"I belong in the service of the queen. I belong anywhere but in between. She's been dying and I've been drinking, and I am the Rain King" Counting Crows from "Rain King"
The nights in the Asylum are the most excruciating part of being locked away from ones own protection. It gets indescribably empty, especially during a wicked thunder storm. Any company would ease the sorrow, even the nurse, but she is riding out the storm somewhere else, far away from her one and only patient. The solitude feels stifling.
Last night the sky here in The Slow purged itself of all the flotsam and jetsam it wad been whisking about on jet streams. Rain fell hard, sheets of watery glass, drops the size of tear drop quarters. Lightning flashed as fast as a Studio 54 strobe light, circa 1977. The claps of thunder so intense, they felt at times like earthquakes. It was wholly awesome and one of the loneliest mights I've had here at all once. But the storm had little to do with my forlorn state.
Ever had thoughts about a certain someone that, unfortunately, lived hundreds of, might as well have been millions, of miles away? Someone who has everything that a person could want: beauty, brains, a blessed sense of humor, talent, and ambition. A true 5 point all star. The kind of person that you want to share a plate of pasta with in hopes of reliving that scene from Lady and the Tramp. Someone that makes you want to stand in a trench coat, boom box high over head blaring Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes". You would never dream of selling this person to Humble Pie for fifty dollars and a case of Heineken, metaphorically speaking. Someone you would cherish like a sparkling diamond.
Have you ever thought that you could uproot your whole life just to be near someone? Not to stalk them, nothing that perverse, but just to be near them. Not because you know that they would fall with you if geography wasn't an inhibiting factor, but just to be close enough to find out. Not to disrupt or upset their world, but just to see if you could be the balance. Not to be creepy or sinister, but because your intentions are pure as honey.
Maybe right now my walls are closing in. I miss my old unproductive but righteously entertaining life. The friends I know are just a phone call away, yet not coming to my next barbecue. The sites I grew up seeing are only visible in my mind, so yeah, its lonely. I've probably read too much into innocent comments, wouldn't be the first time, sure it won't be the last. I believe that's called hope. And I know I'm not completely insane, because I recognize these things, that it sounds crazy, that if is crazy, so I'm gonna just wait here til the loneliness subsides. I guess I wanted her to know. Sure hopes she reads this.
Ever stared at a picture and wondered? Ever gone through with it and moved to be with someone?
We are currently out of Dixie Cups, need to go to the store.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Friday, April 4, 2008
The Kumquat Tongue
"Don't know much about a science book. Don't know much about the French I took . But I do know that..." Sam Cooke from "Wonderful World"
I gotta admit the nurse was looking hotter than Georgia asphalt when she came to my room. It might have been the pharmaceuticals in her hand, or the ruby red lipstick that made her mouth look more inviting than a priest asking the altar boys to join him in the rectory, but I almost blurted out those three little words. You know the words, don't make me say 'em.
Those three words have ruined more lives than polio. The can cause devastating pain, sweet euphoria, and pain so intense it would make John Wayne hide behind a rock. Being the first one in the twosome, or threesome (again, not here to judge) to drop those words is tantamount to being the first guy to push the button and launch the nuclear arsenal. That is, unless you're saying them strictly to seal the deal. Then its easy as one, two, three.
The first time I said them to a girl I wanted to touch my man-bits I was a mess. Sweat was pouring out of me in marathon runner gallons, my tongue was swollen to the size of a kumquat, my legs shook like Parkinson's was setting in. It was miserable. I was on the verge of blacking out from the nerve, though the half bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum, the most delicious rum in all the land (available at stores everywhere, drink irresponsibly), was not helping matters. By the way, little tip, half blasted on rum is no time to start professing anything, again, unless its to close the sale, so to speak. Its the ABC's, Always Be Closing.
The recipient of the intoxicated declaration was a cotton candy sweet girl. I had known her for quite some time and thought that she might, might, just accept my statement with the proper enthusiasm. But that slurring voice in the back of mind was screaming "Don't do it, you Moron." Generally its good to listen to the voice in your head, its usually your conscience. And the voice of reason knew that if it didn't go well I was gonna have a breakfast plate piled high with heaps of regret. That's when the booze really got a foot hold, gagging the Jiminy Cricket bastard, and beating it into submission. The time had arrived and I was about to jump the shark in a completely non-literal way.
