DIFFERING VIEWPOINTS

I have been reading the Orange Papers for about three hours. It is a fascinating look--from an AA dissenter--at anything and everything about the organization, from its co-founders, Bill Wilson and Doctor Bob Smith, to its success rate and its "frozen dogma."

All I know is that it works. Call me a simpleton, call me a sheep. All I know is that when I go to a meeting--even a bad one in which people drone on and nothing of great value seems to be imparted--I leave said meeting with a feeling of having done something productive for myself.

I agree with much of what Agent Orange writes. And I appreciate his snarky humor, too. I belive, also, that individuals get themselves sober only when they have had enough of the madness and the sickness and the general malaise that comes with allowing oneself to become led by the balls (or ovaries) by the infantile Crocodile brain that always clamors, "More, more, more!" I believe that people reach a point when enough is enough and they throw that addicitve anchor into the ocean.

That said, I think that AA has helped many people. I truly do. Am I brainwashed into thinking this, as the author may suggest? Maybe. But I know that the program ("the cult," as he would write) has helped me. How? I dunno. Support, sharing, altruism, for starters.

Is this a spiritual experience or is is simple self-preservation? Here, I diverge from Agent Orange: I think it is both.

Anyway, addicted or not, alcoholic or not, I think that this is some really interesting reading.

(I've always thought that Bill Wilson was a little full of himself....)

LET'S TALK ABOUT SEX, BABY

Just moseying around the Internet, today, I found a website that is entitled World Sex Records. Most of the snippets (bad word, in this context) come from the book The Illustrated Book of Sexual Records. I liked this blurb:

The "happy ring," also known as the "goat's eyelid,"was first introduced to the Mongol Emperors by Tibetan lamas in the thirteenth century. After a goat was killed its eyelids were removed together with the eyelashes. First they were put in quick-lime to dry; then they were steamed in a bamboo basket for not less than twelve hours -- this procedure was repeated several times. Once completed the process yielded a sex aid that could be tied round the penis (jade-stem) prior to coitus. The goat's eyelashes were supposed to give the woman a pleasant tickling sensation. Modern versions of the "goat's eyelid"- usually made of plastic-can be found in sex aid shops in this country and elsewhere.

And, as for the longest love-making session?

It all depends what you mean by lovemaking. Does it count if you knock off for a sandwich and a drink and then start again? No agreed ground-rules have been established. Anyway one figure that will do for a starter is the fifteen hours recorded by Mae West in her autobiography - a man called "Ted" apparently made love to her for this length of time: He later said that "he was both astounded and pleased at his own abilities."

I'll have what Ted had, barkeep.

This next makes my skin crawl, a bit. Is it mere coincidence that the first Pope mentioned is named Sergius? And--damn, Leo VIII!--if that ain't a sign from God, I don't know what is! Thoughts and prayers, sir. (Not that it means a damned thing, but it's the nice thing to say.)

The Papacy has a startling sexual history. Pope Sergius III arranged, with the help of his mother, that his bastard should become Pope after him. John XII, deposed in A.D. 963, turned St. John Lateran into a brothel: he was accused of adultery and incest. Leo VIII, who replaced him, died stricken in paralysis in the act of adultery. Benedict IX, elected Pope at the age of ten, grew up "in unrestrained license, and shocked the sensibilities even of a dull and barbarous age." Balthasar Cossa, elected Pope to end the Great Schism, later admitted to incest, adultery, and other crimes ("two hundred maids, matrons and widows, including a few nuns, fell victims to his brutal lust"). In one famous occurrence at the court of Pope Alexander VI, prostitutes were called to dance naked before the assembly, after which prizes were offered to those men who, in the opinion of the spectators, managed to copulate with the most number of prostitutes.

"Micropenis." Good God! This makes me feel all right about myself:

Vast numbers of men - in one estimate the greater majority - think that they have a penis much below the average in size. Perhaps they should console themselves with the thought that many men have extremely diminutive organs. Pomeroy states that the smallest penis encountered in the Kinsey surveys was 1 in. long In the Forum study the smallest erect penis was found to be 4.75 in. in length, quite large compared with many of the specimens that do exist. There are instances reported in the medical literature of penises that do not exceed 1 cm. in full erection: such organs are sometimes labelled with the appropriate term "micropenis". And even 1 cm. is not the smallest-sized penis known to medical researchers. There is a condition known as congenital hypoplasia, where the body of the penis is totally absent and the glans is attached to the pubic region. In one such reported case, with an effective penis of much less than 1 cm. in length, the testes and secondary sexual characteristics were found to be quite normal.

Now, this is talent! Corner pocket, off the bumper:

The vagina, usually associated with sexual intercourse and childbirth, can be employed in a variety of other ways. In addition to serving as a money-box the vagina can also play the part of a billiard table, a game seemingly favoured in parts of Scandinavia. Thus one writer (J. C. Lauret in "The Danish Sex Fairs") remarks "The ladies will lift up their skirts... They will sit against the wall, their legs spread well apart. The gentlemen will take their places on the opposite side of the room... Everyone has a try. The object is to flick the glass marbles into the hole of this delightful billiard table. One can guess at the winner's reward..." But this is passive on the part of the woman. The vagina has other possibilities. It can, for instance drink a glass of whisky or play a mouth organ notices E. Chou in "The Dragon and the Phoenix".

