LOVE FOR MY DADDY

I was going to write a poem, but that wouldn't cut it. I have to get this out in prose.

The cancer has exploded in my father.

BeatlesLetItBe.

As I watch him in his final days, I realize something that I should have realized long ago: this is one strong, brave man. I realize that what he has gone through, these last fourteen months, is a hardship that I can't even fathom. He's never whined; he's never asked, "Why me?" He's gone through the procedures and the operations and the indignities of disease with a pragmatic, dogged determination.

How much do I say? How much do I write? How much do I leave out?

I say this: Robert is a fighter. He's a damned heavyweight, though the skin and flesh sloughs. He is a battering ram, though the fucking disease renders him still.

It tears my heart apart. It fucking tears my heart apart to see him as weak as a kitten. I look at him resting, head slanted on the pillow, hair mussed, face puffed and red from the steroids and other medicines, and I weep--the tears just spring through my clenched eyes--because I remember him as Bobby B., my strong Daddy, a man of natural strength, and--I should have been more cognizant--a spiritual strength, a mental strength, an emotional strength.

Pragmatism as a rule. Get your ducks in a row, make sure that all the lights are off and all the T's are crossed.

He was dealt a blow two Septembers ago when he learned that he'd "caught" Stage Four lung cancer. As his brother was passing from cancer, my father learned that he, too, had the disease. In fact, they were both patients in the same hospital--my Dad was wheeled down to say good-bye to his brother. It was like some fucked-up baton pass. Brother Two gives it to Brother One. No. But...it was a pretty surreal weekend.

And today was surreal, as well. I was paged from my class at Maplegrove--the class was about spiritual health--and I sauntered to the lobby, assuming that the page was for me to see my Addiction Therapist. I strode through the double doors to the lobby and then stopped short. My mom was sitting in a chair in the lobby, her purse at her feet, her cane across her knees. "Mom?" I asked, "what are you doing here? I get out Wednesday." She started to talk and then, glancing at another lobby-sitter, said, "Come here." And she gestured to the seat next to her. I got a funny feeling in my gut.

"Dad's not doing too well."

I was out and I--and my sisters and my Mom and my uncle and my cousins--spent some or most of the next ten hours at my father's bedside.

He winks in and out of reality. He's got something going on in his mind, his brain, and it scares me to look at it. Is he still getting his ducks in a row? I think so, yes. Heavy pain-reducing drugs could account for some of the shifts between realities, yes, but...God, I don't know. I just don't know.

Have I mentioned how helpless a person can feel when he or she is presented with a family member--the Love overflows--battling end-of-life issues, both physical and, especially, mental and emotional? Helpless.

I want to slam my fist through a fucking wall. I want to alleviate any pain that I can for my father. But I can't. I. Can't. I can only watch. Fucking watch. Yeah.

Impotent rage doesn't scare a soul.

And I look back over these last fourteen or so months and I flat-out kick myself. Tell me this: why did I wait until my Dad was in Code-Red before I fully accepted the gravity of his situation? I had friends tell me to spend as much time with him as I could and I had family members exhorting the virtues of kinsmanship...hell, even I thought I wasn't seeing him and my mom as much as I should. (Especially since I live only 20 minutes away.) Yet I stayed aback. I kept my distance.

[A slang word for vagina is pussy.]

I didn't want to see my Daddy get sick and old and die. So I pushed that thought--and my mom and dad--away. Any thought or mention of the situation failed to penetrate my denial. Intellectually, I knew it'd happen. Emotionally, I'd hear none of it.

So we are left with what we have now: son with regrets and father reliving his life through his dreaming eyes. And mother sleeping on the foldaway seat in the hospital room.

I have heard theories on grieving and loss and how people deal with said issues. Avoidance is not cool. It's emotionally busted. Yet that's what I did.

I can coo and crow and kiss my Daddy on the cheek all I want, now; it's too late. I can wipe his brow and dab at his sweat. For what? Should I not have been there for him three, five, ten months earlier? Should I not have made it a point to get to my parents' house at least once a week? How hard is that? It isn't.

I know how this story ends, but I don't know the timetable. I know how this story ends, but I don't know the machinations of the disease--I don't know how much of a fucking bastard cancer can be.

