1) Currently, I have a very good dermatologist. However, prior to finding him, I had one who asked to "see my shaft" during a skin check. I looked behind me, thinking perhaps he was talking about the elevator I failed to noticed when I first stepped into his office. There wasn't one. He definitely meant my penis. Then he asked me to turn around and pryed my butt cheeks open like he was peeling apart an orange and concluded his examination. "Did the dermatologist ever ask to see your shaft?" I said to my coworker who referred me to this doctor. When he replied "no" I then realized I would never return to that doctor again.
2) I was not exactly a model student in religious instruction classes and gave every teacher a pretty hard time, "Maybe it wasn't an Arc, but a raft with a few chickens. How did this priest get AIDS? I'm reading Greek and Roman mythology and don't see many difference between this and the Bible." Were favorite questions. It also pissed off my instructors to no end, which is why I suspect Father Dwyer, who looked like if David Letterman, Randy Travis and Frankenstein had a baby, called me one Sunday night to ask "Would you like to come and work in the rectory?" He said rectory slowly, drawing out the R-E-C-T part until my brain filled it in with rectum. "No I would not like to work in the rectory," although who knew it would be a place I don't mind visiting now and again as an adult. This refusal is why I had to write and read an essay about why George Michael's I Want Your Sex was damaging to the moral of Christians everywhere at my Confirmation retreat when I was in the 8th Grade.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Very Odd Things That I hadn't Previously Thought Very Odd, But Now That I Am Making a List, Realize How Very Odd They Are.
1) My high school gym teacher encouraged the boys to wear shorts for grades of "A". She stabbed her husband in the hand in a local bar the year after I graduated H.S.
2) Mom made me give her foot massages until I was 12.
3) My Uncle Puggy had a urine collection on his window sill. He did not like to use public restrooms and would cut holes in all his pants pockets, insert a jar, pee, cap it and save it on his window sill for posterity.
4) I have a former uncle who claimed to have penis radar, "Women send vibes to my crotch and I can tell they want me."
5) When I was 19 I was a maid for a 75 year-old man who paid me $25 dollars an hour to move Undergear and International Male Magazine from one end of his living room to the other. When he answered the door for the first time wearing only a button down shirt and underwear I said nothing. When he grabbed my ass as he hugged me goodbye I thought "I don't want to give up the money" And agreed to go back several more times. He was beaten by a mugger and died from the injuries when I was in my late 20's.
6) My dead Aunt Ann was a friend of Jennifer Lopez's mother who broke and entered Mama Lopez's house upon their first meeting.
7) My italian great grandmother died when she discovered that what she thought was her 10th pregnancy was actually a very large tumor.
8) My mom's friend, Diane Suatner calls her husband "fuck face" and keeps his favorite watch hidden in the glove compartment of my mother's car.
9) My father married a woman with the same first, middle, and confirmation name as my mother. Of course she took our last name and sometimes gets my mom's social security info.
10) Her son, Lou, hit on my sister at my Dad's and her wedding. "I'd like to get to know you in different circumstances," so said Lou.
2) Mom made me give her foot massages until I was 12.
3) My Uncle Puggy had a urine collection on his window sill. He did not like to use public restrooms and would cut holes in all his pants pockets, insert a jar, pee, cap it and save it on his window sill for posterity.
4) I have a former uncle who claimed to have penis radar, "Women send vibes to my crotch and I can tell they want me."
5) When I was 19 I was a maid for a 75 year-old man who paid me $25 dollars an hour to move Undergear and International Male Magazine from one end of his living room to the other. When he answered the door for the first time wearing only a button down shirt and underwear I said nothing. When he grabbed my ass as he hugged me goodbye I thought "I don't want to give up the money" And agreed to go back several more times. He was beaten by a mugger and died from the injuries when I was in my late 20's.
6) My dead Aunt Ann was a friend of Jennifer Lopez's mother who broke and entered Mama Lopez's house upon their first meeting.
7) My italian great grandmother died when she discovered that what she thought was her 10th pregnancy was actually a very large tumor.
8) My mom's friend, Diane Suatner calls her husband "fuck face" and keeps his favorite watch hidden in the glove compartment of my mother's car.
9) My father married a woman with the same first, middle, and confirmation name as my mother. Of course she took our last name and sometimes gets my mom's social security info.
