WHY BOTHER WITH A TITLE?

Got damn! I am so fricking uninspired. To do a lick of anything. What the hell? What gives? Even keystrokes are an effort, my fat fingers fumbling an "F" instead of a "D," a "K" instead of an "L."

I look out the window and through the gray of my omni-fucking-present cigarette smoke, the day is gray. And gray. And, oh yes, gray. Snowflakes flitter slowly down, rendering the backyard a soft white carpet.

I swallow some more of the omni-fucking-present coffee. The inside of my stomach is a friggin Starbucks. But without all the hype and the pretentiousness.

My dogs are somewhere. Wait, I know where they are: one of them will be laying by the heating vent and the other will be curled, snout to tail, on the overstuffed armchair.

I look out the window again. Yup, still gray. And gray. And, oh yes, gray.

By some (man-made) cosmic accident, today is a day that only comes around once every four years. If you were born on a Leap Year, would you celebrate your birthday on February 28th or on March 1st? I think I would celebrate mine on March 1st--kind of like a rebirth thing. February is just so fucking dreary. March is a month with purpose; just look at the name, for God's sake! March to it. Whereas February is a month in which even the spelling is a pain in the ass. How many times did you spell it (or pronounce it) "Febuary," with the "R" nowhere to be found? Shit, I just looked at the kee-rect spelling of the word and it reminded me of "mortuary." Maybe it's just the kind of mood that I'm in.

In the adjoining room, Bob Marley says to me: "Open your eyes, and look within/ are you satisfied with the life you're living?"

Well, Bobby, for the most part, yes. Thanks for asking, sir.

Now Marley sings, "Ex-ee-dous! Movement of jah people."

Exodous, indeed, Bobby. Exodous out of this gray fucking world and into a green one, resplendent with the smell of freshly-mown grass and burgers on the grill and images of blue skies and white puffed clouds.

TEN SYLLABLES

Enough. Of. Winter. And. Snow.

I. Want. Spring.

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS

out of the cold

stinging wind and harsh

skeletal reality

a warm bed,

nest here,

sleep here,

safe

let the world slide by

--greased skid--

let the world slide by and

cocoon yourself, here,

wrap me around you

together we will make sense

out of the senseless and

find Time

let the harsh shadow-world slide by

--greased skid--

nest with me

close your eyes and

sleep and know that

Tomorrow is a better day

THE CASE OF THE SHRINKING CANINE

Once upon a time, there was a cute brown dog. His fur was shiny and multi-colored: browns, yellows and blacks joined together on his coat to cull images of sun-dappled foliage in a viewer's eyes. The dog's name was Louis and he lived with a bald man named Adam. The two were inseperable and became fast friends. The bald man was a caring individual and he had a big heart, but he was often moody and distant. The dog tried his best to bring the man smiles, but he failed as often as he succeeded.

Then, one day, the bald man came to a decision to stop injesting toxic beverages at a manic pace and his moods began to even out a bit and the dog was happier. But the high that the man enjoyed from making his life-altering decision was transient and soon he reverted back to his self-absorbed ways.

The dog still had much love to offer, but the man was oftentimes unreceptive to the overtures and so the dog slipped into what seemed to be a depression. Day after day, the brindled bundle of benevolence bounded up at the sound of his master's alarm clock only to be subtly ignored for the flash of the computer, the squeaks and squirks of the video game system. Day after day, night after night, the dog lay on the couch, in the armchair, letting loose great sighs, his Boxer face more droopy than Nature had intended.

The bald man saw his depressed dog and tried to buoy his spirits, but the man's attention was sketchy at best...often the man would come home from work and go directly to bed for hour-long naps.

The man thought to himself, Hell, I live in a house, now. I have a backyard. Maybe Lou would benefit from having a partner-in-crime. Maybe another dog would help the situation.

And that thought of another dog stewed in the back of the man's mind.

And then, one day, the man's co-worker mentioned that she knew of a Beagle that was looking for a new home. The man, after some consideration, decided, sure, that could very well be a damned good thing. So he adopted the Beagle. With Dickensian sugar plums cavorting in his head, he named the dog Oliver, after the orphan from Oliver Twist. (Plus? The dog just looked like an Oliver.)

At first, things were gravy. Louie had never seemed happier and Oliver, after an extremely brief transitional period of uncertainty, soon became comfortable with the living situations.

Overly comfortable, it turned out.

The man noticed, after a time, that, when Oliver ate, Louie sat a respectful distance away, eating only after Oliver had finished. The problem became quickly clear, though, that Oliver was never finished. The little sausage-bodied dog did not eat to live. Rather, he lived to eat. And he rapidly attained Alpha status when food was concerned.