I know how this story ends, but I don't know how much my Daddy is aware of how much my sisters and I love him. I hope that our Love seeps through into his dreams and fills him with Courage. I hope that our Love seeps into his dreams and gives him an inward smile. I hope that our Love for him is apparent.

He knows.

When I left tonight, I kissed him fiercely on his bearded cheek. His skin was cool and sweaty. His eyes were closed and his breathing was labored. "Dad," I choked, "I'm gonna leave now. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" He didn't answer. "Dad," I repeated, "I'm leaving now." I stated, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," he murmured, his eyes glazed shut.

Breakthrough.

Call me selfish--and I am--but I want my father here instead of in a near-death state. I doan want him to leave. I'd rather not have him dead. He's my Daddy.

I need to measure my love for him and my insecurities of living in a life without my father against his...pain. His fucking pain. I? I am an asshole. The dude's got cancer shooting through no less than six organs and I'm pitching a fit 'cause I...don't...want...him...to...go.

How sad is that?

"Purty sad," drawled John Wayne.

Okay. I gotta leave here, now. I have spoken my piece(s).

But, no. I'm not done.

Parents die.

They leave, they die, they "pass on." And it fucking hurts. As much as I tell myself that it is a cyclical process of life--one of the food dieticians was pregnant (or grossly fat)--I can't get over, really, that my father is going to die. I think that there may be a world-wide amnesiac state in which people...insulate.

I am not prepared.

Life flows, so does death.

GETCHO ASS TO REHAB, YA FUCK

I am so happy. Not only that I have a beautiful girlfriend who knows and understands and loves me--warts and all--but I am also happy because I going to someplace in a couple of days that will help me. 'Cause, obviously, I have no chance of succeeding on my own. It is an impossibility.

Sucks to say, but true.

So...blah, blah and blah. Shutchu fucking ass up and go to a rehab. Seriously. Enough talk.

Just do it.

Okay. So I will.

In said rehab, they will, first, medically check me. Then, I'll be absolved of the cirriculam for the first day. That is a time in which patients detoxify themselves. During the first couple of nights, medical staff will enter my room, at various times of the night, and take my blood pressure and, perhaps (I've forgotten) load me with a tranquilizer so that I don't die of a seizure. That sounds worse than it actually is--except for being woken up repeatedly; that sucks ass.

Days will consist of meetings and classes that deal with addiction and alcoholism. Are they fun? No. Do they teach me much more than I already know? Hell, no. Are they an effective deterrent to slowly killing oneself with toxic beverages? Hell, yes.

Is it a vacation? Um, no. Is it necessary? I believe that, yes, it is.

There is a part of me that is completely embarrassed that I couldn't handle it enough. That I had to check myself back in to rehab. In fact, it peeves me, mos' def'. And then there is another part of me that says, "Sir? You couldn't handle it. You lack the proper skills. Get your ass--please!--and get back into rehab. Ya gotta, brother."

I acquiesce to that sometimes-not-so-quiet voice. Because he (or she) is brilliant. Time has lost relevance; important social functions have lost their urgencies. Health is a bugaboo. It is a waste of time. The only thing that matters is getting that next high-octaned beer. That? That ain't good.

On the plus side...wait; I'm thinking. On the plus side, I get to know how I'll feel when I am 70: washed-out, sick, trembly, weak, and with horrible breath. ;-)

So, yeah. Getcho ass to a rehab. Listen to what they have to say. Soak up all the inspiration and information that you can--ya fucking drunk. This *is* your life. *Your* life. Try not to waste it, let it fall to the wayside 'cause you wasn't strong enough to deal with your demons. That is both cowardly and, also, a tragedy, dude. Get yourself together, man.

Make your father proud.

Okay.

Can I fast-forward to Sunday? :-)

Do they have Mozart in rehabilitation centers? They should. He is aural Prozac.

I'm going, I'm going.

This does not add up to being taken in "kicking and screaming." I want to go.

Y'all sick of this, yet? Because I am.

DEAD. END.

Support don't help. Love does not help. My own mind *definitely* does not help.

I cannot impart to you enough the weight of the monkey monkeying about on my shoulders.

Gosh.

If you are a tee-totaler, more Power to you. I wish I had your unaddicted mind for my own.

