is to be in no way held liable for the following, but not excluded to: copious pooping while on job interviews; incessant shitting in church; a constant flood of odious liquid excrement while sitting at the local Long John Silver; "accident" farts in traffic; Grand Canyon-esque skid marks in your best BVDs.

I think you'd be having to shit all the time. What a pain in the ass (no pun intended).

I think I'll try to lose weight the old-fashioned way: diet and exercise.

***

I had to add this edit. It's a "blog" about colon cleansing, authored by a woman named "Dawn." In italics, she states that, because it is a pretty private topic, the name is a pseudonym and the picture isn't hers. I had to laugh. How do you think the woman whose picture is "Dawn" would feel if she knew that her mug was being used to, ostensibly, promote a website that goes into great depth about mucoid plaque? I'm sure she'd be thrilled.

THE HOOPS THROUGH WHICH ONE MUST JUMP

Well, Dawn from work called me today. It seems as though I have been cleared to go back to work; my suspension is near its end. I'll tell you what: it's just in time. I've been crawling the walls these last several days. I need to be doing something, damn it, to feel of any use, whatsoever. I've been feeling decidely bummish.

First things first, though; I had to go to Kingswood Medical Center to drop a urine sample and to blow into the fucking breathalyzer. I blew into the little white plastic nozzle (Vickie the nurse explained to me how to do it--um, I know how, bee-yotch, I'm a professional at this) and the results were a beautiful .000. As they should have been.

And then it was on to the piss-test. I'd previously been told that there would be a doctor in there with me--his job was to make sure that I'd not have a Whizzinator taped next to my package. "He's not going to, like, watch me go, is he?" I'd asked. "I mean, he's gonna be in the room, but is he going to be, like, right there?" The woman answered that because of the reason that I was there and per my company's request, yes, he'd be watching me urinate. Sah-weet.

Well, I reminded myself, I'd been the one who had put myself in this situation so if I had a problem with it, I could bring it up with Drunk Adam. Drunk Adam hasn't been answering the telephone, lately, so it's unlikely that my complaint would be heard. And, even if it were heard, nothing much would be done about it. Drunk Adam's usual response is, "Meh, fuggit. Pass the Guinness or get the fuck outta my way."

Anyway, on to the piss-test. Doctor C_____ was the lucky individual who drew the the short straw and got to see my penis. In all it's nervous-to-be-looked-at-in-the-men's-room glory. "Um," I said as I unzipped my pants and pulled out my monster, "this is a little awkward, huh?" The doctor didn't say anything. I said to the silence, "Well, I put myself into this situation, so...." Doctor C_____ said, "Did you?" and moved closer to my side. "Um, yeah." "Well, you did," he said.

Silence ensued. Somewhere, a cricket rubbed its wings together.

My penis was having some serious stage-fright. Usually, in the men's room, great pains are taken to avoid even the intimation that junk could be being scoped. My boy Babar wasn't used to such unabashed scrutiny. Eventually, though, the pumps kicked in and the five Dixie cups of water that I'd slammed before the "test" made their way through my plumbing and splashed down into the cup, with the remaining fluid calling home the chemically-blue waters of the medical center's toilet. Doctor C_____ reminded me not to flush. "I know it's a habit, but...."

Right, Doc. I am a criminal and I should be treated as such. No flushie-flushie, and my dick is under the microscope. I know. Intellectually, I know why the rules are as such: my company is paying me to be at work sober and I have had an assuredly rotten track record of compliance. They have their asses to cover and they have to be sure that I am not an employee of the disingenuous variety, intent upon "sticking it to the company."

Still, though, the whole matter was a little humiliating. Fuck it. It is what it is. I'm over it. Well, maybe not completely over it. In a small act of childish belligerence, I shook off extra long for the good doctor's benefit: you wanna look at my cock? You're getting paid to look at my cock? Here it is. Get a good look at it. I'll not be back again. (Er, except for the times in the future in which I'll be sent to the clinic for the random drug tests. Um, forget I said anything, Doctor C_____. You're a swell dude. And you do a great job. Um, looking at penises.)

I sure hope that they don't pick up any of the heroin in my system. Smack, horse, the Big H--it's a tough habit to kick. As is meth. As is weed. Bennies are no fun to stop, either. Nor is coke and opium and 'shrooms.

:-\

DEATH OF A PILLOW

I walked in the door today, carrying my groceries and the dogs' bag of food. The boys were happy to see their food me, leaping in the air and play-bowing and sniffing at my heels. I'd only been gone for about fifteen minutes, but, as dogs are extremely adept at doing, they acted as though I'd been gone a fortnight. I opened the food bag and poured it into their bowls and then I stood back and watched as they snouted their way through the dry cereal-like Pedigree. I noticed a slight puddle-stain on the threadbare carpet and so I Fantastick'd it and ground some paper towel into it and then called it good. My computer called to me from its den and so, bidding a fair adieu to the boys, I lumbered off to the den. Only to stop short. Only to stop short, I say!