Thus, Oliver began to resemble a black-and-tan-and-white bowling ball with legs. And Louie, after putting on a quick layer of intial muscle from increased playtime, began to shrink. Still a muscular canine, his spine and ribs became more appreciable and his fur seemed to lose some of its luster. Meanwhile, the bowling ball glowed.

The bald man began to get a little worried. He wondered just how the hell he could fatten Louie up while gently nudging Oliver towards a healthier lifestyle.

He came up with this idea: who the hell said that they had to eat together all the time? That was what the doggy gate was for, he reckoned. Segregation (no pun intended) was the key. To isolate the sons-of-bitches seemed to be the order of the day.

So that was what the man decided to do. And he had heard (or read) somewhere that raw eggs mixed with the dry dog food were good for dogs. And that he--not the dogs--controlled the quantity of food that was delivered to the furry bodies, one rotund, the other stretched like a rubber band.

And so the experiment began in earnest....

{To be continued}

GANGSTA RAP

I stopped at the local music resale store today. I was intent on finding some Anthrax and/or some Megadeath. Just in one of those moods, I reckon. Headbangers, unite.

Anyway, I found neither. I ended up getting some other CDs, one of which was N.W.A.'s 1988 release Straight Outta Compton. Blast from the past, eh? An acronym for Niggaz With Attitudes, N.W.A. was basically a rap super-group which counted as its members such icons of gangsta rap as Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, Eazy-E, MC Ren and DJ Yella.

The second song on the disc is "Fuck Tha Police." The chorus sounded for the first time, and I found myself vehemently barking, "Fuck the police!" I paused and started laughing to myself. There I was, a somewhat mild-mannered, mid-30s white guy, driving the speed limit, safely seatbelted in a silver Ford Focus hatchback in an affluent suburb of Detroit. I was about as far from Dr Dre and the other fellas of N.W.A. as I could be.

Yet, I felt an affinity towards them. They m'boyz.

I, too, have had run-ins with the boys in blue. More than a couple of times, actually. Of course, every time I had a problem with the law, I was a million sheets to the wind and I can't really blame them for doing their jobs, ridding Suburbia of sodden belligerence. But, still, the animosity remains. Fucking pompous do-gooders. Strapped egos sauntering about like Hands of God.

Fuck tha Police, indeed.

One of these days, my childish, churlish attuitude towards our beloved protectors will change. Until then, I am,

Signed,

Gangsta Adam

[Now excuse me. Heavens to Betsy, but the dishes are piling up!]

WE'RE NUMBER ONE! WE'RE NUMBER ONE!

But I demand a retabulation of the numbers. This is bullshit. I think that Detroit was the fattest city in the United States, too.

Well, you gotta be good at something, right?

(And, trust me, it isn't shocking that Flint, MI, came in third in the "Misery Ranking.")

IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS

Life comes at you fast. 21st Century technology ramps up the velocity. Cell phones, instant messaging, digital televisions, gaming systems, GPS technologies: they're all great and they all serve their purpose. But, God damn, life often seems like a whirlwind of activity--technology, bills, relationships, responsibilities--and sometimes you lose your bearings and you don't know whether you're coming or going.

So it's the little things in life that can help you regain your equalibrium.

With southeastern Michigan's wacky (Michigan-like) weather lately, my backyard has been transformed from a dog-dug, brown "lawn" to a shimmering ice rink. It's completely covered in two-inch-thick ice, save for a few spots in which the sunshine did its melting job.

The dogs were overjoyed to see me today when I got home for work and, when I let them outside, they scampered across the brown area near the side door and then took off across the icy yard. Slippin' and slidin' and playfighting, they brought a smile to my face, reminding me of hockey players sliding around on the ice as they tried to level a punch at their opponent.

I busted a thick layer of ice off of the fold-out canvas chair and sat my Carhartt-layered ass down to enjoy the festivities. Moments of serenity are little things, too, but we gotta cling to them, sometimes. They are increasingly--in this modern world--few and far between. This was one of those moments, and I clung to it. The sun was shining down on me, I was nice and toasty inside my outerwear and the only sounds I heard were the chirps of birds and the hypnotic shurrrr sound of distant traffic and my boys' breaths of playful exertion.

Slippin' and slidin'. Slidin' and slippin'. No cell phones ringing, no TVs blaring, no obnoxious commercials imploring me to buy a new dinette set...just dogs' breaths, puffed cloudy by the frigid air. I felt the tension of work begin to slip out of my shoulders and neck. I breathed deeply and closed my eyes in the sun. So what if it was 20 degrees? I was warm and I was right where I wanted to be. I slowly opened my eyes to the bright winter day.