But. This the shiznizzle: Through a taxi cab or some other means, I am headed back to Maplegrove. Fuck. Shoot.

Fuck it. It is what it is. I cannot control the Monkey. The leash is frayed, at best.

So. And then it goes.

Shall I prepare myself for a life of Addiction?

Can't I kick this bumblebee to the kerb? Answered: Highly doubtful.

This makes me so fucking sad.

Fuggit. Life goes on. You need to have Perspective. What was once your most worrisome problem turns out to be, after time, your most hilarious joke.

But. I am heading back to rehab. Today or tomorrow--I ain't sure. It all depends upon the ride! =o)

Fuck it.

ALCOHOLISM IS A BLAST! =O)

I strongly urge you to try it! =o)

Just keep pouring that poison down your throat! =o) It is keen!

In other news, "The Shakes" aren't too fun. :-\ It kinda sucks to have your leg doing the heeby-jeebies. You look at your leg and you say, "Stop it, motherfucker," but it doesn't.

It is kicking the ills 'cause the bwane is soaked with liquor and it is sending out messages to the extremities, saying, basically, gimme more. More, goddamnit! Yesterday!

Wow.

Ah. Fuck it. Life is good. I am not an amputee--not that there is anything wrong with that!--and my fingers work, as well. I love--and I think she loves me, too--a gorgeous woman and? What? Need I say more?

Okay. I will.

Nope. You had me at the "gorgeous woman." Shakes'll fade, but True Love never does.

BIRTHDAY SUNDAY

Verbal diarrhea commences:

I saw my fam dambly today. Mom glows but Dad shrinks more every fucking time I see him. He is the shit. He's a guy that helped raise three wonderful (I know) children whilst working his ass off as a Chrysler exeutive and also an owner of an ill-fated fucking yarn store.

I kissed his hand today. He struggled to pull his hand out of my grasp. Have I mentioned that I was drunk? At my parents' house? To celebrate my sister turning 37 years old three days ago?

Well, I was.

The kissing of the hand had absolutely no homoerotic qualities to it. I kissed my Dad's hand because a hug was not enough and a handshake was ridiculous. I'm not quite sure how much my Dad knows that I love him. That sentence structure blew. Get over it.

I am not quite sure that my Dad knows that I respect the hell out of him and, in these bad physical (for him, at least) days, that I would lie down on a fucking sidewalk so that he could walk on my back over a hole.

Shit.

Have I feminized my Daddy? Kissing hands, the proclivity to lie down so that he can walk over my back? Up to what do those things add?

Love.

Love.

Fucking Love, man.

It is really fucking tough to see a family member illing. Flat out: it blows donkey scrotum.

And I have dealt with it like the man I am: Avoidance.

Am I a fucking coward? I see it in me. I fucking smell it and taste it. Don't get too close to MaandPa because Pa is not doing well. He is fucking exiting Stage Left. Why am I such a fucking prick?

I don't know.

I know this, though: I love that motherfucking Robert Raymond.

Why can't I put them fifty pounds back onto his frame? Why can't I fill his hair with the luster that it once had? Why can I not lose to him in an arm-wrestling contest? Why can I not look at his physique and call him a bear?

How the fuck do I turn back the goddamned clock?

How?

69 is a fan-fucking-tastic number. I would prefer 79 or 89, though.

I am pissed and more than a little heartbusted.

HALLOWEEN: FALSIFIED, MADE-UP, *FICTION*

I drift.

Washing Mexican-plated dishes or wiping the wash off of Beemers and Cadillacs--whatever. Just gimme the check--pay me under the table with caish--and I am happy. I have a morphine addiction, you see. I tremble in the morning and then all is good 'cause I shoot up. And, sometimes, I sniff.

Real world. I urge you to get used to it.

The most hatedly hated thing that I hate?! I really do "not-like" CEOs...and their minions.

FOR THE (ANGLOPHOBE) HONEYBEE

Well, now....

In about an hour and a half (Eastern Standard Time--and, nope, I ain't know when she was birthed) my sister Melissa will be thirty-seven years young. I'm not sure exactly what time she was born in to this world, but, irregardless, tomorrow is the first of October and, thusly, it is my dear sister's birthday.

Wake the neighbourhood! Start the parties, but get into no rows! Please, if someone gets out of hand, kick him or her to the kerb.