I swallowed hard, trying to clear any liquid from my oral cavity. Last thing I wanted to do was accidentally spit a little as the words came out. It was like, swallowing the Pacific Ocean, I swear that Mark Foo surfed the wave down my esophagus. With dry cheeks I steadied myself on the edge of my bed and looked deep into her eyes. Brown pools of soul that you could have gotten lost in for days on end. Just as I was about to blurt it out she licked her lips in nervously anticipating what was to come. Then I heard the words escape in my not yet Marlboro Light lowered voice and waited for her reaction.
Do you remember the first time you said it to someone? Did you get the reaction you expected? Did you mean it?
Dixie Cup of Love: Brown Eyed Girls everywhere.
I gotta admit the nurse was looking hotter than Georgia asphalt when she came to my room. It might have been the pharmaceuticals in her hand, or the ruby red lipstick that made her mouth look more inviting than a priest asking the altar boys to join him in the rectory, but I almost blurted out those three little words. You know the words, don't make me say 'em.
Those three words have ruined more lives than polio. The can cause devastating pain, sweet euphoria, and pain so intense it would make John Wayne hide behind a rock. Being the first one in the twosome, or threesome (again, not here to judge) to drop those words is tantamount to being the first guy to push the button and launch the nuclear arsenal. That is, unless you're saying them strictly to seal the deal. Then its easy as one, two, three.
The first time I said them to a girl I wanted to touch my man-bits I was a mess. Sweat was pouring out of me in marathon runner gallons, my tongue was swollen to the size of a kumquat, my legs shook like Parkinson's was setting in. It was miserable. I was on the verge of blacking out from the nerve, though the half bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum, the most delicious rum in all the land (available at stores everywhere, drink irresponsibly), was not helping matters. By the way, little tip, half blasted on rum is no time to start professing anything, again, unless its to close the sale, so to speak. Its the ABC's, Always Be Closing.
The recipient of the intoxicated declaration was a cotton candy sweet girl. I had known her for quite some time and thought that she might, might, just accept my statement with the proper enthusiasm. But that slurring voice in the back of mind was screaming "Don't do it, you Moron." Generally its good to listen to the voice in your head, its usually your conscience. And the voice of reason knew that if it didn't go well I was gonna have a breakfast plate piled high with heaps of regret. That's when the booze really got a foot hold, gagging the Jiminy Cricket bastard, and beating it into submission. The time had arrived and I was about to jump the shark in a completely non-literal way.
I swallowed hard, trying to clear any liquid from my oral cavity. Last thing I wanted to do was accidentally spit a little as the words came out. It was like, swallowing the Pacific Ocean, I swear that Mark Foo surfed the wave down my esophagus. With dry cheeks I steadied myself on the edge of my bed and looked deep into her eyes. Brown pools of soul that you could have gotten lost in for days on end. Just as I was about to blurt it out she licked her lips in nervously anticipating what was to come. Then I heard the words escape in my not yet Marlboro Light lowered voice and waited for her reaction.
Do you remember the first time you said it to someone? Did you get the reaction you expected? Did you mean it?
Dixie Cup of Love: Brown Eyed Girls everywhere.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Face Full of Powder
“Your hair’s too long, Man, you’re a queer, You’re too new wave, Put down that beer. And do the Slag." Dead Kennedys from "Do The Slag"
The nurse limped into my antiseptically decorated dormitory of delight wearing a new accessory to her cleavage mashing uniform. A neck brace. I cackled the laughter of a mad man. "Oral sex injury?" I inquired without a trace of concern in my voice. She dumped my Dixie cup of medical malaise into my gaping mouth, trying in vane to choke me. "I was skiing, asshole." She snarled. I hadn't realized that she had a pet name for me. Cute, I thought. As she left to attended to her throbbing pain I thought of my own experiences on in the White World.
I'm no snow bird. When Jack Frost dumps his white load across a region I'm Casper. A ghost. This awareness of my thermal threshold has kept me off of skis my entire life. But back when I was right around the legal drinking age, I had a neighbor who found this to be a tragic flaw in my coolness armor.
Jack lived in the apartment below mine. He was chronically unemployed, a tile layer by trade, and living month to month on his government subsidy and a pay out from an automobile accident. See, Jack was a biker. A tattoo ridden, long haired, scars to prove it Harley man and I was fascinated by him. His wife was smoking hot, he had no time card, and whenever the urge hit be fired up the pan head with a suicide shift and bombed down the road. What wasn't to love about the guy?
Well, having someone whom I admired with coat tail pulling affection think me uncool was devastating. When a trip to Mountain High to go snow boarding was mentioned, I jumped at the chance to increase my Hipness hit points (yeah, I know that cost me any points I may have gained, whatever).