From my periphreal, I caught sight of an image that will haunt me till my dying day. In the front room, next to the insanely-comfortable leather armchair, a body lay sprawled out, its innards ripped from its body, said innards covering its torso, its face, dotting the surrounding brown carpet with Violence. Oh. My God, say it isn't so. It was. 'Twas. It was Padraig Pillow, rendered inanimate forever by the sharp teeth of the boys Oliver.

And I hadn't even seen it coming! I blamed (and still blame) myself. The boys Oliver had had their his way with Padraig a couple of weeks before and I guess I had assumed that if I kept Padraig off the floor, he'd be safe from the Jaws of Death. My complancency got him killed. Torn to pieces, actually. And it's taking all I have not to sob uncontrollably right now.

He lies there, still. Well, now, let me be perfectly accurate. His body lies there still. His soul, his cognizance--they're long gone; they've gone and exited Stage Left. Little Padraig is up in pillow heaven, now, doing what all the cherubic pillows do: lie around, maintain their softness, occasionally help a brother sleep. But, anyway, he lies there, still. I just haven't had the courage to go scoop him up and encase him in his plastic coffin. (Plus, I have to write about this; I have to get my feelings out on "paper," as it were.) I thought it would be nice to honour Padraig's memory and write a kind of impromptu obituary on the Internet and send it out to the Binary Showplace, let all the 1s and 0s pay their respects:

Little Padraig Pillow was born in Ireland. He was raised by loving parents, Phillip the Bodypillow and Patricia the Headrest. Little Padraig was a popular pillow, held in high esteem by his classmates at the Primary School of Zs and, later, at Eyes-On-Sheep High School. He excelled at his studies, having been born into an extremely soft and malleable body, but he found his joy, his calling, his second year at the high school when he tried out for wrestling and made the team. He took to wrestling like it were an innate extension of his being, winning match after match after match with seemingly little effort. His coaches were pleased, to say the least. They were particularly impressed with his finishing move, The Smotherer, in which Padraig would bodily spring across the ring--usually a bed--and position himself across his competitor's face, pressing down hard, thus compromising the oxygen intake of the other, rendering him still, catatonic almost. Though many have tried the move, none have been able to execute The Smotherer with the flair with which Padraig had so easily bested his opponents. Padraig the Pillow was a pioneer in the sport of pillow wrestling and, as such, his name has been immortalized.

After high school, Padraig was possessed with a strong case of wanderlust and so he bid farewell to his tearful parents and left the Green Isles for the first and what would turn out to be the last time. Jammed into a cardboard box with like-minded pillows, Padraig had had the gnawing suspiscion that he might have acted rather hastily, what with leaving his secure and comfortable island home to try his luck in the New World but, once the box was opened and he was greeted with the sight of the Statue of Liberty and all the hustle and bustle of the New York port, he grinned to himself and knew that he had made the right choice.

Padraig had found himself a second home in New York city and he sustained himself with being the third pillow--oftentimes being used in a sexual nature--and he lived high off the hog for a couple of years. He and his parents wrote each other and talked often on the telephone, but, still, after two years of living in The City, Padraig yearned for a more laidback life. And so he decided to clean himself up and encase himself in plastic and pricetag himself to the point to which he would be deemed desirable to good sturdy salt-of-the-earth midwesterners. And so he found himself in the mitten state, in the metropolitan Detroit area and he found himself in K-Mart and he found himself being picked off the shelf by a lovely buxom woman and he found himself another home. At this new home, he quickly made friends with the two satin-covered leopard print pillows (Kogoi and Kenashwa) and the burnt-sienna body pillow (Phillipe-Tyrone). Life was good and he found himself clothed in a Halloween-inspired covering and he and Kogoi, Kenashwa and Phillipe-Tyrone often found themselves in deep philosophical conversations which often delved into the metaphysical, the supernatural, the occult.

Life changed for Padraig, though, when the buxom beauty brought another pillow (her favorite) into the mix. Red and satiny-soft, Padraig had no chance of competing for the woman's affection and so he took his demotion to being the guest pillow with a stocism that would have made his parents proud. He spent more and more of his time in the front room, or haphazardly-placed on the armchair and he found himself crying himself to sleep at nights, missing the companionships and the intellectual conversations that he'd once had with Kogoi and Phillipe-Tyrone and Kenashwa. And he found himself growing more fearful, daily, of the hounds with whom he often shared the room. The big one was okay, he figured, but the smaller one was untrustworthy, the smaller one often eyed him with golden eyes of wanton lust. And that was scary.