Um, talk about a surprise!

Clitoris size has only rarely been of importance in human society. A few communities- Ford and Beach mention the Easter Islanders - have favoured the large clitoris and some natives have tried with varying degrees of success to enlarge this organ in their girls. For the most part however, with a prevailing indifference in the nineteenth-century and early part of the twentieth-century to sexual arousal in women, the clitoris has been neglected. Needless to say, it varies in size. How big are the largest? Theo Lang in "The Difference Between a Man and a Woman" mentions one recorded instance of a woman having a clitoris 2 in. long, and 3 in. "when fully erect". Pomeroy has remarked that clitorises measuring more than 1 in. are very rare in whites, but may occur in 2 or 3 per cent of blacks "measurements of 3 in. and more were obtained from perhaps one out of 300 or 400 black women". Benjamin and Masters note in "The Prostitute in Society" that Parent-Duchalet came across a clitoris that measured 3.14 in. The eighteenth-century Swiss biologist, Albrecht von Haller, is said to have come across a woman with a monstrous clitoris no less than 7 in. long. But the record clitoris is almost certainly the 12 in. specimen mentioned by various writers and quoted (without comment) by W. Francis Benedict in "The Sexual Anatomy of Women".

"It was a one-in-a-million shot, Doc." How could this woman not know?!

Medical men have been called upon to extract a wide variety of objects from the vagina and urethra following masturbation or accident. Usually the woman knew that the object was inside her and requested medical assistance. Sometimes however a foreign body can lodge in the vagina, after an accident of some sort, and the woman can be totally unaware of its presence. A remarkable instance of this sort occurred when a woman fell downstairs (D. W. T. Roberts' "Clinical Surgery", Vol. 15). A broken-off handle of a broom entered the vagina through the buttock. This was not noticed by her or by the casualty officer who treated her. The broom handle remained undetected in the woman's vagina for three months. Eventually the vaginal discharge made her visit her own practitioner, whereupon the offending object was detected and removed.

No shit, Sherlock:

Kisses between men and women usually last for a few seconds. Kisses lasting minutes are unusual, kisses lasting hours quite remarkable. There is a type of kiss called "maraichinage" - after the Maraichins or inhabitants of the district Pays de Mont in the Vendee (Britanny) which quite literally lasts for hours. In this type of exchange the couple mutually explore and caress the inside of each other's mouths with their tongues "as profoundly as possible." Maraichinage has been recommended as a "real antidote against depopulation."

And, finally:

Today we tend to take the brassiere in our stride. Some unhappy folk are still nervous about it and their unease gives scope for simple-minded comedy in West-End theatre and elsewhere. The most controversial bra ad in America was that of the early fifties - those unpermissive times when the jaunty slogan "I Dreamed I Stopped Traffic in My Maidenform Bra" was coined. The situations varied but the girl was always dressed the same: she wore only a brassiere above the waist and wandered around with a vacant look among normally dressed people. The idea was that the undressed state was permissible as the girl was only dreaming. Psychologists debated the implications of the ad and what its impact on women would be. Moralists, as ever, fulminated.

(IF APPLICABLE) SING IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS

And sing it loud and proud: "I am an alcoholic and I can never ever drink an iota of alcohol with even a modicum of responsibility."

It's a mouthful, huh?

I feel like a fucking loser, I really really do. I feel like a bum, sitting here, on Monday, at the computer, pouring out my Sober-soul to the Cyber-world.

I have had enough, though, thank you very much. And, yes, I said that before, nearly two years ago. I entered a treatment center and dried myself out and started feeling better about myself and went almost eighteen months without even touching a glass of the poison...and then I went to Las Vegas with a couple of friends and my resolve weakened like so much dried-out Play-Doh. I drank. Heavily. Rum-and-Cokes and Coors Lights and Guinnesses and margaritas by the pool.

So I got back from Vegas on June 2nd and, since then, alcohol has become a virtually-omnipresent factor in my "life." People might be surprised by how much poison this sack of bone and tissue (and Soul) can handle.

Returning Stage-Left: the same old feelings of shakiness in the mornings and shortness of breath (allergy, anyone?) like they'd been gone only a day or two instead of eighteen months. In fact, they came back stronger. What kind of bullshit is this that, that, after a year-and-a-half of abstinence, the dis-ease returns ever-stronger?! That's just not right; that ain't fair. (Cry me a river, alky.)

So, yeah. Drinking and all that comes with it: dribbling money away, pissing people off, entering heretofore undiscovered shaky-ass ground at work...all that and more, kidz! =o) Whee! Isn't this fun?!

No.

No, it's not fun. It is misery, is what it is.

I have people supporting me. Lord, do I ever. And that is great. My girlfriend is there for me, my family is there for me...hell, even work is there for me. My attendance record in the last few months handcuffed them, basically--they had to have a meeting with me--but, during the meeting with my supervisor and my union representative and the HR lady, they were all unfailingly positive in their regard for me. "We want you here. You do what you need to do, Adam," they said. "You are a good employee and you are a hard worker...but you have to be here. Do what you need to do to get yourself right."