Having never ridden a snowboard, or been on a ski lift, I strapped the slippery plank to my boots like a veteran. There was no shaking in my hands, my heart rate not nearing arrest levels. Cool. I could see Jack in my peripheral vision watching me, looking for signs of panic, but I was stone. Granite. Alright, maybe not granite, but certainly not sand stone. Placing a Marlboro Light between my ever chapping lips, I stood ready to face the white mountain before me.
On the ski lift I joked, looked around passively, and enjoyed a rare lungful of smogless air. This was nice, I thought. Nothing to worry about. We neared the top of the lift, I swung my board under my one unbound boot, let the lift east me gently off the wooden seat, then crashed down the miniature mogul with the grace of a drunken grissly bear. Jack howled, but I simply stood, brushed myself off, and pushed towards the slope.
Here's what they didn't tell me. California snow isn't snow at all. It's ice. Hard packed, pelvis shattering, hell from the clouds. Tumbling down that hill felt like being on a Slip-N-Slide made of cheese graters. When my bloody mess of a frozen body finally arrived at the lodge I was met by a raucous round of applause and an ice cold beer. I lived. Total cool points awarded: Uncountable.
What are some of your wildest first times? What fears did you face in order to be cool?
Dixie Cup of Love: Jack the Biker.
The nurse limped into my antiseptically decorated dormitory of delight wearing a new accessory to her cleavage mashing uniform. A neck brace. I cackled the laughter of a mad man. "Oral sex injury?" I inquired without a trace of concern in my voice. She dumped my Dixie cup of medical malaise into my gaping mouth, trying in vane to choke me. "I was skiing, asshole." She snarled. I hadn't realized that she had a pet name for me. Cute, I thought. As she left to attended to her throbbing pain I thought of my own experiences on in the White World.
I'm no snow bird. When Jack Frost dumps his white load across a region I'm Casper. A ghost. This awareness of my thermal threshold has kept me off of skis my entire life. But back when I was right around the legal drinking age, I had a neighbor who found this to be a tragic flaw in my coolness armor.
Jack lived in the apartment below mine. He was chronically unemployed, a tile layer by trade, and living month to month on his government subsidy and a pay out from an automobile accident. See, Jack was a biker. A tattoo ridden, long haired, scars to prove it Harley man and I was fascinated by him. His wife was smoking hot, he had no time card, and whenever the urge hit be fired up the pan head with a suicide shift and bombed down the road. What wasn't to love about the guy?
Well, having someone whom I admired with coat tail pulling affection think me uncool was devastating. When a trip to Mountain High to go snow boarding was mentioned, I jumped at the chance to increase my Hipness hit points (yeah, I know that cost me any points I may have gained, whatever).
Having never ridden a snowboard, or been on a ski lift, I strapped the slippery plank to my boots like a veteran. There was no shaking in my hands, my heart rate not nearing arrest levels. Cool. I could see Jack in my peripheral vision watching me, looking for signs of panic, but I was stone. Granite. Alright, maybe not granite, but certainly not sand stone. Placing a Marlboro Light between my ever chapping lips, I stood ready to face the white mountain before me.
On the ski lift I joked, looked around passively, and enjoyed a rare lungful of smogless air. This was nice, I thought. Nothing to worry about. We neared the top of the lift, I swung my board under my one unbound boot, let the lift east me gently off the wooden seat, then crashed down the miniature mogul with the grace of a drunken grissly bear. Jack howled, but I simply stood, brushed myself off, and pushed towards the slope.
Here's what they didn't tell me. California snow isn't snow at all. It's ice. Hard packed, pelvis shattering, hell from the clouds. Tumbling down that hill felt like being on a Slip-N-Slide made of cheese graters. When my bloody mess of a frozen body finally arrived at the lodge I was met by a raucous round of applause and an ice cold beer. I lived. Total cool points awarded: Uncountable.
What are some of your wildest first times? What fears did you face in order to be cool?
Dixie Cup of Love: Jack the Biker.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
The Long Road Ahead
"I'm no fool, no siree, I'm gonna live to be 103, I play safe for you and me, cause I'm no fool"
Jiminy Cricket from "I'm No Fool"
The nurse looked like a truck stop waitress after a double shift, tired, beaten, exhausted. Suits her. Asking for anything special today would only lead to testicle clamps and placebos, neither of which were sounding especially comfortable today. I needed the sweet numbness of my meds, because something I saw on the television gave me the nits.
