Josh Stern's Blog, page 190

Help, I'm an American trapped in the body of a Montrealer

It’s sunny mild and beautiful here- I’m 10 seconds away from an awesome gym and great food stores, the chicks are retardedly hot and I’m getting into great shape….so why the general dissatisfaction…???

Frankly I’m not sure of anything except that the TV sucks and there is still the talk of Separation 35 years after their demands were met and the balance of power now is not shared, it’s been commandeered.  The language police are such that the occasional goose step wouldn’t raise eyebrows but everything seems to work in a patchwork madras golf pants sort of way…so why the general dissatisfaction????

The Olympics only highlight the resigned acceptance of living a bronze medal sort of existence here.  I recently got a job offer to move to LA and I’m working on it post haste- although it’s temporary and I’ll have to move back in few years… the thought of living without Sorel snow boots and hopping the dirty slush gives way to  non language inflamed race riots and gridlock traffic.

I have the body of an aging beach volleyballer who’s plyometric ‘Baryshnikov’ days are well behind him; and while ideally I prefer a suit and never wear sandals, I’m sure I can blend in with the native warpaint and become certifiably flaky

I just feel as if I’m in the remedial class with a bunch of hillbillies as some sort of karmic bitchslap for past transgressions that will best be left undisturbed on the riverbed of my life.

Cars are cheaper, and there’s a beach so my SPF expenses will exponentially explode and  I might just return home early if I nail a bleach blonde in a convertible…

The Brown Lunch Elevator Story

I get in to JFK and take the subway back to the City- a fitting poverty hero’s welcome. As I emerge from the 103rd subway opening, still deaf from the blaring Mexican mariachi band that I was pinned up against on the ersatz underground Taquero salsa cantina from the airport. Bleary eyed and way beat, I suffer the 5 singing Pistoleros in cowboy hats with matching spurs; they smelled of really pungent chopped liver and a little known fact about Chicanos is that they aren’t really known for their love of Eastern European Jewish fare, so I shudder to think of the origins of that aroma….. their screeching Spanish harmonies grating my eardrums more than the unaligned steel wheels beneath the train. Under the constant threat of an errant flying mariachi from a displeased singing Bandido, the straphangers quickly parted with their pocket change as it free flowingly poured in as they passed the sombrero… Although the only thing I wanted to give them were gunshot wounds.

I rush home quickly, racing against the clock before the night of the living crack zombies begins and The ticker tape parade is supplanted by the forgotten litter of candy bar wrappers being whipped around the inner city landscape, fuelled by fierce winds in a seemingly endless ‘chasing its own tail’ pas des deux … The far off sounds of sirens replace the applause reserved for New York Heroes. Speed walking the desolate streets back to the apartment, the shrill smell of cold garbage rapes my nostrils. I’m careful to slalom between the months-old remains of squashed rats who scurried just a touch too slow and met with welcoming pimped rimmed tires… I’m not looking forward to the cleanup of my slummish apartment and having supermarkets with a unanimous bill of fare amounting to Twinkies, Devil dogs and Yodels in close proximity, I’ll have to go 10 blocks away and sneak past Checkpoint Charlie back into ‘Normalville’ in order to get potable food such as it is…

Luckily my Mom had the generous foresight to send me off with a care package so I could come home to my dustbowl digs and not have to forage for Twinkies (room temperature mummified for freshness) outside in the underclass jungle…I should have taken her up on her offer for industrial construction masks, as the mutant dust bunnies have bred like rabbits.

Cutting a swath through the old newspapers and Evian bottles strewn in the living room, I decide that a modest cleanup just might be in order, that way at least I’ll get a heads up before the monster bedbugs suck out my brains like shucking oysters. As I begin to take out the myriad clear garbage bags of plastic bottles down to the dumpster area in the back of the building, I get winks from the envious homeless guys; now raggedly circling the garbage bins like unshaven vultures who’ve spotted a veritable luau of carrion. Waiting with surprising civility to attack this mother lode- and as I have no favorites, their arsenal of corrugated cardboard strips will be flying. It won’t be pretty. Usually I’d hang around to watch the bum ‘fights to the finish’ spectacle but I have of late, since my affliction, started thinking differently about humanity-so I’ll go back upstairs and wait for the highlights on the 11o’clock news…

Safely ensconced once more in my apartmental equivalent of abject humiliation, the bloodcurdling screams from the dumpster area have finally died down to an acceptable level and as I go to drown them out with some random TV show-I am confronted with the pesky realization that Time Warner Cable has ‘triple played’ shut me down- cable/internet and phone. So third world it I must do. The electricity is still on- provisionally at this point. So as the dust rises as I settle into my sheetless bed (like a psychotic horror flick in the cobwebbed room that has been untouched since the old lady’s tragic murder fuelled wedding day 70 years ago), I slowly unwrap the moist plastic Saran wrapped egg frittata, lovingly made by my Mom. Nothing is worse than wet Saran Wrap, except perhaps taking a pap smear from a geriatric homeless woman….perhaps. But I’m thankful that the next few day’s shit will be graced by a little more color from the frittata’s mix-ins: red peppers and scallions represents unconditional love. It’s appreciating the simple things in life that really punctuates the fact that you’re completely down and out.