This is about celebration. This is not about rowdiness.

Crack a Bass or a Watney's, enjoy a shepherd's pie. Pop an Altoids. Pretend your wristwatch is Big Ben. (Listen for the dongs.)

:-) Happy birthday, Melissa:

Workout--colour--everyday.

And:

Watch the kerb...irregardless, should of, her's, it's (in the wrong context), their they're and there (in the wrong contextuality), neighbourhood...eggs.

You're present, ma'am:

***SPOILER ALERT!***

I'm buying Meliss a box of Kraft Mac 'n' Cheese for her birthday.

Shhhhh....

DOGS AND ROLLERBLADES

So, see, the thing is, I really haven't been Rollerblading as much as I ought to. I purchased some rad 'blades last year (really cool skates--easy on, easy off, and as fast off the line as a sex addict at a lingerie show) but this season, for whatever reason, I have not had the urge to 'blade about town. Two reasons for this, methinks: one, the roads around where I live absolutely suck for Rollerblading. They are pitted and old and cracked and worn and sometimes, when I skate over them, it feels like I am skating on a vibrating hotel bed--Magic Fingers o' Gravel. And the second reason, of course (it always comes back to this) my knees suck.

But recently I have become sick and tired of coming home from work and tapping in to my newest addiction, Grand Theft Auto IV on the Xbox 360, and, also, did I mention that Oliver is a fat-ass? So I figured I would kill two birds with one stone. Exercise, outside air, and, perhaps, some melting of Oliver's rotund black-and-tan bowling ball body.

[The idea of taking both Oliver and Louie with me on my 'blades flitted ever-so briefly across my mind and then I reasoned with myself that nothing good could come of that. I'd either end up splattered against the grill of a Mack truck or Ollie would be dragged behind me as I would be dragged behind Lou...kind of like an elephant parade with my dislocated shoulders being the nasty orange Circus Peanuts. So...Lou stayed home.]

Ollie and I departed Home Base.

Now, listen, I didn't expect Oliver to be Louie-esque in his pulling ability--seriously, when Lou is on a Rollerbladed leash, I don't have to even think about skating for the first four or five blocks; I just have to concentrate on rolling, standing tall, not wiping out--but Ollie completely disappointed me. He ran with me for the first four or five minutes, but then, after that, he was basically dead weight. I had to repeatedly stop for him and wait for His Pudgy Highness to catch up. Three times, during the too-short jaunt around the block, Oliver's collar just slid right off his neck--slid right off the rolls, as it were--because I was going too fast. And once I had to pick him up and Rollerblade around a corner with him in my arms...a floppy-eared canine lamb.

We arrived back home, and I chatted and Ollie became acquainted with the neighbors and then we walked in the side door and Lou, excited to see his little buddy again, smacked him upside the head a couple of times and went off to chew his bone. My human-to-canine translating skillz are a little dusty, but I think what Lou was saying was, "You fool! You had a chance to run outside, spend some quality time with the Foodbringer, let your oversized ears flop in the wind, check out the bitches...and you blew it, dude! Whassa mattah with you? Geez!"

Don't worry, Louie. Ollie and I will go again. And you and I will, too. Just don't go too fast, y'hear? You have to remember that I ain't a tough Boxer/Pit like you. I am a human being and my skin does shred and my bones do break.

***

In other news, my 2002 Ford Focus hatchback turns one hundred thousand in a hundred fourteen miles. If you want to send it a birthday present (cash is what it wants; it told me) just hit me up with an email and I'll give you the pertinent information.

Peace.

"VAGINAL SECRETIONS EXXON-VALDEZED THE WATER'S SURFACE"

Brief snippets:

Yesterday night I was driving home from the local 24-hour supermart with Meagan and we drove past a business called Tub-n-Tan. They offer tanning services and also hot tubs that people can rent for the hour--or half-hour, whatever. I said to Meagan, "That'd be pretty fun, eh? Renting a hot tub?"

She agreed and we drove on a bit in comfortable silence. I thought about the hot tubs and said, "I wonder how often they clean them?" And a nice collection of words swam to my forebrain. I looked over at her and said, "Vaginal secretions and seminal residue coated the water like an oil spill." She gag-coughed. "Um. Gross."