Amidst their stories of their own families' battles with addiction, I told them that I was going to enroll in an IOP--three nights a week for a few hours at a shot--and that I was going to regularly attend meetings of AA and that I was going to the doctor that day to get a 'script for a drug that makes the user fall violently ill should he or she have the audacity to imbibe while upon it.... Basically, I told them that I was going to go after this Beast with both barrels a-blazin'.

Because I have to. I've not a choice. It is do or die. And, no, that is not hyperbole. It's not the job that is the most important thing (though, of course, in this economy...) nor is it the loss of respect and esteem from others (though that sucks), what it is is the loss of me. The loss of Adam. I change when I drink too much and I, like everyone else, don't like the flip-side of the Shiny Happy Adam. The flip-side is dark and moody and beetles crawl across its coutenance, leaving slimy trails.

Icky!

I made the classic mistake of addicts: I forgot. I forgot the pain and misery and the trials and the tribulations. I forgot the shakes and the nausea and the muddled thinking. I forgot the ten-feet-tall and bulletproof cartoon character that I'd become and I forgot that happiness and contentment are not going to be found at the bottom of a beer bottle or a glass of Bacardi-and-Coke.

So, anyway, I'm doing what I have to do.

Do you know how much it absolutely sucks to have had almost eighteen months clean and then, at meetings, saying, "Well, I've been clean for three days, now"?

Let me put it into laymen's terms for you: it's like setting the speed record for driving down to Florida from Michigan, just flying right along, and then having to pull over at a reststop because you have to take a three-month wet smelly shit. By the time you finally reach Orlando, all the lemonade stands are shuttered and the canvas tents are neatly rolled and stored and the gargantuan mouse is solemnly shaking his oversized head at you. And blinking good-bye with his giant white glove.

Fuck you, Mickey. This is for me, not you. I may feel like a worthless bum...but I'm not.

So, anyway, all histrionics aside, if you are the praying type, could you please include me in your prayers? This ain't easy. My first name is Adam and my middle is Christopher and I am buckling in for the fight of a fucking lifetime. Whee.

Peace.

MEAGAN ELIZABETH....

In my life, baby.

Love you. Never more, Honey.

Signed,

Adam

WOMAN....THE HALF COMPLETES THE WHOLE

Meagan:

Love you.

=o)

LEVITY, FRIVOLITY =O)

I love this:

Stand.

WOMEN'S GYMNASTICS

I know. There are some 16- and 17- and 18-year-olds out there. But!

There are also 20-year-olds.

Basically, I think it is amazing what they can do.

And wedgies don't hurt, either.

And, yes, I am talking about the 20-year-olds.

TIME

it is funny--not ha-ha

how quickly

HOW FUCKING QUICKLY

the Devil can reinsert

get outta my head!

leave me gut!

scram from my Id!

double up and die, motherfucker!

the Devil laughs

but it is funny

how quickly "that"

can come back into one's Life

Funny?

Not ha-ha.

I say this to the Devil:

"Leave me the fuck alone....

...Sir?!"

And the Devil chokes upon Laughter

Good

RANDOM THURSDAY...TILL I SETTLE ONTO TOPIC

Okay. So only one hundred thirty-nine more days to go until I can use a personal day or a vacation day. Sweet, huh? I misappropriated my legit time off at work--I used them too often too early--and so now I must pay the consequences. The "bank" balances begin anew on the first day of 2009. Oy vey.

***

2009. I wonder if this is how the people who were born in the 1800s felt about the 20th century. Futuristic, flying horse-drawn buggies...all that scary shit. But, no. I think the simple fact that we are out of "The Teens" makes the year seem more mind-boggling. However, verily, my mind is boggled.

2009?!

Jeebus.

***

So, women, it's that time of year again. It's the time in which your husbands and/or boyfriends will retire to the computer or the NFL Network to agonize over whom to pick for his team in his Fantasy Football league. Yeah, I know. It is sexist to address this floating piece of blog-minutia to strictly women, but--come on--the numbers bear me out. More men participate in Fantasy Football than women. So...yeah. Women? It's that time of year again.

Outdated football magazines are being snapped up and "doc.football.guru" websites are receiving credit card numbers and third wideouts are being scrutinized. "Do I take Anthony Gonzalez as a third receiver after Braylon Edwards (one) and Greg Jennings (two)? Do you think that Anthony Gonzalez will get a lot of Manning balls thrown his way, what with sharing the receiving corps with Reggie Wayne and the always-consistent Marvin Harrison? What should I do, honey? Whom should I draft? Should I take Gonzalez, an adequate receiver on a high-octaned offensive team or should I take that athletic tight end (Vernon Davis) from the 49ers?"

Do not answer.

I know that your eyes (and mind) may have glossed over by this point, but--heaven's to Betsy!--do not answer. Sometimes we FFPs (Fantasy Football Players) are at a loss and do not know what to do--statistics slam through our heads and SOSs (Strength of Schedules) wreak havoc on our decision-making meters--but if we ask you, "Do I start Adrian Peterson against a tough Chicago defense or do I start Brandon Jacobs against the soft run-defense Jets?" don't just blithely throw out a name. I implore you. And here is the reason: it's a no-win situation. The odds are that Peterson would have a more statistic-filled game but Brandon Jacobs could also go off for three titties and a hundred-twenty yards. You just never know. It's the NFL, for God's sake--No Fucking Logic.