OK, no TV, not much else to do except sleep and work on my black lung.

As I turn on the light to the bathroom, I have to do a double take as I dilate my focus to the sink- is that an upside down cockroach or just an arrant tuft of hair from my last ‘do it yourself’ haircut?

False alarm…..tuft of hair- into the toilet you go.

Now back at the barf encrusted toilet rim- the porcelain bowl is impacted with cottage cheese waste chunks nowadays- Time to stir things up and get the crapper moving again as I feel something is in the slot, ready to trot. With the conspicuous absence of a plunger, I go for the next best thing. As I unravel the hanger and stretch it out, I can’t help but think how neat it is that they actually paint them nowadays. Although the paint chips fall everywhere- terrific, more noxious particles to ingest…. Then I butter churn that hanger inside the toilet bowl with no success- Still clogged in defiance, the Stone Henge chunks of waste just pile up like a rockslide…..

Unfortunately, the orange flavored Metamucil I chugged at 3 am is becoming increasingly flirtatious in my stomach. It’s getting more vocal and insistent by the second- dam busting is imminent. Playtime is over and some draconian measures are called for…But where to crap? The low volume toilet requires a minimum of 10 flushes to a normal toilet’s one and so many more gallons are wasted in the name of being environmentally green- Right now I was environmentally brown with no end in sight and my overflowing Lincoln logs were threatening to go above the water’s rim of the porcelain bowl which never solves anything…

I needed an alternative disposal- something neat and tidy to hide the evidence. Having been in this moronic situation far too many times before, I look from the john to the kitchen… You guessed it… Necessitating the mother of invention a common grocery store plastic bag ideally doubles as an impromptu crap holder!

All out of grocery bags and the aliens inside me are getting more persistent- I run into the back bedroom which until recently was just for storage of my archival clothing that had become too small as I got too fat- lately I had reconverted it for a short while back to a bedroom as one of my female co-workers desperately needed a place to stay but not that desperate I suppose- I mean it’s no cleaner than say if you were camping- there’s more dirt out there-…these fucking persnickety women- yeah their cleanliness is oxymoronic- she was a stringy chicken gizzard of a woman with DIY dental plan and a Vulcan wit to match….(stop playing with your pimples”” I used to silently scream in my head) but I digress- the end result of my short-lived roommate was a lone Bed Bath and Beyond plastic bag that I had gotten because of the towels involved for her stay- bed Bath and Beyond…Well I guess this constituted ‘Beyond’- I quickly grab the bag and run in short unsudden moves for the bathroom …

My technique was constantly evolving. At first I was in to placing the bag totally around the underneath of the rim of the toilet seat for a more comfortable process- But now after much trial and error in the field, I found that by grabbing the handles of the plastic bag and pulling either side tightly across my hips, makes for a foolproof hermetic seal. Then I aim the plastic bag at the middle of the bowl and sit down on the seat for a more seamless elegant experience. When the splat, splat of falling contents has ended-it’s signals time to make a freezer deposit. What will science think of next?

As luck would have it, I’m called out the apartment much earlier than expected, so in any case, it’s time to get rid of the evidence down the garbage chute. No sense making a special trip out of the apartment and risk getting caught in the crossfire in the hallway. As I go to take out the bag out of the freezer, it’s not quite yet stone cold -so it’s got to go offsite to a street corner garbage can. That way there’s no possible way to trace it back to me…. a simple plan from a guy who’s been there.

I had just renewed my lease, paying a laughable pittance of what they charge 9 blocks down on the other side of Checkpoint Charlie but when eight hundred bucks is scarce, it might as well be a cool million. The renewal was OK’ed, much to the protestations of my scary Super, with his ashen gray skin and deep knife scar split down the center of his nose. He lives 2 doors down on the same floor and thoroughly loathes my presence. So much so, he refused to install a deadbolt lock even after I offered him $50 bucks – so in a pinch, as a ruse to safeguard my valuable (no not plural) I just left everything seemingly randomly strewn in the apartment, to put off any would be thieves into thinking the place had already been ransacked…

He’s always pissed at me, I’m convinced that he put a second coat of lead based asbestos paint while I was away. He borschts on and on to the owner, something about wading through a kiddie pool of laundry in my living room and then on to wage trench warfare in my bathroom-always a losing proposition. And most egregiously he thinks I’m complicit in the bum fights- charging for ringside seats and he doesn’t get a cut from the box office gross in spite of hosing down all the blood and bodyparts afterwards. If he knew it was me who dropped 20 glass bottles down the garbage chute next to his apartment at 3 a.m. last weekend, I would be a toasted dead man.