I watched m'boys tussle for about ten minutes and then I watched as they amicably broke and went about marking their territory, voiding their breakfasts. And I watched as they scrabbled over to me in the chair and offered their heads for petting and then I watched as they discovered the ice that I'd knocked loose from the chair and mouthed a couple of big chunks over to the brown areas on the hockey rink, where they lay down. And I heard them crunch.

And I listened. And I watched. And I breathed. And that was good enough.

ROOT CANAL: *PARTE DOS*

In about seven hours, I will be slouching in the dentist's chair, proffering my gaping maw, cringing 'gainst the high-pitched whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnne of the little drill. Or maybe the big, slow, plodding drill that vibrates my whole head, making me feel as though I were caught in a mini, only-Adam's-melon earthquake.

Before either drill, however, my dentist, Dr. Mills, and his sidekick Cindy will bounce a bit of impromptu standup comedy against the white-tiled walls, against my noggin.

[One classic Mills joke is: "If the novocaine doesn't work, we'll just have to conk you over the head with a rubber mallet." Dr. Mills? I only laughed that one time because I was hung over as drunken turkey and my seratonin and dopamine levels were all fucked up, so please if you could can it, sir?]

After the joke session, a fifteen-inch needle will magically appear in Dr. Mills's right hand and with his left he will pinch the inside of my cheek and slide his ever-so-sharp untensil into my Clockwork Orange-propped mouth.

It only hurts for a moment, kids; trust me on that one.

Then.... Then, the fun begins! Whee! Drilling and scraping and Cindy's thigh pressed against my shoulder and Dr. Mills's nasally monologue and white ceiling tiles. My mouth will be jammed open and twisted and pinched and contorted and jagger-slashed and rinsed and spit out and on and on and on.

And then I'll get to pay for it! Whee! In all seriousness, though, thank God for insurance. Instead of 1700 doll hairs, I'll only have to pay, like, three-and-a-half hundred doll hairs. So, that's something good, eh?

Depending upon how smoothly the undertaking goes, I could walk out of there the owner of a new crown, carefully matched in color to my surrounding, yellowed choppers. In all likelihood, though, I'll walk out of there with a temporary crown and I'll get to go back again! Excuse me if I refrain from the "whee!" blast. This dentist shit gets old.

The only good thing about this debacle is that I'll be able to twist his arm into prescribing me some Tylenol 3s...or maybe even some Vicodin! Probably not the V--and I don't think I'd really want the V--but I know that I'll get some Threes out of the deal. Hell, it's the least they could do, what with puttin' me through all that pain and abject sufferin'.

Let this be a lesson to you, kids: when you eat sugar by the spoonful, be sure--damned sure!--to floss afterwards!

That is all. PSA complete.

Happy Card-and-Flower Day to you all...and to all a good (wink wink) night.

DOG-EAT-DOG WORLD

"May I have the...Beagle, please?" Thus spoke Dr. Something-or-other Something-or-other, the final judge at the 2008 Westminster Kennel Dog Show. Uno, the fifteen-incher had just ended a quarter-century Best In Show drought for Beagles.

I felt good for the Beagle. Having been blessed with Oliver, here, for the last seven or eight months, I have come to love the Beagles' stubborn ways and intense hunger for both attention and food. I have come to respect the Beagles' world-class noses; I have come to love their melty butter-pat eyes. Their character is dynamic; they own the room.

Uno was a good choice: a perfect specimen and he had that it quality. The commentators referred to him as a "rock star" and, while that may be stretching it a bit, the dog definitely carried himself with some pizzaz. To attribute some human qualities to the bastard, he looked like he felt he was above all the superfluous pomp and circumstance. He knew he was the best dog: Yawn. Just gimme the trophy and be done widdit, okay?

However, if I'd been one of the judges, I would have made sure that this guy was in the final group. And i would have judged him Best In Show. The Neopolitan Mastiff. All wrinkles, jiggles and lope.

CRACKER LOVE

"If there be no roses, then lay 'em down in crackers."

There was a massive rose shortage, seventy-five years ago. No one really knew just why the roses had ceased--for the most part--to grow, but all men who, on Valentine's Day, feigned cliched romanticism felt that they were up the creek without a paddle.

The wealthy men could afford the rarity of roses, but the poor and middle-class lovermen were jammed somewhere between a rock and a hard place.

In New Jersey--New Brunswick to be exact--a man named Abe Rittlefrop figured he had found the answer. A deli man by day, Abe fancied himself a peerless Lothorio and so, on February 12th, a couple of days before the big day, Abe ran his wife of nine years, Gertie, through a dry run.

"Close your eyes, sweetie," he'd said, leading her down the tight hall to the bedroom. "I have a wonderful surprise for you."