10) Her son, Lou, hit on my sister at my Dad's and her wedding. "I'd like to get to know you in different circumstances," so said Lou.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Crystal Meth Sunday Morning
One Sunday morning I found a vial of drugs in front of my apartment door. Right there in the hallway. I knew it was illicit by the way it stared back at me. Torn and crumbled pornography pages would beckon me the same way when I was in junior high school. I just knew within those folds of paper might be a penis or a vagina, or even better, both. I developed a sixth sense for all things illicit. I knew this vial at my door signaled me the same way. Whatever it was, my spidey sense tingled. I shouldn't have this. I did though. The dog inspected it first. I grabbed it from his mouth. Last thing I needed was shih tzu on meth, or crack, or whatever it was. I've heard those stories. In the 90's I had a friend who had a cat who acidently did coke and boucned off the walls for several days before landing face down in its tender vitles. Even more recently I heard a story from friends on Fire Island who had a sharemate who's chiunaa had become addicted to cocaine after licking the residue of the table and floors from his owenr's use. This is serious shit. I've listened to it daily for years. My social work job sees to it that I hear stories of the worst of the addictions. Crystal Meth stories are never pretty and I was pretty sure that crystal meth was staring up at me from this tiny vial on the ground.
I wasn't even sure if I truly had a drug in my possession. Maybe it was crack cocaine. Maybe it was Meth. How do you know? I grew envious of the common drug dealer who I'd bet my left testicle could tell from a across a football field if I was holding was crystal meth, crack or organic carmelized sea salt from Whole Foods.
But me? Crystal Meth? Crack cocaine? Flintstone chew-ables? How would I know? I've never touched the stuff, never wanted to. The extent of my drug taking has been one toke of pot in 2000 at a New Year's Eve celebration. I say toke like I'm a 60 year old stoner. I "smoked" with a a local news anchor and promptly passed out in his guest bedroom. The next day I watched as he downed a bag of Doritos for breakfast, fascinated with the way the orange crop dusting of powder over took his finger tips and corners of his mouth. The only other time I smoked pot was in 2006 when a friend tipped my head back like a PEZ dispenser and blew smoke into my mouth because I was too timid to actually hold the little smoldering joint in my own hands. This is not A Million Little Pieces.
But I did have an illegal substance in my house and I loved it. I felt dirty and excited, like I'd just found condoms and porn in the back of my Dad's underwear drawer. I was the good kid doing something unexpected and wrong. This was better than tapping on blind peoples windows at The Jewish Home for the Blind and yelling "look!" How would those blind jewish people ever know if it really was Jesus if he came to town? I was doing a test. Because I suspected at least some of them had partial vision.
I uncapped the vial and smelled the acrid little rocks. The odor permeated the room for hours after and it disgusted and intrigued me in equal measure. The smell reminded of the way addicts smell -- a little meth, a little bad breath, a little few days too long with the same clothes on.
I called and told a bunch of friends. Several suggested I drop the vial down the garbage chute and be done with it. They were afraid I'd get arrested because I had an illegal substance in my possession. One even sited the Patriot Act. As far as I'd known I wasn't under surveillance or part of a drug ring. Part of me enjoyed making my friends a little nervous. Another part of me enjoyed listening to their own paranoia unfold. These are the same friends who don't step on a crack or reveal a few days too soon their pregnancy news. Other friends revealed their own meth snorting experiences, which did not surprise me in the least, as I've also known them to fuck random Jamaican men on the beach and fashion bongs out of Barbie doll heads.
Since I've been looking for a hobby, I figured I'd try to smoke some. And holy shit that was a rush. I'd never felt anything like it. It was like a perpetual orgasm. But the smell -- Pine Sol, baby farts, and armpits of the homeless -- is what kept me from smoking the entire vial.
Kidding. I didn't smoke the drugs. I did begin my own exhaustive Internet DEA-like search of meth making sites, looking for images that would verify that I had meth and not crack. Crack is so passe. And then I got bored. Which is something I imagine the addict in the throws of binge doesn't do. I placed it on my kitchen table and went about my business. By the end of the day, I'd forgotten about it. The meth had become part of the table. The red topped vial fit in snuggly next to my Easter chocolates and over ripe bananas. It just was.
I always wonder how that could be. When does the drug, with it's taboo and shame, just co-exist with the toilet paper and the coke cans and the Brita water filers? I'm not sure if there's an easy answer. Part of the problem seems to be that after a while, it just does fit in. One day it's there and one day you're not.
This morning I took the vial out with the recyclables. Then I took the dog for a walk and battled her leg lock. When I came back inside, I looked for another vial. I wondered where it came from and who it was intended for. My middle easterner neighbors with their four children and one bedroom? Or the gay couple next door who I thanked for holding the door minutes ago? Neither fit the profile of the drug addict. I may fit it the most. And for a moment on Sunday, if an stranger walked in and looked on the kitchen table, it would be true.
I wasn't even sure if I truly had a drug in my possession. Maybe it was crack cocaine. Maybe it was Meth. How do you know? I grew envious of the common drug dealer who I'd bet my left testicle could tell from a across a football field if I was holding was crystal meth, crack or organic carmelized sea salt from Whole Foods.