Can you live to one hundred and fifty? That was the grisly question that ABC examined last night. 150? The drugs and procedures that these life prolongers are working on seem just this shy of the Isle of Dr Moreau. They aren't thinking of transplanting baboon hearts in sickly children, leaving no excuse for the little poo tossers to act that way, no, they are growing human bladders and hearts in labs. They have, allegedly, isolated the gene that determines aging speed, and found a way to slow it down. When people say 40 is the new 30, they could be way off. 40 would be the new 20, which has a few pros and cons.
PRO: You can live to be 150 or old.
CON: Retiring at 65 would no longer be financially responsible, so tack on another 50 to 60 years of cubicle life. I shutter to think.
PRO: Sex til your 120.
CON: Sex with a 120 year old person.
PRO: Spending extra time with loved ones.
CON: Til death to us part has a longer sentence then Murder 1.
PRO: Think of all you could achieve!
CON: What if you are a procrastinator?
PRO: Imagine how the world would change.
CON: Six more generations of possible Bush family presidencies.
PRO: I might finally finish my novel
CON: But it could just mean 40150 more Asylum blogs and I don't have that much to say.
PRO: You could get a spot on Richard Branson's Mars Ark.
CON: 100 years stuck on a plane next to that chatty Jewish woman from the Bronx.
PRO: World Class Athletes could have longer careers.
CON: So could Ben Affleck (I kid, I love Ben).
PRO: You could see the world.
CON: Which would be completely devoid of natural resources.
PRO: You would never feel rushed.
CON: Traffic on the 405, miserable now, wait til there's 100,000,000,000 more people living on the planet.
PRO: We may move into a Jetson's like utopia.
CON: We may de-evolve into a Flintstone's like quagmire.
PRO: Everyone would have a chance to become whatever they wanted.
CON: Everyone would have there own reality show.
I don't know about this extra life. It seems too impossible, too irresponsible, and too insufferable. Would you want to live to be 150 years old? What would you do with the extra years? How does Barbra Walters still have a job?
Dixie Cup of Love: To the inventor of the pro and con list.
PS - The answers to Judi's questions are: 1. Feb 11th, a better quality of life. No. 2. Personal Choice 3. No where. 4. Having my dick squeezed by three girls at once. 5. Led Zeppelin, Oingo Boingo, and The Beatles.
Jiminy Cricket from "I'm No Fool"
The nurse looked like a truck stop waitress after a double shift, tired, beaten, exhausted. Suits her. Asking for anything special today would only lead to testicle clamps and placebos, neither of which were sounding especially comfortable today. I needed the sweet numbness of my meds, because something I saw on the television gave me the nits.
Can you live to one hundred and fifty? That was the grisly question that ABC examined last night. 150? The drugs and procedures that these life prolongers are working on seem just this shy of the Isle of Dr Moreau. They aren't thinking of transplanting baboon hearts in sickly children, leaving no excuse for the little poo tossers to act that way, no, they are growing human bladders and hearts in labs. They have, allegedly, isolated the gene that determines aging speed, and found a way to slow it down. When people say 40 is the new 30, they could be way off. 40 would be the new 20, which has a few pros and cons.
PRO: You can live to be 150 or old.
CON: Retiring at 65 would no longer be financially responsible, so tack on another 50 to 60 years of cubicle life. I shutter to think.
PRO: Sex til your 120.
CON: Sex with a 120 year old person.
PRO: Spending extra time with loved ones.
CON: Til death to us part has a longer sentence then Murder 1.
PRO: Think of all you could achieve!
CON: What if you are a procrastinator?
PRO: Imagine how the world would change.
CON: Six more generations of possible Bush family presidencies.
PRO: I might finally finish my novel
CON: But it could just mean 40150 more Asylum blogs and I don't have that much to say.
PRO: You could get a spot on Richard Branson's Mars Ark.
CON: 100 years stuck on a plane next to that chatty Jewish woman from the Bronx.
PRO: World Class Athletes could have longer careers.
CON: So could Ben Affleck (I kid, I love Ben).
PRO: You could see the world.
CON: Which would be completely devoid of natural resources.
PRO: You would never feel rushed.
CON: Traffic on the 405, miserable now, wait til there's 100,000,000,000 more people living on the planet.
PRO: We may move into a Jetson's like utopia.
CON: We may de-evolve into a Flintstone's like quagmire.
PRO: Everyone would have a chance to become whatever they wanted.
CON: Everyone would have there own reality show.
I don't know about this extra life. It seems too impossible, too irresponsible, and too insufferable. Would you want to live to be 150 years old? What would you do with the extra years? How does Barbra Walters still have a job?
Dixie Cup of Love: To the inventor of the pro and con list.