Docile as a lamb, Gertie Rittlefrop followed. She had learned over time to acquiesce to Abe. He was nothing special in the Bed o' Love, but she'd found that, if she voiced her opinion (or wants or desires) like her women liberation friends, Abe would invariably become churlish and belligerent.

Tenderly Abe led her by the hand to the bedroom and opened the door to the soft warm smell of vanilla candles.

"Can I open my eyes now, Abe?" Gertie asked.

"Not yet, lover," he whispered at her ear. "Just a little further." He led her a few feet farther and then released her hand and slowly and softly ran his hands up her sides and cupped her breasts. She drew in a quick shuddering breath. "I have a lovely surprise for you," he whispered. "I am sure you're going to love it. You're going to think that it's the bees' knees, indeed."

She smiled, her eyes still squeezed tightly shut. "I'm sure I will, too, Abe, honey. You, um, never fail to impress." In her mind she pictured his three-inch erection, curved at the base, as thin as a pretzel rod. "You make me feel like a school-girl, fresh to the thought of love." In her mind, she pictured little boys and girls, standing at the blackboard, chalking out multiplication tables.

Abe smiled grandly. "Now," he said, and lay her gently onto the bed.

Along with the familiar creaking of the ancient box springs, Gertie first heard and then felt the foreign (to the bedroom, at least) cracking and crumbling of thousands of brittle crackers. She grimaced and pawed Saltines from the small of her back. Some multi-grain crackers had found their way into her panties and so she hooked them out and deposited them on her stomach. Her eyes slid open.

Abe stood at the foot of the bed, grinning fiercely. She could tell that he'd put a lot of thought and effort into this "surprise" and she knew how babyish he could become when someone didn't fall into line exactly as his mind had surmised, but...crackers? This would be a tough one to negotiate.

He raised and lowered his eyebrows in a lame Groucho Marx impersonation. "You like, honey?" he asked.

"Crackers, dear?" she said. "Why...crackers?" She shifted her weight up to the headboard; the bed of crackers crumbled in her wake. An itchy medley of Saltines and wheat thins and goldfish crackers found their way between her buttocks.

His face fell. "Why not crackers? I know how much you love crackers and there was a whole extra delivery of 'em at the deli. I figured two birds with one stone. If you don't like it, why then I'l--"

"Oh no, no!" she said, holding her hands out. "I love the idea. It's so...unique, dear. You're so thoughtful and caring. And...innovative, honey. You're like my own little Edison."

"'Little Edison?'" he grumbled.

She amended herself. "You're like my own huge, gargantuan Edison, baby. Come here. Come to Mommy." She opened her arms to him and he clambered aboard. They made sweet love in the bed of crackers. In the end they were covered in dust and spent.

And so, in the Year Without Roses, love was still professed, love was still made and love, sweet love, still reigned supreme.

But clean-up was a bitch.

DINNER

It is February 5th. It is 12:31 in the aye-em. I am in Michigan. It is the anniversary of the Constitution.

I heard thunder a few minutes ago. And now the patter of rain soothes my soul. Thunderstorms in February? Oh, sure. It's like we say in Michigan: "You don't like the weather, wait five minutes." LOL! LOLz! HahaHA! ROFLMAO!1!

For dinner tonight, I had a bag of microwave popcorn with parmesean Goldfish Crackers and a bowl of Bear Claw ice cream, complete with whipped cream and Hershey's chocolate syrup.

I must be 12. Okay, maybe 13. For dinner tomorrow, I'll be having Geno's Pizza Rolls. And a Zagnut candy bar.

Post-coital bliss is a good thing. It should be bottled. And sold to dictators, despots and jingoistic American presidents under the brand name of Mell-Ohhh. Maybe it would calm people down, make them shinier happier people. Hell, it's a thought.

My sleep schedule got all ducked (mucked, clucked, pucked, shucked, fucked) up this weekend. I was on-call at work and I got called out at 11:00 on Saturday night. We got out to the job and, after heading back to the shop to bring back another backhoe (the frost-line was a motherfucker) we dug down to the curb box and found it to be blowing through. So...that was a bit of a job. We ended up getting done with that job at around nine the next morning. I went home after that, tired as a one-legged dog in an ass-sniffing contest, and I lay my head on the pillow and promptly fell asleep. Fell asleep for an hour and a half, that is, until work called again. The second job went for about five or six hours. So, all in all, though on-call can be a pain in the pooper, sometimes, it is tough to sneeze at 15 hours of double-time and three meal tickets.

But now my body and brain think that it is Wednesday...or Thursday. They are sadly mistaken.