I do wonder what goes on in those tubs. I can just imagine some pop-shots and the semi-solids slowly rising to the surface of the turbulent water, bopping along on the bubbles like so much (literally) man-made flotsam and jetsam. The vaginal secretions would not be as readily apparent...but they'd be there--mark my word.

***

In other news, I have a gnat problem. The motherfuckers are taking up residence in my kitchen, bumping along in the skies above the garbage disposal. I think that is where they sprang to existence, from the succulent mashes of Post-Food. I have cleaned the garbage disposal--let the mother run for a minute straight--and I have washed the counters and cleaned the stove and religiously kept the garbage can from overflowing, but the sons-of-bitches are still flapping around. It makes me feel dirty...and it makes me wonder what exactly I am eating if I leave my food unattended in the kitchen for a moment. Ick.

I went online and looked up how to get rid of gnats. What you see in the picture is an altered Coke bottle--its head cut off--slightly filled with a delicious cocktail of cider vinegar with a dollop of dish detergent. I covered the top with Saran-Wrap and I rubber banded it in place. A toothpick was used to poke Entrance-Onlys into the plastic. The idea is that the motherfucking gnats will "smell" the delicacy and fumble into the trap, never to leave, never to be seen or heard from again. I feel bad for the gnats' familes but--no, I don't. Die, bastards!

Next to the Do-it Yourself deathtrap, is a natural wonder: Meagan bought me a Venus Flytrap and, already, it seems to be working. A couple of the vulva-shaped "mouths" have already closed, dooming, I hope, some gnats to their deaths.

Wish me luck.

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.

SOUL RIDE

And so...

what do you say when you

look into green-blue-gray eyes

and your gut feels all flippy?

you make a joke.

but...

what do you say when you

gaze upon long auburn locks and

full red lips?

you flip a phrase.

and...

what do you say when you suck in

a luscious body, full, sexy

in all the right places?

And you know that the love you feel

is reciprocated,
intensified?

And you know that everything is golden

and love is fucking tangible

and that love is as natural as

morning dew?

You blink.

You...blink.

And then you thank the God in the Sky

that you could be so lucky.

--Peace--

[I love you, Meagan.]

THE SURREALISM OF SUDDEN DEATH--AND SADNESS

Life: four simple letters. El-aye-eff-ee.

Death: five letters--two vowels and three otherwise--that have terrified most human beings since written--spoken--language was applicable.

I went Up North this weekend, with my girl, Meegie, to around the great Manistee National Forest in the upper knuckles of the Mitten, and, meanwhile, on Saturday, I received a voice mail on my overpriced cell phone. I couldn't understand the message, seeing as how she and me was in the Boon-Docks. All that I gleaned from the message--the phone kept cutting out--was "Lake Huron" and "metal-detecting" and "today."

I couldn't understand, so I let it go from my mind; I'd hear the message in full once I was back in civilization.

Well, yesterday, Lisa, a friend from work, called and I answered.

Hi and hello completed, she said something like, "Have you heard?"

"Heard what?" I asked.

"Tom Weaver passed away yesterday."

I think I said something like, "Uh, what?!"

"He died. He drown."

Now, listen: Tom was 39 years young. He was an ex-Marine. He was a big dude--247, maybe?--and he was as strong as an ox. Tom...died? He drown?

"Oh, fuck," I said. "What the fuck happened?"

She said, "He was out on Lake Huron, metal-detecting, and--I guess--he got caught in the undertow...he called for help, and people came, but they didn't find him until 20 minutes later. He was taken to a hospital, but he was dead."

I still don't believe it. I do, I do, but--shit. 39-year-olds, with two precious children and a fiancee--to whom he was to be married on Valentine's Day--39-year-old ex-Marines shouldn't die like that.

Metal-detecting: is there a more seemingly-innocuous pastime? How the fuck does someone die metal-detecting?!

I worked with Tom a few times. He was a lineman and I rode with him during my training. He was a good guy. He could talk a fucking mean streak--talk your ear into putty--but he was a damned good guy. I could tell.

Fuck.

How does this kind of shit happen?

In the title, I mentioned surrealism. Maybe that's not the best word. Shock might be. Incredulousness might be. Shit. Fucking sorrow might be the right word.