But me? Crystal Meth? Crack cocaine? Flintstone chew-ables? How would I know? I've never touched the stuff, never wanted to. The extent of my drug taking has been one toke of pot in 2000 at a New Year's Eve celebration. I say toke like I'm a 60 year old stoner. I "smoked" with a a local news anchor and promptly passed out in his guest bedroom. The next day I watched as he downed a bag of Doritos for breakfast, fascinated with the way the orange crop dusting of powder over took his finger tips and corners of his mouth. The only other time I smoked pot was in 2006 when a friend tipped my head back like a PEZ dispenser and blew smoke into my mouth because I was too timid to actually hold the little smoldering joint in my own hands. This is not A Million Little Pieces.
But I did have an illegal substance in my house and I loved it. I felt dirty and excited, like I'd just found condoms and porn in the back of my Dad's underwear drawer. I was the good kid doing something unexpected and wrong. This was better than tapping on blind peoples windows at The Jewish Home for the Blind and yelling "look!" How would those blind jewish people ever know if it really was Jesus if he came to town? I was doing a test. Because I suspected at least some of them had partial vision.
I uncapped the vial and smelled the acrid little rocks. The odor permeated the room for hours after and it disgusted and intrigued me in equal measure. The smell reminded of the way addicts smell -- a little meth, a little bad breath, a little few days too long with the same clothes on.
I called and told a bunch of friends. Several suggested I drop the vial down the garbage chute and be done with it. They were afraid I'd get arrested because I had an illegal substance in my possession. One even sited the Patriot Act. As far as I'd known I wasn't under surveillance or part of a drug ring. Part of me enjoyed making my friends a little nervous. Another part of me enjoyed listening to their own paranoia unfold. These are the same friends who don't step on a crack or reveal a few days too soon their pregnancy news. Other friends revealed their own meth snorting experiences, which did not surprise me in the least, as I've also known them to fuck random Jamaican men on the beach and fashion bongs out of Barbie doll heads.
Since I've been looking for a hobby, I figured I'd try to smoke some. And holy shit that was a rush. I'd never felt anything like it. It was like a perpetual orgasm. But the smell -- Pine Sol, baby farts, and armpits of the homeless -- is what kept me from smoking the entire vial.
Kidding. I didn't smoke the drugs. I did begin my own exhaustive Internet DEA-like search of meth making sites, looking for images that would verify that I had meth and not crack. Crack is so passe. And then I got bored. Which is something I imagine the addict in the throws of binge doesn't do. I placed it on my kitchen table and went about my business. By the end of the day, I'd forgotten about it. The meth had become part of the table. The red topped vial fit in snuggly next to my Easter chocolates and over ripe bananas. It just was.
I always wonder how that could be. When does the drug, with it's taboo and shame, just co-exist with the toilet paper and the coke cans and the Brita water filers? I'm not sure if there's an easy answer. Part of the problem seems to be that after a while, it just does fit in. One day it's there and one day you're not.
This morning I took the vial out with the recyclables. Then I took the dog for a walk and battled her leg lock. When I came back inside, I looked for another vial. I wondered where it came from and who it was intended for. My middle easterner neighbors with their four children and one bedroom? Or the gay couple next door who I thanked for holding the door minutes ago? Neither fit the profile of the drug addict. I may fit it the most. And for a moment on Sunday, if an stranger walked in and looked on the kitchen table, it would be true.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Wee Dog
"Excuse me, is that your sneaker? Please tell me that furry thing is your sneaker." This is asked by a drunken Irishmen on Poop Alley, a street in Sunnyside, Queens so named because this is where the entire neighborhood goes to relieve there dogs. And sometimes themselves. No it's not my sneaker. It's my shih tzu, Samson, 6 months and 2 weeks old and resting comfortably on the same sidewalk as Drunky McAlcoholic, Jr.
"That's a wee dog."
He really said "wee". Vomit McPowers: The Sneaker Who Dogged Me.
Samson looks at him and looks away. He can smell the wiff of an insult the same way I can smell the multiple pints of ale that stain Drunky McFuckerson's polo.
"He is wee. But he thinks he's a Saint Bernhard," I say.
This gets a laugh from Drunky McShitstains but he quickly turns serious.
"Please tell me you've got a girlfriend or a wife."
"Nope, neither. It's just me and a cute small dog."
I see the letters that spell G-A-Y sky written by a small imaginary plane launched from the hangar in his head. GAY hangs and evaporates for a few moments and dissolves into a wry expression. He wants to fuck with me and is going to. At this point in my life I can count being called a faggot in so many different ways, I welcome what might be a new creative way to insult the homosexuals of the world via me. I doubt it will be as funny as what my gay friends sling at each other ("You're so loose, it's like throwing a Twinkie down a hallway" still gets my biggest laugh) and considering Drunky McBeatshiswife current state, I'm betting on something less than stellar.