I have to mention the Superbowl. What. The. Fuck? I mean, seriously: what the fuck?! How does a team that went 18-0 and set all types of scoring records and basically made the competition look like so many Pop Warner teams lose to a team that had to claw and scratch to even make the playoffs? It is simply unfathomable.

As Al Pacino would bark, "On any given Sunday!"

This is the biggest upset ever in the history of the National Football League. Tom Brady, uber-quarterback, finally didn't come through in the clutch. I reckon this just proves that he's human. (Although he does have movie star-good looks and he is insanely rich and he does fuck a supermodel whenever the mood strikes him.) In the Superbowl, however, he looked as mortal as Abe Begoda. And that's saying something.

I still have Christmas lights up in my front room. They are there to stay for a time indeterminate. I like the rosy red glow that they cast. I like how it makes me feel--perhaps--like I'm back in the womb, warm and safe...and bored out of gourd.

That's all for now. Have a happy Tuesday.

Post-script: That picture is of me at my friend Pablo's 40th birthday party. His finacee held it at a bowling alley. I bowled like shit, as did everyone else. That cake is a torso of a buxom woman dressed in a pale blue negligee. Two of the candles were placed strategically in the frosting where the nipples would have been. Mmm...frosty nipples....

POST-ROOT CANAL: INTERNAL DIALOGUE

My mouth is home to warring factions right now. My tongue keeps poking into the debris left by the root canal and flexing against the substance (whatever the hell it is) that the dentist used to pack the immense hole. My tongue is repeatedly scraping 'gainst the sharp edges of the annihilated tooth.

Tongue [like an excited third-grader]: Oh! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Looki--

Jagged Tooth: Dude. We're the same as we were fifteen seconds ago, man. We haven't changed a lick. [pauses] You know? That was pretty punny, all things considered.

"Substance": Huh?

Jagged Tooth [sighing]: Never mind, blob. Never mind.

Tongue: Oh! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Loo--

Jagged Tooth: Yes! We are still here, you ADD motherfucker!

"Substance": Well, speak for yourself, compadre. I ain't exactly as here as I was back at the office. Tongue-boy...he's, uh, really done a number on me. [to itself] Maybe I wasn't hard enough?

Tongue: Oh! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here!

Stomach [from a distance off-stage]: I can vouch for "Substance," Jagged Tooth. Some of him is with me. Well, was with me. I had him take a bath. So what if it was a bath in acidic juices? 'Twas still a bath, you know.

Jagged Tooth [sarcastically]: Thanks for the input, Stom. What would we do without you?

Stomach: Durrrr....

Tongue: Oh! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Lookie here! Looki--

Jagged Tooth: Man, keep it up. Seriously. Keep it up and I may have to cap yo' ass. Or maybe crown yo' ass.

[Silence from all]

Jagged Tooth: Does anyone here have the friggin' capacity to appreciate a pun?! Jesus!

Stomach and "Substance" [simultaneously]: Durrrr....

Tongue: Oh! Lookie here!

CUSSING

I think I have unintentionally taught Louie the F-word.

He seems too young to know that kind of language.

Every time he and Oliver are wound up and playing, when there is a break in the action, I'll look over at Lou and say, "Whassa mattah, huh? Go on. Fuck 'im up."

And he bounds off.

Sorry, Lou, to have corrupted Your Furriness.

CHOCOLATE COVERED OREO'S

Today at work I was standing in the meeting room before work and I saw a pink piece of paper on the table. Seeing as how I work at the gas company and pink is usually not a piece of paper but the punchline to a joke, I picked it up and examined it. It was some kind of pricing sheet, listing the prices of chocolates and treats and the like.

"Chocolate covered oreo's" and "chocolate covered strawberry's" screamed at me from the pinkness. I was in an odd mood, I admit. There was a pen lying nearby, so I used said pen to circle the misplaced apostrophes and draw a line to the phrase that I wrote: "not needed."

Later, as I was out at the truck, doing the pre-trip inspection, one of my coworkers, a fine-looking woman in her mid-40s who smokes like a chimney and possesses a gravelly voice, walked up to me and shoved the paper in my general direction.

"Did you do this?" she demanded.

"Uh, yessssssss?" I said hesitantly.

"That's great," she said. "Just great." She glared at me. "Did you even read the whole thing?"

I studied the pink sheet of paper. "Lymphoma" and "leukemia" leapt off the page at me. I felt a sinking feeling in my gut.

"There are only a limited number of these printed out, Adam," she said. "This is a fundraising sheet for blah blah blah blah."

Truth be told, I didn't really process what the fundraiser was for. I felt like a real shitheel and so my ears kind of tuned out the rest of what she was saying. I figured I'd read it more in detail later. The sinking feeling in my gut intensified.