Apparently--and the story is still sketchy--Tom was out on Lake Huron on Saturday, bubbling happiness to show his kids how to metal-detect in lakes (Tom was a member of Michigan Treasure Hunters and he had found two or three keepsakes that he got back to the rightful owners)--and...just wait a second.

Life--that four-lettered word--ain't fair sometimes. Death is even more of a bastard.

Anyway, apparently, Tom realized he was in trouble and he called out for help from the people on the beach. Around a hundred people formed a human chain, hands linked, but they found him when it was too fucking late. The guy drown in four fucking feet of water. How the hell does that happen when the guy in question was about six feet tall? Was he wearing waders which could have filled up with water and dragged him under? (People say that he was in a wet-suit.) Did he suffer an brain hemorrhage? Or a heart attack? (Then how would he have been able to call for help?) Did he caught in an undertow? In four feet of water?! The guy was as strong as a bear, he was an ex-Marine...don't you think he'd have been able to bull his way out of the maelstrom?

I don't know what happened. And it's making me very very sad. My heart hurts for his soon-to-be-wife and his children. Things aren't fair, sometimes.

And I've heard this, today, about a thousand times: "When it's your time to go, it's your time to go." Shit. I've said it myself.

Bullshit. It wasn't Tom's time to go.

I just have a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that the guy that I just saw four days ago is now dead, drown. He ain't on vacation and he ain't taking a sick day or two. The guy is dead. He passed on.

Passed on, my ass. "Passing on" seems so damned peaceful. I'm sure Tom's death wasn't. I'm sure that there was bafflement and then determination and then, finally, mortal panic.

And then Peace, hopefully. I hope that he--or his mortal brain, or his soul--accepted the inevitability of the situation and that he thought of the love of his life and his kids...though I see myself as empathetic and able to think as others do--or would--I think that that is a pipe-dream. I think that, when one is in a life-or-death situation, no thoughts pervail. I think that basically, it is an animal instinct, it is a fight for life and no thoughts are bouncing except for the crocodile brain of Survive.

And that fucking sucks, man.

That really fucking sucks.

I have never had a co-worker--at least one with whom I worked--die unexpectedly.

Winking, blue-eyed. Big-dude golfer, captain of his Marine team. Possessed the gift of gab. Had a big heart. Eccentric. Metal-treasure-hunter. Had a big heart. Tom.

Weaver.

I'm so fucking sorry, man.

Please rest in peace.

God, this sucks.

"In an unrelated accident, a 39-year old Wixom man identified as Thomas E. Weaver drowned in Saginaw Bay Saturday at the Caseville County Park Beach.
According to the Huron County Sheriff’s Office, Weaver was wading in about 4 feet of water while using a metal detector to search for valuables, when he suddenly called for help several times before going under the water.
Weaver was discovered about 20 minutes after he went under and was taken to an area hospital, where he was pronounced dead." --Freep.com

BOOK BIGGITY

Izzy tagged me to do the book meme.

The rules are: Grab the book nearest to you and open to page 123. Find the fifth sentence and write down the next three sentences and then tage 5 other people.

Okay. My book is Marathon Man, by William Goldman:

"I do, I know, goddammit, believe me--"

"Why should I?--ever--pawing the hell out of her and then putting her on a goddamn rack--"

"That's a business tactic, you soften somebody up first, get them off guard, it means nothing--"

Yeah. That little exchange was between two brothers. The younger one--Babe--had wanted the older one--Doc--to meet his new Scandinavian sweetie--Elsa--and so they had met in a swanky restaurant, whereupon Doc had too often put his hands upon her, perhaps regaling in his Dos Passos-like bronco-busting world-wringing Stock Brokerism. Ostensibly a stock broker--I should make that clear.

It's a good book. I recommend it. Right now, in the book, I'm at the point at which Babe is being tortured for information by the blue-eyed "dentist" after his (Babe's) brother's [redacted]. It makes me cringe every damned time I read about the good dentist jamming a needle into Babe's cavity, into the live nerve.

Yikes.

But, again, I recommend the book.

And I tag: Meagan, Jay, Bunny Bleu, Nighthawk Nan (if she would ever begin blogging again) and JenBun. (Oh! And Frank.)

[Sorry, kids--my hyper-link seems not to be working.]