"Well..uh...."
Here he goes. I see the sputter before the take off. This plane is going into a tailspin before it even leaves the ground. He looks up. He looks down. Slowly. I'm pretty sure the street spins for him. He looks at me. There's not that much to make fun of. Although if he stepped closer, I do have nice naturally arched eyebrows that looked plucked, but aren't'. He seems disappointed. I'm not going to tell him about all my moles and freckles that if connected could create Perseus's Belt, The Big and Little Dipper and part of the solar system, at least up till Uranus. And then he's back on my sneakers.
"Just don't wear those sneakers and good lord those socks."
I'm wearing black Pro-keds and socks with two solid blue and green strips around the tops. Which I'd find cute and fuckable if the long haired beautiful 22 year old Colombian college student in my building who keeps trying to seduce me through my dog were wearing them. Maybe Drinky McStumblenuts wants to fuck me. So he attacks my sneakers. Maybe he has a foot fetish. Making fun of my shoes is hardly the insult I was anticipating. Then he mumbles something about the worlds number one tennis player Roger Federer. Who I'm pretty sure is not gay but who does wear black sneakers on the courts at the U.S. Open. He also wears all black and takes to the courts (at least in Queens the night I saw him) to the Imperial March from the Star Wars movies.
I'm perplexed and so is Stinky McDrunkoughy who looks to me as if he's just taser gunned himself in the testicles -- numbed and Life Goes On retarded. He's run out of steam and insults, even as poor as they are.
Barfy McVomitorium waves and stumbles off, obviously disappointed by his inability to effectively make fun of me and Samson. Samson watches as he walks away. He has not moved from his spot on the sidewalk. He then gets up to where Stanky McBreatherson was sanding, circles for a moment and takes a dump. Satisifed and guilty that I let the dump sit there a little longer tha usual, I clean up, slip on my dog sneaker and head home.
"That's a wee dog."
He really said "wee". Vomit McPowers: The Sneaker Who Dogged Me.
Samson looks at him and looks away. He can smell the wiff of an insult the same way I can smell the multiple pints of ale that stain Drunky McFuckerson's polo.
"He is wee. But he thinks he's a Saint Bernhard," I say.
This gets a laugh from Drunky McShitstains but he quickly turns serious.
"Please tell me you've got a girlfriend or a wife."
"Nope, neither. It's just me and a cute small dog."
I see the letters that spell G-A-Y sky written by a small imaginary plane launched from the hangar in his head. GAY hangs and evaporates for a few moments and dissolves into a wry expression. He wants to fuck with me and is going to. At this point in my life I can count being called a faggot in so many different ways, I welcome what might be a new creative way to insult the homosexuals of the world via me. I doubt it will be as funny as what my gay friends sling at each other ("You're so loose, it's like throwing a Twinkie down a hallway" still gets my biggest laugh) and considering Drunky McBeatshiswife current state, I'm betting on something less than stellar.
"Well..uh...."
Here he goes. I see the sputter before the take off. This plane is going into a tailspin before it even leaves the ground. He looks up. He looks down. Slowly. I'm pretty sure the street spins for him. He looks at me. There's not that much to make fun of. Although if he stepped closer, I do have nice naturally arched eyebrows that looked plucked, but aren't'. He seems disappointed. I'm not going to tell him about all my moles and freckles that if connected could create Perseus's Belt, The Big and Little Dipper and part of the solar system, at least up till Uranus. And then he's back on my sneakers.
"Just don't wear those sneakers and good lord those socks."
I'm wearing black Pro-keds and socks with two solid blue and green strips around the tops. Which I'd find cute and fuckable if the long haired beautiful 22 year old Colombian college student in my building who keeps trying to seduce me through my dog were wearing them. Maybe Drinky McStumblenuts wants to fuck me. So he attacks my sneakers. Maybe he has a foot fetish. Making fun of my shoes is hardly the insult I was anticipating. Then he mumbles something about the worlds number one tennis player Roger Federer. Who I'm pretty sure is not gay but who does wear black sneakers on the courts at the U.S. Open. He also wears all black and takes to the courts (at least in Queens the night I saw him) to the Imperial March from the Star Wars movies.
I'm perplexed and so is Stinky McDrunkoughy who looks to me as if he's just taser gunned himself in the testicles -- numbed and Life Goes On retarded. He's run out of steam and insults, even as poor as they are.
Barfy McVomitorium waves and stumbles off, obviously disappointed by his inability to effectively make fun of me and Samson. Samson watches as he walks away. He has not moved from his spot on the sidewalk. He then gets up to where Stanky McBreatherson was sanding, circles for a moment and takes a dump. Satisifed and guilty that I let the dump sit there a little longer tha usual, I clean up, slip on my dog sneaker and head home.
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