PS - The answers to Judi's questions are: 1. Feb 11th, a better quality of life. No. 2. Personal Choice 3. No where. 4. Having my dick squeezed by three girls at once. 5. Led Zeppelin, Oingo Boingo, and The Beatles.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Tonka Truck Power
"Beat on the brat, beat on the brat, beat on the brat with a baseball bat." The Ramones from "Beat on the Brat"
You'd think that the nurse would throw me a friggin' bone once in a while. I don't ask the Florence Nightingale from Hell for much, aside from my meds, an occasional happy ending sponge bath, and to make sure the TV is tuned to ABC on Thursday so I can watch "LOST". So, you'd think I pissed in her Cap'n Crunch when I asked her to turn the TV to opening day of the baseball season. She obviously has been a "sports widow" in one of her past lives as a succubus. And it got me thinking...
I will attack these Bull Durham related issues from both sides of the plate. Like a switch hitter with Tonka truck power to either field. First rule of baseball season: Respect The Streak. Ladies. There is nothing you can do about a streak. You could stand in front of the tube wearing nothing but Saran Wrap, if a runner gets to second, you'll get pushed out of the way. Don't look at it as being past over for the pastime. Look at it as an opportunity to nap, empty his closet of unflattering attire, or Wine-O-Clock. Gents. Unless the Yankees or Angels or whatever you team is has signed you to a deal to be the back up shortstop, there is nothing you can do to effect a streak either. No rally cap, monkey, or ritual jersey is gonna help. Unless you have a cursed item, those are powerful amulets from the dark lord and should be treated as such. Just ask Bobby Brady about that Tiki amulet he gripped from Vincent Price's cave in the Brady's Gone Hawaiian epic two parter.
Second rule of baseball season: Don't Respect All Streaks. Ladies. If you give the man or woman in your life, I'm not here to judge, but if you preform a sexual act that you're not prepared to perform on a nightly basis until the Halos lose you are in the wrong. If you can't stand up to the Rigimortis Monster every night, stay the hell away from new, interesting, or orally entertaining feats. Gents. Imagine this. You drop south of the border and give your woman the ever so rare Golden O without a recipritorial Hallelujah of your own, and your team wins. You may not have sex for an entire 4 game set in Kansas City. If it's followed by a 3 gamer in Cincinnati, you could be looking at 8 days without (travel days count). Again, your mattress habits have nothing to do with the inevitable outcome of sporting events.
Third rule of baseball season: October. Ladies. Accept the fact that now football season is underway and baseball is in the playoffs. This is no time for trips to your mothers, friends, or home improvement. That shit can wait til Thanksgiving. Gents. In this most heated month of fandom, it's easy to forget the gals. Sure, she may sit on the couch next to you wearing a Adrian Petersen jersey, but she's not the Vikings fan that you are. Placate. Women have a better grasp of sports than we give them credit for, they just don't allow their emotional health to rely on the bullpen. Touch her often during the game, not just pushing her towards the kitchen to get more snacks for you and the Bowery Boys. Give her attention and it will make game day a much happier and argument free day.
Got any suggestions for surviving sports? Got any rituals? Ladies, don't feel like I'm putting Baby in the corner here, I want to know if your man griefs you during sports? Any alternatives?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Boys of Summer.
You'd think that the nurse would throw me a friggin' bone once in a while. I don't ask the Florence Nightingale from Hell for much, aside from my meds, an occasional happy ending sponge bath, and to make sure the TV is tuned to ABC on Thursday so I can watch "LOST". So, you'd think I pissed in her Cap'n Crunch when I asked her to turn the TV to opening day of the baseball season. She obviously has been a "sports widow" in one of her past lives as a succubus. And it got me thinking...
I will attack these Bull Durham related issues from both sides of the plate. Like a switch hitter with Tonka truck power to either field. First rule of baseball season: Respect The Streak. Ladies. There is nothing you can do about a streak. You could stand in front of the tube wearing nothing but Saran Wrap, if a runner gets to second, you'll get pushed out of the way. Don't look at it as being past over for the pastime. Look at it as an opportunity to nap, empty his closet of unflattering attire, or Wine-O-Clock. Gents. Unless the Yankees or Angels or whatever you team is has signed you to a deal to be the back up shortstop, there is nothing you can do to effect a streak either. No rally cap, monkey, or ritual jersey is gonna help. Unless you have a cursed item, those are powerful amulets from the dark lord and should be treated as such. Just ask Bobby Brady about that Tiki amulet he gripped from Vincent Price's cave in the Brady's Gone Hawaiian epic two parter.