So even on a non-incriminating day I’m dread to see the Super – I have a hard time not going cross-eyed staring at that knife scar on his shnozz- it’s all consuming and he’s overly sensitive to it. Also another strange thing about him is he has this thick Jamaican accent in spite of being born and raised in Calgary Alberta- He also was an amateur cracksman playing cricket for Canada- it is all very bizarre as nobody likes cricket in Canada.

Winter or summer, the Super wears the same tank top, plaid shirt, wool cap and just alternates between shorts and camouflage pants but the scar always goes right down the middle of his nose. It has an actual seam that could probably have a zipper attached to it, although having that ‘RIRI’ ‘zipper upper’ thing just hanging from it would probably make him cross-eyed too….

I successfully sneak by his apartment without incident, the loot bag from the bathroom really stinks as I hit the elevator button. It’s not heavy but the imbalanced chunks veer to center left of the plastic bag…. The elevator, as usual, takes interminably long to finally get there- each second Marathon candy bar stretches to an eternity as the bulleye target on my head ballistically expands. The faint dinging as it reaches the other floors just punctuates its slowness- a manual dumbwaiter would be a step in the right direction.

The elevator ding is one short floor away from freedom- I can almost smell it over the plastic bag’s contents. Whew! I played it too close to the vest this time, it could have been a disaster but I hope I learn a lesson from all this- that is, GET A FUCKING PLUNGER! I’m going into the elevator when the Super spies my presence as he comes down the fire escape staircase from the floor above- He scrunches his eyebrows when he sees me and for a huge guy he has catlike moves, sliding in JUST before the elevator door completely closes shut- an anorexic from Darfur would have had difficulty with that one. “You got renewed Mon, I wanted you out” he bitterly says. “Why all the vitriol? Didn’t I ask you before anyone else if you’re wife’s a cleaning lady?” I sheepishly reply. This has the unintended effect of pissing him off even more. He winces and says “Just to be clear, I don’t like you- one little bit. Anything wrong and I’m gone to the management office for the eviction….”

He stops cold as his eyes go wide and makes a distasteful facial expression signifying some foul aroma is in near proximity. He immediately looks at the underside of his shoes in resigned disgust. I start to shrink back, stress sweat droplets form a pool at the base of my of back but it’s a short-lived angst as we should hit the ground floor in under 30 seconds- so time to create a quick diversion.

“Hey did you fart?” I accuse point blank. “No way Mon, that ain’t no dog’s either, did you shit then step in it?” he asks with stern incredulousness. How can he differentiate between human and dog shit? Don’t know if I really want that answered…. Damn, I should’ve double bagged it and sprayed Febreeze – Idiot! Why didn’t I just slow down and….

The elevator screeches and jolts upwards; the lights go out for a split second and sputter while reconnecting- we are now inert.

The Super whips out his cell and speed dials a number- the reception is spotty so he tries again. He’s consciously breathing out of his mouth while waiting for it to connect, he asks with suspicious intent: “What’s in the bag?”

Another eternal split second: If I tell the truth, I’m out. “Flat on my ass” I think to myself. I need a really sweet lie like: The old lady next door’s granny diaper fell in the hallway…and like a good neighbor… Yeah, Not bad for the first swing.

How about: the Museum of Modern Art is having eco-organic ‘alternate medium’ performance art competition and I just crapped this perfect figure 8 and I had to let it dry a bit outside before entering it… I’m a shoo in for first place.

OR

I’m trying to break the Guinness World Book of records for longest uninterrupted twirled shit- I call it the ‘Rattler’…Wanna see?

“Nothing, just some brownies for an ailing sick Auntie of mine on the Upper West Side..” is was what finally came out of my mouth- somehow a mission of mercy is beyond reproach…The humanitarian equivalent of saying ‘women’s problems’ to a guy in order to sweep away any further inquiries.

This seems to have the desired effect of quelling his curiosity but the smell is overpowering and he makes me show him the underside of my shoes now.

‘I think something might have died on the top of the elevator.” He says ‘Hand over the bag and take my flashlight. I’ll give you a boost.”

