Hot shot misbehaves,
Looks to dodge it, get a pass.
Sex rehab, my ass.
Hot shot misbehaves,
Looks to dodge it, get a pass.
Sex rehab, my ass.
This is not a drill!!!
Firefighters evacuated our building today because Mrs. Banfree reported a gas leak. All tenants were ordered out and we stood far across the street (a safe perimeter was established) waiting for our building to blow up. We were grateful to Mrs. Banfree for not hesitating to report the foul smell thus instigating a chain reaction involving firefighters, the police, medics on standby, and Mandy offering bread at half price in case someone got hungry while watching the building inferno. I wanted to ask her why not offer lesbian popcorn, too – but I didn’t want to have to explain to accidental witnesses of that question that I am not a bigot and that my beloved sister is a lesbian like Mandy who cheats on good Klaus, and that I support the LGBT community so much that I often order BLT sandwiches just because of the similar abbreviation. So I just gave Mandy a hormonally charged resentful stare and said nothing.
On the bright side, I am very impressed with our firefighters as once they reached Mrs. Banfree’s place, it took them only three minutes (which in gas leak time is a blink of an eye) to assess that there was no explosion danger because the gas threat came from the sulfuric smell of Brussels sprouts that Mrs. Banfree herself cooked earlier in the afternoon. Mrs. Banfree was swiftly demoted from hero to loser and Mandy immediately revoked her half price bread offer. I told Mrs. Banfree not to worry about the sudden fall from grace (which she only became aware of after I said it) and that the miniature cabbage does indeed have an offensive smell.
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My name is Dean Martin. Not ‘the’ Dean Martin. Just a random guy who has the name but not the voice.
I don’t want anything. And I think that’s my trick to happiness.
I trained myself to believe and live by that maxim when I was just out of college and landed a good job that was promising a long and successful career. And my girlfriend Peggy Sue and I were planning to join each other in marriage that was also promising to be long and successful just like the one my parents had. It sounded like a good life to me and I was ready. I was young but mature enough to be ready. The night before our wedding, my best friend Harry threw me a moderately wild bachelor party which I ditched around midnight to go see my future bride. I was tipsy and was hoping to get a little action from her. When I got to her place, she was fucking her neighbor Frank who got so scared when he saw me that he stood straight in front of me, naked, quiet and petrified, for about ten seconds before he crashed to the wooden floor and died of a heart attack. To this day, all I remember about him is how he stood naked before me and even though I looked, I couldn’t see the tiniest bit of his male instrument – that’s how fat Frank was. That’s to say to people that no matter what your shape or size, there is somebody who will like it. I never got married to Peggy Sue. We broke up that night and she quickly moved on with some guy called Buddy. And I wasn’t mature as I thought I was – I was only foolish. And for a long time I partially blamed myself for Frank’s demise. If only I had not walked in on them. If Peggy Sue had not been my fiancee. He wouldn’t get scared. And the irony is – I am not some big scary guy. So maybe Frank was a decent chap who died of shame when I appeared. Or maybe he was too big of a coward. But then brave enough to make a naked move on my girl. People puzzle me. And by ‘male instrument’ I meant dick.
A few years back, I was doing my daily lunchtime grocery shopping at a supermarket near the office when I overheard this disturbing mother-son exchange just out of the candy and chips aisle. The poor child, infatuated by the many colorful candies cried crocodile tears in a toddler attempt to make his mama buy him some sugar. I mean, we’ve all been there. Many of us are still there. And will never leave. So the kid being a kid cries, yells, screams…so loud and out of control that any moment you think, the alarm in the store is going to go off and firefighters will be storming in. The young mother however, Caucasian organic for vague description purposes, keeps pushing the cart away from candy-land and finally addresses her son.
Mr. Richard, she says, stop now. Your behavior is completely inappropriate and unacceptable.
The child blares over her monotone voice. His cheeks red like tomatoes.
Mr. Richard. I am not getting you the chocolate. And when we get home, you are going to think about your behavior.
The child now bordering convulsion. People looking away. He keeps screaming. You know how kids can be. Yet Mother slowly unloads her mighty greens and fat free products on the belt in front of the cashier, who tries to politely distract the boy from his misery and stop the waterfalls – but falls short and unnoticed by both parties.