"Really nice, Adam," she barked. "Really nice. Just don't fucking touch it again."

And, with a disgusted shake of her head, she stomped off, heeding not my lame "sorry."

Whoops. Let this be a lesson. Pretend not to see glaring grammatical errors and, if that is simply not possible, for God's sake, don't break out the correction pen.

I think I'll be buying some strawberry's and oreo's tomorrow.

(Then again, this woman has the supremely ergonomically-placed ability to be a queen bee bee-yotch, so it wouldn't even surprise me if she turned me and my money away. And blasted me with another F-bomb.)

CYNTHIA FRANCES [LAST NAME REDACTED]

My Mom turned 66 yesterday, the 28th of January. She doesn't seem 66; in fact, she doesn't seem a day over 65-and-a-half. I joke. I keed. I joke and keed because I love her with all my heart. (She actually doesn't seem a day over 50.)

What can I say about the woman who nurtured and raised my sisters and me to be the people we are today? Where do I find the words to convey the love with which we were brought up? The love that richocheted off of us and back to her? I don't. It is nebulous. Intangible.

I just know that it's there. And it always will be.

Happy birthday, Mom. I love you.

SUDDEN FICTION, A-TO-Z: THE MAGICIAN

[Because I am bored. And because I want to send that "Masturbation" post down the 'pike, a bit.]

"And now," spat the magician, "the rodent shall return from the dark depths of Hades, perfectly intact...not a whisker harmed." Bristling with hubris, the greasy-haired 60s-ish magician swept the threadbare satin away from the hat and beamed out towards us, his straggling "audience."

"Cool," mumbled Betty, staring at the empty hat, obviously bored out of her mind. "Do you think we could, uh, get going, now?" she asked me, pinching at my love handles. Empathy was not Betty's strong suit. Frankly, if she couldn't care less about something, she had absolutely no problem letting that fact be known.

"Girl," I stage-whispered, "this guy's life has got to suck ass; the least we could do is give him a fiver or something and be polite about his show, hon."

He looked into his top hat and, frowning slightly, pulled it closer to his face. "I seemed to have lost Ricardo," he mumbled.

Jiggling the change in my pocket, I held Betty's arm close to my side and waited.

"Killer show, old man!" some teenaged wit hissed to the scattered laughter of his peers.

Let me just say here that I have never seen a more forlorn expression: the old man's eyes glistened with unspent tears, his gray eyebrows furrowed, casting his sky-blue eyes into darkness, and his chin trembled as his lips quivered. My guess was that the old man--"Xerxes the Great"--was going to break down and weep right there, on the corner of Thirteenth and Grant.

Not a very pleasant memory to retain from a vacation, you know? Our original intent--Betty's and my--was to walk the streets of New York and soak in the manic frenetic energy of the city, do some window shopping, maybe enjoy a couple of under-prepared and over-priced deli sandwiches and some beer...you know, just take in the atmosphere. Plopped right in front of the deli had been this Xerxes fellow, resplendent in his tattered magician's cape (that he'd probably found in a Dumpster behind a costume shop) and his dirty blue jeans that were unraveling at the cuff. Quixotic image, that: a street magician practicing his "craft." Really, though, the problem was that this dude sucked, he had no talent for Illusion, and this wasn't 19th-century Paris. Sadly, he was just a bum, down on his luck, hawking for money, making a fool out of himself and it hurt me to see him degrade himself as such, so I tightened my grip on Betty's arm and turned to go.

"Try again, Xerxes," she said softly, boring her beautiful brown eyes into the old man's blue. Usually, Betty had little patience, so this was a welcome (and somewhat heartwarming) about-face for her.

"Very well, young miss," said Xerxes, straightening himself to his full height and regaining what dignity he could. "Watch very closely as I bring Ricardo back from"--he cleared his throat with a rattle--"the darkest depths of Hell."

Xerxes the Great replaced the satin over the mouth of the top hat and, with murmury incantations, swirled his free hand above the whole shebang, his long delicate and dirty fingers plucking imaginary cherubs from the air and gesturing them towards the hat.

Yes, the rodent returned; yes, Ricardo the rat emerged from the hat, gray-brown and whiskery, his black eyes beady, little front paws up on the brim of the hat, his long fat pink tail curling out over the edge; and yes, Xerxes the Great tasted Redemption--the real magic that day, though, was the way in which Betty had been imbued with the all-encompassing warmth of empathy, the way in which she opened her heart to someone less fortunate.

Zonked with the happy chemicals of Altrusim, sex that night was the best ever...and, yes, it always comes back to the sex.