So, I have no idea what happened to Padraig the Pillow. Was it his emotional state that caused him to leap to his certain death upon the front room floor? Or was it Oliver's "wanton lust" that signed Padraig's death certificate? I'll never know. But would you, could you, join me in a moment of silence for a pillow whose life was cut short far too early? And, also, say a quick prayer for all that he left behind.

Thank you and God bless.

PS--Though pillows were killed, no dogs were harmed during the making of this post.

WOOL OVER THE EYES

This just in: it has been brought to my attention that the pants you see to the right side of the screen--one of my favorite pairs of jeans--are, in fact, women's jeans. I feel so violated. The jeans never told me, gosh damn it!

I got them about a year ago at a local thrift store for maybe five bucks, or something like that--and, yes, they were hanging in the Men's section. I came to find out, a few days ago, that Claiborne is a woman's brand. Oh, the humanity! Meagan was helping me fold some of my laundry and she picked up the jeans and turned to me and said, "Hey, whose are these?" Why, they're mine, Buttercup, I responded. "Adam. These are women's [pants]," she said. "Liz Claiborne? You know? Woman's brand?" And then she started laughing.

**Sob**

"You know," I said to her, "I was wondering about that. I mean, I have heard of Liz Claiborne for women. But, they were in the Men's section! I guess I just thought that she had a men's line, too?"

That just got her to laughing even harder. She was turned away from me, folding some of my underwear (and, no, they weren't panties; they were manly boxer-briefs, damn it) but I knew that she was busting a silent gut at my expense. I could see her shoulders rocking. And I could hear the sound of her hilarity being suppressed with great effort.

"Sure, let it out, Meegie," I said, false hurt saturating my voice. "Just go ahead and laugh at me, why don'tcha?" I think I may have dropped into my '30s Gangster Voice for that last sentence. It just seemed to fit the situation. Then again, '30s Gangster Voice fits just about any situation. Except for funerals and weddings and, even then, the 8-Ball's answer is murky.

Anyway, I blame the Salvation Army for my ongoing emotional distress. They had the damned pants hanging in the Men's section, for crying out loud! What was I to think?!

Meh, fuggit. I'm doomed. I'm already wearing women's pants; how long will it take before I'm wearing women's shirts? And socks?! And, God forbid, snazzy bra-and-panty combinations?!

My life is over. Good-night.

**Sob**

SIXTY-NINE, MAN

My Dad would have been 69 today. I would have made sure that the significance of the number was not lost on the celebrants, writing "69" as many times as I could on the wrapping of his present and alluding to the now-glorious significance of the six-plus-nine in the writing in the card. It may have irked some people and some people may not have even gotten the "joke" (read: Grandma), but I'd have made sure that I beat the dead horse of a joke until the stuffing were coming out of it. I mean, you're only sixty-nine once, right? It is a etheral number and so it needs to be celebrated.

Anyway, it's a moot point. Kind of. But maybe not. Maybe, just maybe, Dad is up there in the heavens, kicking it with his mom and Rod and Dean, and they are all looking down on me--in my earthbound bag of bones and skin with its pains and conditions--and silently shaking their heads with bemused expressions on their mugs. "Adam will be Adam," Dean says to Rod, and Nana and my dad nod their gaseous heads in agreement.

Well, Dad, I miss you, man. Your loss (or my loss, whichever makes more sense) comes to me in waves. It comes at times when I least expect it. It's like, I see something or something happens and, though we were never particularly close (I love you, of course), it may cross my mind that I want to share it with you and then I think to myself, oh yeah.... Dot, dot, dot. Such is life.

Anyway, happy sixty-ninth, Dad! Have a heavenly birthday, mi pee-aye-pee-aye. Love.

New Year--2009

the new year is here

batten down the hatches, please

we're in for a ride

Just a little "Haiku Madness!" to start the day. I hope all three of you readers had a happy and safe celebration. Here's hoping you didn't get shit-faced and proceed to piss off the bartenders and then the bouncers thus leading to being unceremoniously jacked out the back door into the alleyway whereupon you skidded on a rotten avacado peel and smashed headfirst into a convenient collection of metal trashcans. (I say "convenient" only because they were there to break your fall.) I hope that didn't happen. It didn't happen here, and that's a good thing.