Any given Sunday. Yes.

It is a no-win. If you pick the name that does better, statistically, you'd have just made a "lucky lucky guess, thank you, babe," and if you pick the guy who twisted his knee five minutes into the second quarter and ended the day with 11 yards rushing on six carries with not a sniff of the end zone, well...have you ever heard the phrase, "he cast a baleful eye towards the beautiful princess, vowing he would never--ever--ask her advice on anything ever again?"

FFPs take the "game" seriously. There are only sixteen games in the NFL season. In Fantasy leagues, the playoffs usually start in Week Fourteen. There is absolutely no room for error.

So, women who read this weak attempt at a blog, some advice: the next time your SBHO (Significant Ball-Hanging Other) asks you a question about his cute little football league, don't answer. Instead--instead!--mention that you'd rather have some meat in your mouth than answer that question. Yeah, it's a sleight-of-hand (mouth), but you will have avoided many daze of manly babyishness.

***

So...should I take Frank Gore of the Niners with my first pick or should I go with a top-notch receiver? I pick seventh out of an eight-person, draft-snaking league.

Whaddya think?

;-P

CONQUERING THE BLANK WHITE

Gawd....

I forgot to put deodorant on this morning before I left for work, and, just a moment ago, as I folded my arms over my head, looking at the blank white Bloggin' screen, wondering about what to write, the smell assaulted my nostrils, sneaking in gossamer Kartoon-White: garlic.

Garlic. I love me some garlic. Sauteed in spaghetti sauce--Uncle Paulie had a trick in which he used a razor blade to slice the garlic, slicing it so thin that it basically melted in the pan--grated over pepperoni pizzas, chopped finely into kick-ass saladas...yum.

Word had it that garlic was also good for the heart. Liberally-used in Mediterranean cooking, a belief was once widely-held that the consumption of garlic meant kudos for the ticker. Hell, a vitamin company even once recruited the resilient Larry King--he, the survivor of about 57 heart attacks (and 73 wives)--to blather on about the wondorous medicinal benefits of Garlique brand garlic tablets. ("Now, odorless," he'd rasped.) But, as so often happens with medical news, I remember reading a while back that garlic's benefits for the heart were grossly overstated and that, unfortunately, all it gave you was bad fucking breath.

Ahhhh, but the taste. A little bite here and a little bite there and you'd be crying to you Great-Granny in Hebben that life couldn't be so good. And! You could burp it up later! Sah-weeeet!

Have you ever roasted individual cloves of garlic in olive oil and then spread the substance on some toasted bread? Oh, but you must!

If Post or Kellog's or General Mills had a garlic-flavored breakfast cereal...I wouldn't eat it. But! I would be tempted.

In fact, the only bad feeling I have about garlic isn't even really garlic's fault. This distaste--pun definitely intended--for garlic comes from when I was working at Hungry Howie's Pizza, some eight or nine years ago. This dude--we called him the "Garlic Man"--used to come in after he got off work about three times a week, and he would walk in, his greasy dark brown hair slicked over, his blue work jacket sporting his stenciled name, and he would say to us, "Give me the regular." The "regular" was a medium pizza, "heavy on the pepperoni and heavy on the cheese," with double garlic-butter-cheese crust and garlic powder sprinkled over the top of the pizza, before and after the cooking. Now, basically, what the guy ordered was a three-topping medium pizza (double pepperoni and extra cheese). The then-actual price for a three-topping pizza is lost in the dusty vaults of my mind, but a ballpark figure would be around eleven dollars. When I first started managing there, when I first met the Garlic man, I quoted him the regular price and he kind of chuckled and scanned around the back of the store and said something like, "Well, Eva always gives it to me for five dollars." (Eva was the other manager and, no, the irony was not, and is not, lost on me. Adam and Eva...LOL. LMFAO. Haha! In the Garden of Howie! HAHA!)

Anyway, I stared at him and said, "Yeah, but...."

"And make sure there's a good amount of cheese and pepperoni on there, will ya?"

I sighed. Fuggit. I wasn't making enough to give a damn. "Fine. $5.30, please."

"Oh," he said, jamming his hand into his pocket looking for the nonexistent thirty cents tax. "Eva usually just rings it up for five."

Who was this guy? And who the hell did he think he was? "Fine. Five dollars."

I turned to the prep table and he leaned over the counter, grinning crookedly, a round-bellied forty-something, regaling in the fact that he was "sticking it" to the man. "And go over that pizza twice with that powder of yours. Make it really garlic-y. I love my garlic."

Fuck you, Garlic Man. How 'bout I shove this plastic garlic powder dispenser up your fucking ass, motherfucker? I grinned. "No problem, man."

So, anyway, he would come in about three days a week and get his six-dollar-reduced 'za and--always!--say, "And make sure you get that good and garlic-y."

I'm about to pour this whole motherfucking bottle.... Grin. "Okay. No problem."

And, but, in the end, we became good friends and I visited his mother's wake and he sent me Christmas cards and I named a corner of my refrigerator for him and his wife cooked me Garlic Pineapple Mushroom Cheese Bake--don't knock it till you've tried it--and, one year, he knitted me a woolen scarf when I'd had the late-Winter flu.