MASTURBATION--IT LOOKS GOOD ON YOU

I found this in the comments section of Fumblings web site. It's called the Slogan Generator, and you can put any word into the little box thing-y and hit "sloganize". I entered "masturbation." Hijinks and hilarity are guaranteed to ensue.

Okay. I'm off to sloganize "Golden Shower." Take care. (And Happy Saturday.)

Here's a good slogan: "You Need a Golden Shower." :-P

TAGGED WITH SMUT

I've been tagged. Nighthawk Nan of underacheivingmommy fame sent this my way and I think it would simply dandy to ruminate on sex. Ponder on sex. Ponderous sex. Hmm. That doan soun' too fun, Loocee! Ponderous, that is...sex in general is an absolute delight.



Rules and Regulations: Tagged or not, feel free to post it on your blog (the more the merrier). Title your post the Smut Meme, outline the rules, and tag two people when you're through. Please link to whoever you've tagged, so we can see just how smutty your readers are.

Okay. Let's see how smutty Adam is.

1. Chocolate or whipped cream? I can't say that I've really ever had either in the Bed O' Love. Once, I was pretty trashed when I was with this girl and I walked naked into the kitchen and brought back a can of Reddi Whip. We never got to the whipped cream and I awoke the next morning with my mouth tasting of ashtrays and stale booze and the girl was on the couch (she said I was snoring too loudly). The Reddi Whip was on the floor, on the side of the bed, leaking white stuff onto the carpet. Hungover and bummed out, I just threw it into the trash.

2. Leather or PVC? Leather. It has more of a sense of natural goodness than PVC, a substance with which I associate much displeasure and sweat. Also, PVC makes me think of work. It's a kind of pipe, too, isn't it?

3. Outdoor sex or indoor sex? For me, it's got to be inside sex. I guess I'm kind of a private person. I don't want to take a risk of having sex outside and someone happening by and noticing my eighteen-inch erection. Leapin' anacondas! They'd be scarred for life!

4. In the jacuzzi or in the bed? I like being comfortable. In bed, all the way.

5. Bad sex or no sex? Considering all that I have to offer is bad sex, I'll have to go with bad sex. Otherwise, there'd be no sex...and that'd be a negative thing. :-P

6. Dominate or be dominated? Spank me, baby. Tie me up and tell me what to do. Make me your sex slave.

7. Thigh highs or body stockings? Oh, shit. Thigh highs all the way. Women wearing high boots are a major turn-on for me. Particularly thigh highs made of chocolate and whipped cream. (Oh. And PVC.)

8. Fast or slow? Eeeeeeeaaaaaaaaasy does it. For me.

9. Rough or gentle? Could there maybe be a happy medium? How about roughly gentle? Naw. Fuck it. I like to do it rough (but pain-free).

10. Bite or suck?! Are you kidding me?! S-s-s-s-s-su-su-su-- I can't even say it, I like it so much. :-P But, of course, a well-timed (and placed...and pressurized) love bite is heavenly, too.

11. Role play or reality? I gotta say, I like a little role-playing. 'Tis fun, is what it is.

12. Dirty talking: coming or going? Coming. I feel like a fool when I mack my dirty talk. It makes me feel self-conscious and, Lord knows, one doesn't need to feel onstage when one is puttin' the biscuit in the basket.

13. Edible panties or no panties at all? I don't want to have to chew through a layer of frustration to get to the Promised Land. Plus, I have to think that they'd leave a sticky residue all over the bed and, thus, all over the bodies. I'm not a fan of feeling sticky. So, in summary, with a choice between no panties or edible panties, I'd have to go with no panties. The best answer, though, is the G-string. Plus! Isn't it fun to disrobe your lover? That's highly underrated.

14. Spanking paddle or bare hand? Definitely bare-handed spanking. If she's been a naughty girl, she'll have to be spanked, but I want her to know that it hurts me as much as it hurts her. Plus, come on. Why the hell would I waste a perfectly nice naked ass on a paddle when I have my hand, um, handy? Exactly.

15. Landing strip or Kojak? Telly south of the border. Who loves ya, baby? The less hair, the better, in my humble opinion. I'm not a fan of tonguing stray hairs out of my molars. (Wow, that sentence was just wrong on so many levels.) ;-)

16. Multiple sessions or one good fuck? Multiple one good fucks. 24 hours of sweaty, steamy, tantric, no holds barred, kinky, loving, transcendental sexual congress. (And then I'll wake up and realize that I am no Lothario. Whoever the fuck Lothario is. Jealous much, Adam?)