Second rule of baseball season: Don't Respect All Streaks. Ladies. If you give the man or woman in your life, I'm not here to judge, but if you preform a sexual act that you're not prepared to perform on a nightly basis until the Halos lose you are in the wrong. If you can't stand up to the Rigimortis Monster every night, stay the hell away from new, interesting, or orally entertaining feats. Gents. Imagine this. You drop south of the border and give your woman the ever so rare Golden O without a recipritorial Hallelujah of your own, and your team wins. You may not have sex for an entire 4 game set in Kansas City. If it's followed by a 3 gamer in Cincinnati, you could be looking at 8 days without (travel days count). Again, your mattress habits have nothing to do with the inevitable outcome of sporting events.
Third rule of baseball season: October. Ladies. Accept the fact that now football season is underway and baseball is in the playoffs. This is no time for trips to your mothers, friends, or home improvement. That shit can wait til Thanksgiving. Gents. In this most heated month of fandom, it's easy to forget the gals. Sure, she may sit on the couch next to you wearing a Adrian Petersen jersey, but she's not the Vikings fan that you are. Placate. Women have a better grasp of sports than we give them credit for, they just don't allow their emotional health to rely on the bullpen. Touch her often during the game, not just pushing her towards the kitchen to get more snacks for you and the Bowery Boys. Give her attention and it will make game day a much happier and argument free day.
Got any suggestions for surviving sports? Got any rituals? Ladies, don't feel like I'm putting Baby in the corner here, I want to know if your man griefs you during sports? Any alternatives?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Boys of Summer.
Monday, March 31, 2008
The Hourglass Syndrome
"Me, I'll take her laughter and her tears, And make them all my souvenirs. For when she goes I've got to be, The meaning of my life is she" Elvis Costello from "She"
When the nurse came in to administer my daily dose of Valhalla on Earth I noticed a peculiar grin on her face and what I'm sure she was passing off as a "Curling Iron Burn" on her neck. "So, Vamperella, what's with the love bit?" I murmured as she tossed my scripts haphazardly towards my mouth. She walked out looking back over her shoulder eyes full of bile and disgust. Right then I knew I was falling for her. No hook. No sinker. Just a harpoon to the left ventricle. A feeling I recall having felt on one prior occasion.
At twenty-one, like all disenfranchised Reality Bites generation youths, I was wearing a gross amount of flannel, hating corporate rock, and wanting to move to Seattle to start my band, sign with Sub-Pop. Eventually leading to me taking a shotgun to my own head. The bite of my reality was I delivered mattresses, drank excessively, and duped a few ultra intoxicated bar skanks at dollar drink night into polishing my pants puppet. Thus was life in Southern California. It was at that bar that I first came down with a chronic condition that would be with me forever. No, not herpes. A disease that I call "The Hourglass Syndrome."
Her name was Michelle. Her hips were insanely 1940's hot rod curvy, smooth to the touch. Her hair the red of the sunset on a rare smog free City of Angeles twilight. Her husband, yeah her husband, well, he wasn't my problem. At least I didn't think so at the time. All I could think about, looking at her jade and yellow flecked irises, was that I would never behold beauty like those eyes again, so I had better take my time staring into them.
We hit it off and decided to go out. our first official date was the American classic. Dinner and a movie. The meal, Italian. The movie, Danny DeVito in "Other People's Money" with the luscious Penelope Ann Miller. It was a date like so many others, but extraordinarily unique to me. Heavy rains of fairy tale imagery fell around us, soaking us in enchantment. After a two hour hand holding session which had us both craving more contact, we ended up on a park toy made of disposed of tractor tires. Safely located under a spider web of powerlines. It was there that we kissed for the first time. Were we touched, were we fell, hard. As the sun began to turn the sky an azure blue I asked if perhaps we should call it a night. But she decided on making love until noon.
At her house, she stood before me naked of fear, inviting me to explore. I was like Magellan. Her breasts were monuments of glorious soft flesh. I devoured them. Taking my time to kiss, caress, and flick over every pore, leaving her eager nipples until the end of my worshipping session. Until then I had kept her hands from moving off the back of my head, but that was no longer enough for her, for either of us.
It was the first time I had made love to a woman. All sex before that morning had been just sweet physical release. In that bed, on that morning, I found out that emotional release was something you never forget. As I lay there with her head putting my arm to sleep I felt bliss for the first time. Then I looked at the digital clock on the night stand next to her wedding photo.
I hope the feeling that saturated every cell of my being at that very moment is something I never have to endure again.