No. Actually, none of that happened. All that happened is that my passive-aggressive nature became more engorged each time he came in and smarmily asked for "the regular"--grittttting my teeth more and more--until, one day...nothing. I found another job.

Not because of the Garlic Man, you see, but because I just--well...I just found another job.

Whew! Thank God I got that off my chest!

Now go eat some garlic.

And listen not to Larry King. Because he is a blowhard who would not know a good interview if it...snapped up and latched onto his package.

WANNA CRY?

Hit this link.

English guitarist Eric Clapton--to whom many referred as "God"--lost his child, his son. Many years ago.

The son fell off the balcony--maybe three or four floors from the ground. He died on impact.

What I love about "Tears in Heaven" is that Sir Clapton is owning it.

Yeah!

But it is soooooo fucking sad.

God.

I can't even imagine losing a goldfish.

Listen to it. Keep the facial tissues handy.

RANTING...CLASSICALLY

Mozart.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

I cannot get enough of the man. When I listen to Mozart, I feel "sunshined." Mozart is aural Prozac. Beautiful waves of music and voices cascade over me--through me--and I feel that if I listen too much, my heart may burst from gratitude, love.

It is fucking gorgeous music, man.

No one did it better. Beethoven is genius, sure, but even Ludwig pales in comparison to the great Wolfie. Haydn can suck a cock. His music is pretty, lilting, but he is a Mozart clone. And he lacks...something. Mozart had it, whatever it is.

When I put in a Mozart CD--and play it--I am imbued with an overall feeling of well-being. It is almost as if Wolf-dog double-chucked a seratonin shotgun and blasted me in the head, the heart.

Smiles--sad smiles--cross easily across my countenance. It is almost as if I cannot believe that so much Beauty can be packed into such a small space. I cannot put into words how I feel when I listen to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I have tried, here--briefly--but these words are not enough.

I implore you--even if you think classical music is for sissies or you think it's boring--I implore you to give Wolfie a chance. Listen in a dark room, with no bothersome interruptions. Light an incense stick. Sit in a fluffy chair. If you don't come within twenty-four minutes, you need to get your genitals checked out.

I'm done. I'm just here to help.

THURSDAZE

Out from a sunny day, I walked into the house and the first thing I noticed was that I was blind.


I waited. The glare resumed. Louie looked at expectantly.

I said, "What? What?"

Louie sat down at looked up at the top of the 'fridge. Biscuits.

"You deserve 'em?" I asked.

Louie wagged his tail fiercely and shot a snatch over his right shoulder. He'd heard the resonance of the Approaching Ollie.

Ollie bounded--jingled--into the room, all fat glorious black-and-white-and-tan coloring. His tail was a speeded-out metrenome.

"Sitcho ass down," I said.

Ollie acquiesced, gazing forlornly at the top of the ice box.

"Gimme a second," said I.

I reached to the top of the food-retardant and both dogs shimmied on their haunches. I selected two Milk-Bone Gravy Bones and I fed my sons, one and then two.

Louie--the best dog ever; I'll hear no debate--had the first Milk-Bone.

Ollie wagged his tail into a blur and I took pity on the fat fuck. "Here, Ollie," I mumbled, shoving the biscuit towards his mouth.

Gently--almost pristinely--Ollie the beagle toothed the treat. He waddled off and--frog-dog--lay and crunched the treat.

***

"MY ONLY FEAR OF DEATH..."

"...is coming back to this bitch, reincarnated."

So speaketh, Tupaceth.

Man, the guy died too young. 25 or six years old when he got gunned down.

But.

But. The guy asked for it. He "rapped" about his virility--"shot five times/ niggaz don't die"--and he played the roulette game.

But, my only fear of death is hurting. I don't want to suffer. I'd rather a hole in my head than Linger In Pain.

Why am I writing this? I dunno. No reason. Just kind of a stream-of-consciousness type thing.

I respect--have much love for--Tupac's genius. And it is genius. Was. Whatever. The guy put together driving bass beats and samples and he tied them all up in a bow with his beautiful lyrics.

You don't agree that his lyrics were beautiful? I challenge you to listen to "The Best Of" from Tupac Shakur. The guy was a fucking Light, man.

Done.

THE DREADED D.M.V.

Have you been to the DMV, lately?

I had to go there to fix something with my CDL today.

Here is what I hate: I hate the fact that there are all facets of humanity esconsced inside a seventy-by-seventy. But, what I dislike more, is that the groups of chairs are set facing one another. Facing one another. Why?

It's a human thing: no one wants to make eye-contact; everyone is staring at the ceiling or out the windows or at the passers-by.

I want to ask just one measly question: why could not the seats be set up like a third-grade classroom? Hmm? It'd be great! All seats facing one way. Towards the teachers (the DMV lovlies) and there'd be no uncomfortable eye-contact! It's a win-win! And they could have little posters on the walls. For instance, they could have a kitten clinging to a tree branch and the caption could read "Hang in there, bub." Or they could have another one of a walrus, all tusky and shit, saying (in a talk-bubble), "What? Me worry?" It'd be great. And then maybe also they could have sheets of scrap paper and crayons of every color. That'd be boss! We all could color!

But. No.

We have to sit there, not-eyeing each other for--at the least--thirty-three minutes.