17. Moaning or screaming? I am partial to soft, heartfelt moans. It makes me feel that I'm doing a decent job.

18. Three-way or no way? Three-way, for sure. As long as I'm the only cock in the henhouse. Gosh, I get goosebumps just thinking about it. :-D

19. Swing or no swing? Schwing! That's as close as I'll get to that. No swinging for me, thanks. Ever since I traded Ron Guidry (his strike-shortened 1981 season) for Bill Gullickson and Ron Davis in Strat-O-Matic baseball, I've had an aversion to trading. And to trade significant others? That'd be madness. Madness, I say!

Okay. I'm done. This meme has left me in the mood to grab the KY and a napkin and fire up the ole DVD player but, since it is 2:30 in the morning and I am basically the walking dead, I think I'll call it night and dream of kama sutras and breasts.

Tag. Who do I tag? No pressure, play if want to and don't if you don't. Okay, I tag Meegie and Laura from Scotland.

"WHAT? DO I AMUSE YOU?"

So says Joe Pesci in one of the--if not the--greatest gangster flicks ever, Goodfellas.

Do you ever get the feeling that someone is looking at you and silently following a comedic interlude inside their head, in which you are the buffoonish lead act? I do. I don't get that feeling nearly as much as I used to, but I still occasionally want to leap onto the counter (or table, or chair) and burst into my Pesci imitation. "What? Do I fucking amuse you? What am I? A clown? Huh? You seem like you're having a grand old motherfucking time, there, laughing at my expense. No, that's cool. If I amuse you, that's just fucking dandy. But maybe you should pay me for being the clown act. Because I really wanna know: am I just a clown, here, goose-stepping around strictly for your motherfucking amusement?! Answer me, Henry!"

Okay. So I wouldn't call the person Henry...unless, of course, his name really was Henry.

[Henry is Henry for the Henry Hill in the movie Goodfellas, based off of the book Wiseguys, written by Henry Hill, a former member of a New York-based Mafioso Family to which he turned the screws and sang like a yellow parrot.]

I digress.

I bring this up because earlier tonight I went to the late-night liquor store to procure a pack of smokes. It was late, so I just threw on some brown slippers and, wearing my cobalt-blue pajama bottoms and a green sweater (and a knit hat and a brown leather jacket) I stepped carefully into the car and drove the block or three down the road. The kid in the store was sitting over by the cases of beer, talking to his buddy with the heavy eyelids, and when I walked in, he looked up and started towards the counter.

"How you doin'?" he asked, pleasantly enough, as I walked to the counter.

I said, hey, what's up, man, and something in his face changed. He went from open and ready to sell me my cigarettes to, in my opinion, tense and guarded. I asked for a "pack of American Spirits, blue," and he walked over to the cigarette section and grabbed my pack and brought it back to the register.

"That'll be [price redacted], sir," he said, all professional, now. As I gave him the money, I glanced up at him and saw him looking over at his friend and smirking. I've seen the look before. It's annoying. What the fuck about me is so gosh damned amusing, you son-of-a-pup?! Is it the slippers?! Get over it.

Anyway. I'm tired now. It'll be another night of short shitty sleep. I just felt the urge to relay this story to the masses. Why? Who knows. It just bugs the everlovin' shit out of me to be laughed at, or mocked, in any way. I'm pretty sensitive; it's a character flaw. Maybe I need to grow thicker skin. Maybe I need to sprout a duck's ass and just let the slights roll off the back like so much water. Whatever.

Current mood: Annoyed.

:-P

I DO NOT UNDERSTAND HTML...AT ALL

I am a fool when it comes to HTML. I know nothing about it. If you need evidence of this fact, just scroll down a bit and you'll see a free playlist that I slapped onto this weblog. It is red and it hangs out over the side of the, well, sidebar, and it looks like shit and Jimmy cracked corn and I don't give a flying shit. It looks like a 9-year-old was pounding away on the keyboard, but...Jimmy cracked corn, and all of that.

I tend towards perfectionism, so this abhorent display of "tweaking" the web site has my nose hairs curdling. If I looked in the mirror, I'd probably see steam coming out of my ears.

So...am I just a dummy or is this shit actually as difficult as I make it out to be? I think the former, unfortunately.

Maybe I need to change the type of template that I have. It is called a template, right? The screen around which I juggle letters of the alphabet and punctuation marks and sometimes numbers? Does anyone know what I did wrong?

I do have to change the template, don't I? I have to find a template that will accept this somewhat wide "playlist" thing.

Times of Archa, take me away!

Take me back to the time in which dudes with low brows and animal pelts for clothing chiseled shit onto stone tablets. Take me back to the quill and ink. Take me back to ballpoint pens, for Christ's sake (rice wine).

This binary jungle has me flummoxed.

Oh well. I hope that you like Hendrix and Mozart, Mega Death and Clapton.