I really hope that, for me, 2009 is a better year than 2008. I started 2008 on a roll and ended it in a skid. A downward spiral-type skid, truth be told. A few life-altering occurences called 2008 their home: I fell in love, fell back into the bottle, witnessed my father's illness truly take hold and then kill him two months before his 69th birthday and two days before the historic election, and I nearly lost my well-paying job and held onto it only by the skins of my teeth (whatever the hell those are).

I didn't drink on New Year's Eve and it really wasn't all that hard to remain abstinent. The medication that I take helps, sure, of course, but everyone knows that if one does not take the medication, one doesn't reap the benefits. I took it and so I didn't drink. Meagan and I went with her friend to a bowling alley and rented a lane for a few hours, 9 to 12. There was drinking all around me, of course, and to say that it didn't affect me at all would be a lie. I was getting a little bitter, not being able to drink, but then I "played the tape through," as they say, and I realized that, though the night would not perhaps be filled with easy grins and hilarity, it too would not be filled with staggering bar bills and for-crap bowling (though I bowled horribly, anyway) and the night would not be filled with inane comments and the night would be less likely to be shotgunned with embarrassment...oh, and I would not have to drive home with white knuckles, damned sure that every shadowy shape was a police prowler. (Is it just me or does anyone else see cop cars as almost insectile? Kinda like they're wasps or aggressive bumblebees, zipping along the highways and byways, intent upon skewering the unwatchful with their needlelike stingaz?) No, it'd be--and it was--a safe night. And fun, too. So there's that.

I have beer down in the basement. I have had it there for about a month-and-a-half, now. There is about a six-pack of Guinness Draught sitting alongside the dryer. It's probably skunked, now, and I have taken an Antabuse, but I think/know that I need to get rid of it. Skunked or not, given the opportunity, I'll drink it. I should have gotten rid of it weeks ago. I am thisclose to losing my job (when all the hoops are jumped through and all the meetings are attended I'll be going back...but I feel like I am getting the runaround a bit--maybe it's just the holiday schedule that delays everything). Anyway, what I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by my tangential mind, was that I have to pop the tops on those bad boys and introduce the contents to the washtub drain. I'm off to do that right now. Consider it, if you will, "real time blogging."

Back in a bit.

Four minutes later. I'm back. This may sound funny--but it's not--but I got a little misty around the eyes when I popped the tops on the Guinnesses and poured them the fuck down the drain. It is just liquid, sure, but of course it is much more than that. It is the loss of freedom that I was pouring down the drain. Freedom to drink, freedom to come home after a long day at work (if and when I ever get back) and kick back and suck down a cold one. Freedom to self-medicate and to "check out" of reality for a bit, here and there. But, hey, whom am I kidding? The freedom comes from pouring the brew down the drain. The freedom to work, the freedom to live happily, the freedom to avoid consistently shooting myself in the foot. The freedom to experience life as it truly is, the freedom to see it actually, both good and bad, with the blinders cast aside.

There is definitely a mourning process through which one has to navigate his or her way when one is kicking addictive substances to the curb. Though the substance has brought a heaping smelly shitload of pain and misery, it too has brought fun times and fond memories and tranquil life-is-good moments.

The sharp stout smell of the Guinnesses curled comfortably within my nostrils as soon as I cracked the tops. It smelled soooooo good. What crossed my mind? Why, I wanted it, of course. It was me and myself and I--and no one else. Who'd know? I'd know. I know this, too: start with a six-pack, progress to a twelve-er, mix in a few 40s, slabberdash some hard liquor into the mix. Get tested at work and fail the random test. Get canned. Begin life anew. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat until you're living in a crack apartment in Detroit and scrounging the streets for bottles to return for their deposits. Too dark a picture? Maybe it is...but maybe it's not. That's the problem with this shit: I never know where it's going to take me. I know, though, that if I maintain true to my straight-and-narrow, I give myself a fighting chance to live this life successfully. If I give in to my craven wants and desires, I for all intents and purposes slice through my own Achilles tendons and leave myself crawling through the shit and the slop and the beetles and spiders of Life. Not too pretty a picture? You're absolutely right. And I ask, Who the fuck wants that?

So...on this, the second day of January, 2009, at 11:30 in the morning, I'm going to end this pretty depressing post (lol) and step carefully into the shower and then I am going to dress in my Suspended From Work Casual and then I am going to drive the mile-and-a-half down the road and go to a meeting. My sponsor should be there and I'll reacquaint myself with him (I haven't called him in a few days.). Not necessarily fun, but necessarily necessary.

One last thing: My grandma turns 91 today. Though she has slipped considerably, both mentally and physically, during the last few years, she still my Granny and I love her enormously. If you could, wish little ole Eldora Belle a happy birthday, eh?

Peace ow, peace ouch, but mainly peace in.