And then, if one has to take a snapshot for his or her license, he or she has to shake off the thirty-plus minutes of stranger-gazing, and look good for the computer camera. It's just bad business, in my humble opinion. It is hard to do.

One thing I like, though? I like that they--perfunctorily, at best, but, sure, yes--they show you the snapshot of your mug and ask you, "Is this aw'ight?" You have a millisecond to persuade them to take another shot. Um.

Me, though? I don't give a hoot. Whatever. My license pictures always suck, so why the heck would I want to "buck the trend," as it were? Exactly. I wouldn't dream of it.

Today, I went there after seven hours of PURE sweating--the other hour was transit time. I was dirty and sweaty--and perhaps smelly--but I didn't care a whit. I smiled like it was the Fourth of July or New Years. Big red-faced teethy smile/snarl at the web-cam.

The woman asked me, "You like?"

I said, "You know what? It's better than the las--wait a second! That's actually not too too bad! Cool."

She informed me that the license would be coming in the mail a couple of weeks and I said, again, "cool," and I walked out the door, free from the prison of El Dee Em Vee.

BLOW AN EYELASH

blow an eyelash off of your fingertip

and make a wish

wish for happiness wish for

glassy-eyed glee

wish for homeostasis

wish for renewed equalibrium and wish for

the strength of ten men

wish for clear bright eyes and

glowing skin and wish

to be absolved of all smirking sin

wish for rewind and wish for

health

wish for family

and wish them some wealth

blow the eyelash off of your fingertip and

watch as it scuttles through the air

--briefly--

and then becomes an anvil

to be lost amongst the dust-bunnies

at your feet

happy wednesday!

=o)

SEX STORY

Read this. Slow deep breaths, indeed.


You're welcome.

RANDOMNESS

I feel like eating a pizza tonight. I am thinking Pizza Hut or Cottage Inn. Hell, maybe I'll even go with Jet's Pizza. I'm thinking of getting a half-and-half: half supreme and half all-meat. I'll have them cook it extra, to make it crispy. They can keep their damned breadsticks, though. That's what the crust is, for God's sake (rice wine, served hot, nasty, do not drink it).

*-*-*-*

It is hot here, in Michigan; the temps are reaching the high-80s and the humidity is something that one could pluck from the air, if one so chose. That translates to one thing for me, at work: sweat, sweat and more good sweat. Hell, I was dripping before I even picked up a shovel! And, no, it wasn't because I was excited.

*-*-*-*

Better humid heat than earthquakes, though. So-Cal experienced a tremblor recently, and--damn. If I lived in Cali, I would be preternaturally-aware of the china in the cabinet rattling. Yikes. Thoughts and prayers to all (especially my Uncle Jimmy and his fam dambly, nestled in Berkeley, CA).

*-*-*-*

(fiction interlude)

"I beg you."

McCallaster holstered his revolver. "Shut up," he hissed. "You're dead. Dead men don't beg for nothing. They don't talk. They just bleed out and then puff up and then shrink down. Make like a ghost, Joe." He paused, stroking his handlebar mustache, and looked at the skeletal trees. "And disappear."

Joe scrambled to his feet and nodded in acquienscence. "You'll never see me around here again, Mac," he said, running into the woods, holding up his pants from the waist, moving in prancing jackrabbit steps.

*-*-*-*

Creativity is frustrating. I wanna be a novelist, I wanna be a cartoonist, I wanna be a poet, I wanna be a painter, I wanna be a sculptor--but, too often, I am just too fucking lazy.

Where the hell is my sense of creative ambition? Huh?

Couldja answer that for me? Or do I have to answer it for myself?

I listen to Mozart, I read subdued brilliance by King, I listen to the bass-driven lyrics of Tupac, and I think to myself that I could do that, too.

And then I tell myself, "Adam? You could've done a lot of things, man, had you cultivated your Ambition Gene instead of letting it curdle and drip into Coma."

Then I think to myself: one, this world is a fucking journey; who knows what the next curve holds? Two, every day is a new slate, believe it or not. Three, I think to myself, I am happy and healthy and full of fucking energy (no jokes, please). That's gotta count for something, right? Four, I forgot what four was for, but five--five!--I'm alive, alive, alive. And six? Pick up sticks, hit some hicks, eat some Twix, sit betwixt--whatever...just do it.

*-*-*-*

Have you ever played Grand Theft Auto: Four on the Xbox 360? It is my favorite game, ever. I'm not even really doing the missions. The fun part, for me, is just driving around and wreaking havoc. Maybe it's my slightly curdled creativity that makes this so fun. I drive into people, send them flying over my windshield, I purposefully get into a fender-bender just so that the other driver will get out of his (or her) car, and then I blast them in the chest with a sawed-off. And then I kick their corpse and take their money and then outrun the Liberty City police so that I can do it again.

Listen: I am a grown man. One, I shouldn't be playing video games, right? Well, wrong. Two, for all those people out there who say that a video game will cause someone to...wait a second...Bill from next door is trimming his hedges. I think I may have to..... Wha' was I sayin'?

*-*-*-*

"The mind is a terrible thing to taste."

Who said that? Wasn't it a title for a Primus CD? I think it was. I'm not sure, though.