And I’m telling you – first you feel annoyed by the kid yelling and you think ‘oh, shut the fuck up already’ but then you realize his organic predicament and you feel sorry for him and wish you could slap him in the chubby cheek to get him out of the grocery state of shock and offer him a hug and a chocolate. Maybe find him a good foster home. But Mother is undeterred. She holds her ground. That’s what all parent books say. Hold your ground. Don’t give in. Rather let your child convulse than show any human instinct in dealing with the situation. In so many words. Go brainwashing!
Mr. Richard would maybe know that his behavior was completely inappropriate and unacceptable – if only he knew what those words meant. Inappropriate…huh? Unacceptable…huh? Completely? No wonder the kid was crying. What 2 year old likes to be addressed like an old man Mr. Richard and with words he does not understand?! And if Mother does not know that her behavior is inappropriate and unacceptable – why should the kid?
I never saw them again but they do cross my mind every now and then. Like today. And I can’t help but wonder if Little Richard (way cooler than Mr.) now has a running prescription for some kind of ADHD drug because in a twisted world of many parents today – the attention to whatever current task should be undivided and any deficit is too big to be overlooked. I mean, a child should sit quietly and be understanding and obedient, right? This is a civilized society – of course a well adjusted mother is going to reach for pills. But if you think about it, which really falls under child abuse – a disciplinary slap in the butt every now and then, or a running and running and never-ending prescription to some mind bending drugs? I sure am glad the latter was not even an option in my world when I was a kid. The ‘pills’ then were shaped like hand palms, or little wooden spatulas or (notorious) ivy twigs. And we ran from those with lightning speed. And chuckled. And knew better next time. So good luck, Little Richard. Wherever you are.
A Marital Poem
The pomegranate flower
we admired in the park,
has become a fruit.
The sweet summer kisses
we shared in the dark
have become a youth.
The vows we pledged
in the Church of St Mark
got lost in the rut.
Yet we roll like all is good
while under rug
awaits the truth.
There is a very handsome teller at my local bank. I was analyzing his good looks while I was waiting in line this morning and then I thought about a sperm bank that had premises nearby. Maybe I should open a checking account there.
Today was Vincent’s birthday and we gathered in the conference room to sing him Happy Birthday and have a slice of cake. The cake was good and we had just started savoring it when Sabrina announced that her water broke and that Marie-Antoinette was coming. So much for letting us eat cake.
Sabrina’s baby girl is gorgeous. I passed by the sperm bank again on my way back home. It was not on purpose but to avoid heavy traffic. Still, it was the third time today. Is this a sign? Do all roads lead to the sperm bank?
Vincent’s birthday cake gave me heartburn. I felt better after I threw up. I pledge never to eat cheap cakes again. I was about to doze off when Dahlia called to say that Penny was in labor. Labor Day is on Monday. Is everybody ahead of schedule?! On my way to the hospital I drove by the sperm bank for the fourth time today. I think I saw a little spermatozoid in the window waving at me.
Penny yelled like possessed. This is her third child. Shouldn’t her lady tunnel be wide enough by now not to instigate verbal abuse and screams of bloodcurdling frequencies? My rhetorical question was overheard by a passing by doctor who gave me a disgusted look. I told him that this was my second delivery today and I was I bit tired from all the audio commotion. He thought I was a gyno. I said I was merely a vagina owner and was flattered that he took me for a doctor. He said ‘Oh’ and left. Some weird folks around here. Penny’s son is a little cutie. Mother suggested his name be Oak but Penny rejected the idea and said that her son is going to have a normal name like Elvis or Hendrix or Otto. I guess ‘normal’ has a very wide scope.
* * *
Penny’s yelling made me rethink my baby longings and I decided not to drive by the sperm bank anymore but take the road by the shopping district. The road more taken. The heartburn is almost gone but I can still taste the cheap supermarket cake.
Which is the road best taken,
when all look the same?
Just another day.
Feuding with the Texas coast.
Survey says ‘piss off’.
Paintings on my walls.
Many colors together,