To be continued...
Have you ever been the "other" man or woman? Ever been cheated on? Ever felt that kind of love?
Dixie Cup of Love: Cameron Crowe for naming my condition.
When the nurse came in to administer my daily dose of Valhalla on Earth I noticed a peculiar grin on her face and what I'm sure she was passing off as a "Curling Iron Burn" on her neck. "So, Vamperella, what's with the love bit?" I murmured as she tossed my scripts haphazardly towards my mouth. She walked out looking back over her shoulder eyes full of bile and disgust. Right then I knew I was falling for her. No hook. No sinker. Just a harpoon to the left ventricle. A feeling I recall having felt on one prior occasion.
At twenty-one, like all disenfranchised Reality Bites generation youths, I was wearing a gross amount of flannel, hating corporate rock, and wanting to move to Seattle to start my band, sign with Sub-Pop. Eventually leading to me taking a shotgun to my own head. The bite of my reality was I delivered mattresses, drank excessively, and duped a few ultra intoxicated bar skanks at dollar drink night into polishing my pants puppet. Thus was life in Southern California. It was at that bar that I first came down with a chronic condition that would be with me forever. No, not herpes. A disease that I call "The Hourglass Syndrome."
Her name was Michelle. Her hips were insanely 1940's hot rod curvy, smooth to the touch. Her hair the red of the sunset on a rare smog free City of Angeles twilight. Her husband, yeah her husband, well, he wasn't my problem. At least I didn't think so at the time. All I could think about, looking at her jade and yellow flecked irises, was that I would never behold beauty like those eyes again, so I had better take my time staring into them.
We hit it off and decided to go out. our first official date was the American classic. Dinner and a movie. The meal, Italian. The movie, Danny DeVito in "Other People's Money" with the luscious Penelope Ann Miller. It was a date like so many others, but extraordinarily unique to me. Heavy rains of fairy tale imagery fell around us, soaking us in enchantment. After a two hour hand holding session which had us both craving more contact, we ended up on a park toy made of disposed of tractor tires. Safely located under a spider web of powerlines. It was there that we kissed for the first time. Were we touched, were we fell, hard. As the sun began to turn the sky an azure blue I asked if perhaps we should call it a night. But she decided on making love until noon.
At her house, she stood before me naked of fear, inviting me to explore. I was like Magellan. Her breasts were monuments of glorious soft flesh. I devoured them. Taking my time to kiss, caress, and flick over every pore, leaving her eager nipples until the end of my worshipping session. Until then I had kept her hands from moving off the back of my head, but that was no longer enough for her, for either of us.
It was the first time I had made love to a woman. All sex before that morning had been just sweet physical release. In that bed, on that morning, I found out that emotional release was something you never forget. As I lay there with her head putting my arm to sleep I felt bliss for the first time. Then I looked at the digital clock on the night stand next to her wedding photo.
I hope the feeling that saturated every cell of my being at that very moment is something I never have to endure again.
To be continued...
Have you ever been the "other" man or woman? Ever been cheated on? Ever felt that kind of love?
Dixie Cup of Love: Cameron Crowe for naming my condition.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Tears of the Clowns
"Now if there’s a smile on my face, it’s only there tryin’ to fool the public, but when it comes down to foolin’ you; Now honey, that’s quite a different subject." Smokey Robinson and the Miracles from "Tears of a Clown"
The nurse laughed like a jackal as she fed me my Inmate-Go-Sleepy pills today. The cause of her adjulation was a poll in the local bird cage liner ranking who the top nurses in the land were. Her name, sadly for her, no surprise to me, wasn’t on the list. Why the manical laugh, should I get a bed ready in room 2? "Because," she said, "I did not become a nurse to be ranked, I became a nurse to torture the likes of you!"
There are a river of tears being cryed, fjords of mascara staining cheeks, and all because of a stupid insipid thing called Blog Rankings. I admit, when I started the Asylum I was interested to see where I would end up. A few times I even shared the meaningless rankings with you fine folks. But after reading a stream of bulletins, blogs, and messages about how the rankings were unfair, I thought, to hell with that. I’m not here to be ranked. I’m here because I need to do this.
The best part for me isn’t even writing the blogs. It’s the comments. That’s the butter on a my toast. I sit around waiting like Rosencratz and Gildenstern hoping that you all show up and rant on about whatever madness has crossed my mind. It’s adrenline rushing without the sky diving. And more and more of you are reading it everyday (except on weekends, when my hit count shrank like a penis in a cold pool). But I don’t care if I’m the "Top Myspace Blogger" that’s like being the "Best Diddly Winks Player in the World", it’s great, but it isn’t gonna get me anywhere.