Anyway, I don't think that's holy, man. As a title, fine, whatever, but it is gleaned from the NAACP's motto, "A mind is a terrible thing to waste," and I am in whole-hearted agreement with that assertion.

Down with racism and bigotry and homophobia and xenophobia and sexism and ageism and intolerance.

Aren't we all carbon-based life forms? Don't we all hurt, sometimes?

Let's try to love one another. Let's try to spread good feeling to everyone we meet. Let's co-exist harmoniously.

It really ain't all that much to ask.

Am I naive? Of course, I am.

But I can dream, can't I?

*-*-*-*

Remember Barbaro, the horse that broke his leg during a horse race? (I think it might have been the Kentucky Derby--no, the Preakness.) Anyway, Barbaro busted his leg and, contrary to popular practices, he was not instantly "put down." No, he was soothed and taken immediately to a vet and--lo and behold--horse enthusiasts (and anyone that loves animals) were overjoyed when it seemed that he could, in fact, come back from what is usually an instant death-needle. He survived for months. Anyway, the only reason I bring this up is because every time I heard his name, Barbaro, I thought of this guy, Barbaro Garbey, a Cuban bit-player with the utterly-dominant 1984 Detroit Tigers baseball team, who led wire-to-wire and captured a World Series trophy.

My apologies to the equine Barbaro, assuredly an icon in his sport.

fiction--"SHIT'S BLURRY, MAAAAAN."

I looked over at Seth. "What?" I said.

"You heard me, braw. Shit's fucking blurry, man. Where'd she get the cabbage?"

"Oh," I said, flicking a cigarette butt into the remnants of the Thai food. "Jezelle got it from Hand." Hand was a son-of-a-pop from the East side of Detroit. He was fond of walking the streets at night, in his leather checkerboard jacket with a Gat shoved into the front of his pants. I was always amazed that he'd never blown his johnson off. The guy was careless, is all I am saying. Oh, one more thing: more times than not, he "spiced up" his "cabbage" with pistol-shots of Weed-B-Gone. Ironic, sure, but he always had return customers.

Jezelle: hmm. Yeah. Jezelle. Jezelle was a substitute teacher for the Eastpointe school system. During the day, she lectured little fucking punks about George Washington and nuclear power and some fucking Greek's hypothesis (okay, theorum) and, at night, she baked herself good, shimmied her tight little ass into black dresses and hit the streets of Detroit for some top-notch fun. And...she also supplied us with the cabbage.

She'd found Hand--I don't know how--but Hand was more prompt, more eager and more prolific than the dealer she'd had before. (It had been some jock with whom she had scraggled in high spool--he never thought Big.) I don't know. The shit the jock had supplied was some good easy grin-wide shit. Hand's poison was like a trip.

Thus, the blurriness.

Seth was talking to me.

"...and the pig, man, the fucking pig."

Seth had always--for as long as I had known him--hated the police. He called them "pigs"--sure--but he'd also had an almost-preternatural gift to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was his gift; it was his curse. Arrested four times before he hit twenty-five. Sucks to be Seth.

"What about the pig, Seth?" I said. My eyelids were feeling heavy. They felt as though Wile E. Coyote had sandbagged a couple of three-ton Acme weights on them. "Wha abou the pizz, Se'h?"

"You're not even listening, you asshole," he said.

I gestured at the TV screen. "Play sah Maddah, mang." My ass rested comfortably in the leather armchair and my smoke was ergonomically-sitcheeated. "Doan brodder me no mo'e with yoah tales, doo."

"Fuck you, Ethan," he said. "How long we been friends?"

My eyes slid shut and I shrugged in slow-motion. "I dunno. Fi'teen thousand years?"

I heard the clatter of beer cans as he gained his feet. "Yeah," he said, "that's right. Fucker. It's been too long for me, too." He paused and I could feel his gaze tearing through my brow. "You know, cock? I feel really shitty about this fucking blur that I'm getting. I could be overdosing--"

"On weed?" I mumbled.

"Prick. Yeah, on weed. Yes, on fucking weed! What the fuck! We both know that Hand splices his cabbage with bullshit!"

"If ya know," I said, "why--why?--keep on smokin it? Y'slow learner, man?" Seth had been a worrywort since second grade. I couldn't keep holding his hand. "Just fuckin...ride it out, man."

"You're a dick, Eet," he said, as he walked out the front door for the last time.

"Yeah," I said to the slam of the door. "So I been tole, doo."

***

Later that morning, when I got the call from Jezelle, I was half--no, three-quarters--asleep.

"Ethan," she said, her voice slippery with incredulousness.

"Jezzie," I said.

"Have you heard about Seth?"

"Seff? Who?"

"Seth. Your best friend since second-fucking-grade?"

"Yah," I said. "Seth. That fucking pussy. What's he up to, now?"

There was silence from the other end of the line.

"Jezz?"

"Ethan," she said. "Seth's dead."

My eyes shot open. "Fuck you," I said.

"Fuck you, too. Seth is dead."

"April Fool's?" I grinned.

"Seth?" said she.

"Yes?" said I.

"Died."

"Um."

"He had some kind of...I don't know...neurologically-induced meltdown of his organs. I really don't know--the fucking doctors aren't letting me in. But, yeah--fucking shit--the Sethster passed away, Ethan."

I sat up in bed and dragged a palm over my head. I rubbed my neck; a knot was forming. "Come on, you kidder. This is an April Fool's joke, right?"

From the other end of the line came, "No. It is August 27th, Eet."

My stomach flipped. "What the fuck happened?!" I asked. "Did he just maybe feel sick and puke and shit and pull a Jimi and suffocate on his own vomit? What? Did he step into the path of a fucking Mack truck? What happened? Bull-fucking-shit. This is really a fucked-up joke, Jezzie. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"No." She paused. "No joke. You saw him last, Eet. Did he seem sick, or something?"

Blood pounding in my ears and a red flush traversing my cheekbones, I said, "Fuck you, you dimwitted bitch," and I hung up the phone. And pulled the cord from the jack.

And then I cried and shuddered and shuddered and cried for the next three days.

***

On the fourth day, I was combing the streets for Hand. I was jonesing for some cabbage. And? Truth be told, some Smack.

Smack me, Mama, I be bad.

BACK TO WORK AFTER THE EASTERN JAUNT

Back to work.

After nine days off--trip to Pennsylvania with my sisters and my Poppy--today was that dreaded day in which one must, mentally, cast off all illusions of cocoon-ism and rejoin the rest of the world as they--we--slog through, primarily, eight-hour shifts so that we can have money/clams/greenbacks at the end of the week. (Or bi-weekly...but that's just confusing.)

Two words: it sucks.

I was really digging spending the time with my dad and my sisters, Alexis and Melmac th' Great (Melissa). It was great to hit the road in the Cherokee and drive through the hills of Pennsylvania and to meet family members of whom I have just the barest recollection. It didn't hurt that all of the kin that I met were kind and overly-hospitable. They just were.

I felt like an honored guest. And--shit!--the food was delish! Good ole home-cooking: can you beat it? The best home-cooked meal that I chewed and swallowed was served at my second cousin Kevin's house. He and his wife, Sue, are both successful real estate agents and so their house is a fucking beauty. Located in the historic district of...oh, shit, I forgot the name of the town. But, anyway, it's a hop skip and a jump from the Deleware River and, I have to admit, I felt the sting of Jealousy as Kevin gave us the tour of the house. Yeah. They're rich. And I'm very happy for them. Seriously.

But, anyway, the food. Sue cooked some pork loin and made a salad and they grilled about 1300 ears of sweet corn on the LP behemoth in the backyard, located right next to the immaculate in-ground swimming pool, said pool spruced up, redid, for the low low price of 30 grand. Yikes!

But, anyway, the food. It was fantastic. Throughout the whole trip it was fantastic. I gained eight pounds. :-O That's fine, though. It was for a good cause. Hell, they were offering and I was eating.

Speaking from a colon's point of view, the food was a bit--how to say?--heavy on the system. Just meat, meat and more good meat. (And also, sometimes, potatoes.) Texas-sized shits. But! Speaking from a tastebud's point of view, it was alllllll good. The marinades, the garlic...yum.

I have to say something about the B****** Farm. Established in 1913 and located in Waymart, Pennsylvania, the B****** Farm has been the meeting place for scores of family reunions, starting in 1915. My dad has gone to the farm since he was a boy, some sixty-plus years, now. There are a hell of a lot of memories bouncing around those hundred acres. But, the main thing, for me, is that when I go back to the farm, I am imbued with the feeling of coming home. Surprising, actually, as I am not coming home. I was born and raised in Royal Oak, Michigan. But the farm is so cool. They have cows and geese and pigs and barncats and, seeing as how I am a die-hard fan of all things Animal, I have a good time. Sure, the pigs stink. So what? I think that if I were around said sows and piglets for a couple of weeks, I would not even begin to register the permeating manure-smell. But, basically, the farm is nice place to visit, seeing as how 100 years of B******s have traversed the landscape, eaten in the kitchen, dropped loads in the bathrooms (and the outhouse). Family melts off of the walls. Generations of B******s. Tres cool.

While we were visiting, my dad's Uncle Tom said to me, "We've a quad. You want to take it for a spin?"

Now, seeing as how I have ridden a four-wheeler once in my lifetime--two weeks ago in Luther, Michigan--I felt more than qualified to take the 2008 Polaris automatic for a spin. I think--know--that I scared the shit out of Aunt Jean when I, somewhat unfamiliar with the Power o' the Polaris, gunned the thumb throttle and kicked up some gravel. I adjusted nicely, though. In no time, I was flying down B****** Road at about 40 miles per hour, enjoying the wind in my face, the sun on my bald pate. Quads are fun! But. I asked my cousin Tommy--42 years old if he's a day--how much he shelled out for the '08 Polaris. "Um, something like 9800," he said. "But it's got all the bells and whistles." I nodded sagely. I'll not be getting one. (Besides, I live in the Concrete Jungle of metro-Detroit. Where the hell would I ride it?)

Anyway, the trip was fricking great. It was great to see my dad hobnobbing (not a dirty word) with his cousins and his aunts and uncles and it was great to spend time with my sisters, whom I see far-too rarely, and it was just fucking great to get away from work for a week. Now, though, I am out of vacation time and personal days and I have no sick occasions, either. That's all right. I'd take a week off with no pay to experience Family.

Money comes and goes and bills are omnipresent, but quality family time is priceless. It really is.