So, today, on naked comment day, I make a declaration to you, loyal reader. I won’t check the rankings ever again. You don’t ever tell me if you see me on there, and together we’ll have some fun, leave some comments, and hopefully when all is said and done, we can look back at the Asylum as a groovy place to meet some new people. If you’ve come here expecting to be wildly entertained everyday, I’m going to disappoint you. If you’ve come here expecting to learn the meaning of life, get in line. If you’ve come here to spread a message of hate, just make sure it is geared at me and not the other commenters. If you’ve come her expecting me to poor out more truth than Jack Nicholson could handle, wait for tomorrow. Today I’m just telling the cryers to dry their eyes and enjoy what little success you have. If the worth of your being is going to be tied to how many people read your blog, you’re a child. Most of them, the cryers, whine about broken relationships or how men are better than women, I mean, for Jeebus sake, wake up.
I’ve never erased a comment. Unless it was a duplicate. But never would I sensor what you write to me. That’s ridiculous. It goes against everything that writing is about. If you’re one of the crying masses using a refresher to boost your numbers, you’re cowardly and egotistical. You want a throw down, I’ll give you one. One subject, two blogs, let the readers decide who has the knack. I may lose, I may win, but I won’t have to fluff my numbers like a wanna be porn star to be happy.
Sorry if this one didn’t have the zing that you’re used to. Tomorrows is a much more personal account. I just had to get this off my chest.
What do you think about these people? Is it worth it to be the 1 blogger? Why do you come here? Are you commenting naked, as is the rule today?
Dixie Cup of Love: Writers.
The nurse laughed like a jackal as she fed me my Inmate-Go-Sleepy pills today. The cause of her adjulation was a poll in the local bird cage liner ranking who the top nurses in the land were. Her name, sadly for her, no surprise to me, wasn’t on the list. Why the manical laugh, should I get a bed ready in room 2? "Because," she said, "I did not become a nurse to be ranked, I became a nurse to torture the likes of you!"
There are a river of tears being cryed, fjords of mascara staining cheeks, and all because of a stupid insipid thing called Blog Rankings. I admit, when I started the Asylum I was interested to see where I would end up. A few times I even shared the meaningless rankings with you fine folks. But after reading a stream of bulletins, blogs, and messages about how the rankings were unfair, I thought, to hell with that. I’m not here to be ranked. I’m here because I need to do this.
The best part for me isn’t even writing the blogs. It’s the comments. That’s the butter on a my toast. I sit around waiting like Rosencratz and Gildenstern hoping that you all show up and rant on about whatever madness has crossed my mind. It’s adrenline rushing without the sky diving. And more and more of you are reading it everyday (except on weekends, when my hit count shrank like a penis in a cold pool). But I don’t care if I’m the "Top Myspace Blogger" that’s like being the "Best Diddly Winks Player in the World", it’s great, but it isn’t gonna get me anywhere.
So, today, on naked comment day, I make a declaration to you, loyal reader. I won’t check the rankings ever again. You don’t ever tell me if you see me on there, and together we’ll have some fun, leave some comments, and hopefully when all is said and done, we can look back at the Asylum as a groovy place to meet some new people. If you’ve come here expecting to be wildly entertained everyday, I’m going to disappoint you. If you’ve come here expecting to learn the meaning of life, get in line. If you’ve come here to spread a message of hate, just make sure it is geared at me and not the other commenters. If you’ve come her expecting me to poor out more truth than Jack Nicholson could handle, wait for tomorrow. Today I’m just telling the cryers to dry their eyes and enjoy what little success you have. If the worth of your being is going to be tied to how many people read your blog, you’re a child. Most of them, the cryers, whine about broken relationships or how men are better than women, I mean, for Jeebus sake, wake up.
I’ve never erased a comment. Unless it was a duplicate. But never would I sensor what you write to me. That’s ridiculous. It goes against everything that writing is about. If you’re one of the crying masses using a refresher to boost your numbers, you’re cowardly and egotistical. You want a throw down, I’ll give you one. One subject, two blogs, let the readers decide who has the knack. I may lose, I may win, but I won’t have to fluff my numbers like a wanna be porn star to be happy.
Sorry if this one didn’t have the zing that you’re used to. Tomorrows is a much more personal account. I just had to get this off my chest.
What do you think about these people? Is it worth it to be the 1 blogger? Why do you come here? Are you commenting naked, as is the rule today?
Dixie Cup of Love: Writers.
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