This is indeed problematic as if he takes the bag he’ll no doubt think to himself ‘These ain’t no brownies” But if I refuse, he’ll think something is suspicious too- so it’s lose / lose either way….. C’mon man think!

“Ok but I have vertigo and am afraid of heights” I wimpishly say. “No worries man- there’s no looking down- just look for something dead on the top of the elevator cabin- MAN IT’S STINKING BAD”

‘Ok but I might Barf” I add.

“ barf?? What’s that?’ he asks

Who hasn’t heard of ‘barf’?- those are the first words out of many babies’ mouths- This guy’s definitely been hit in the face by one too many cricket bats.

“Barf- like puke, hurl chunks, scream at GM- y’know BUUUUUUUUICK?”

“ Geez, Mary and Joseph don’t do that- it smells enough here already!” He sighs “No stay put and give me a leg up”

“No offense but you gotta be around 300 lbs.” I say being generous and squeezing the bag of shit a little harder. “ I already have problems with my balls and I’m trying really hard not to have them explode.”


“Actually I’m 315 – yeah I see your point- Mon I can’t take this awful stink- it seems to be coming from inside- you don’t happen to be a ‘bottom’ or wear diapers, do you?” he asks in seriousness

‘NFW” I shoot back

Stymied and unable to order a strip search, the Super slumps down on the floor, as I just keep my finger pressing on the emergency buzzer. I need to calm the air- at least- so to deflect and take his mind off things and onto himself I ask him a question.

“Say that’s one fucked up scar you got over there on your nose- Is it Mafia related or are you just clumsy?”

‘No Mon, it happened during the Calgary Stampede back in ’87, when a Jamaican drug deal went bad- I was wearing a wire and duct taped to a chair and as they were about to sew a waterproof zipper onto my nose, the RCMP busted them and I went into witness protection- gave up cricket and became a Super; married one of the widow tenants…the rest is history.”

‘Yes well that’s all very colorful- funny how things funnel through- and by the way the scar makes you look very distinguished- shows character!”

“Thanks Mon- I think so too- that’s why I grew the mustache- Never thought of plastic surgery or using any makeup to cover it up. Say I’m getting hungry, any chance there’s a little Ganja in those brownies H’mm?” His eyes greedily focus on the plastic bag.

Oh if he only knew….

FUCKED- Thoroughly, truly, wholly completely FUCKED.

“Nah, no Ganja in them but I do put extra psyllium fiber into it and walnuts too – she has trouble shitting- nothing major but any stimulation helps. Old people, you know how it is?” I say- hoping against hope on the off chance he has irritable bowl syndrome or goes into anaphylactic shock from nuts- At this point I’d say it’s full of bee stingers and red ant venom if it would get him off the scent…

“I love walnuts in Brownies- like my Mom’s!” He beams. “C’mon show some viva.”

It’s at this point I feel that under normal circumstances we could actually become friends and I truly wish I could turn shit into brownies. Even through his disappointment, surely he could see the humor in all this??

Surely??

“Hey I’d really, really love to share them with you but these are her special 85th Birthday brownies and she asked for enough to last her the week. I know you’re hungry, we’re stuck in this awful smelling elevator and there’s nothing more I’d like to do than give you the whole bag- Believe me! By any chance do you think you can hold out??” I multi-tier lie with just enough layers of deceit to inspire the right amount of guilt.

“No Mon- it’s serious- I’m diabetic- I need them to stay out of going into shock” he says with just the right air of desperation.

Well played- I almost believe him.

Crunch time- If I stick to my guns and he goes into shock he won’t complain about the smell anymore and hopefully we’ll get out before any serious brain damage sets in. Pretty elegant solution except I’m guaranteed a beatdown and subsequently out on my ass for endangering his worthless life.

OR

Fall backwards into the crowd and just tell the truth

But why tell the truth when you can lie…don’t give up on lying just yet- C’mon what’s the next chess move?

As I’m sidetracked pondering the next strategy- he grabs for the bag. A tug of war for it’s contents ensues.

‘Nooo think of Auntie” I say

“C’mon just a little piece” he shoots back

He’s massive and really strong and I’ve put up a good fight, an honest fight, everything very cricket- up until now…

Pow! A clean blow to his nuts. Game over.

I get the bag back safely- but it’s ‘Last Rites’ time for me

‘Yea, as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will only fear ‘ massive Supers with bruised balls and zipper scars on their noses for they are the meanest sons of bitches in the valley…..

He’s rolled over and crying like a little bitch- it’s hard not to laugh so I do - Hey I’m a certain dead man and evicted too. It stinks something awful in here and my last minutes so far are tragic- I might as well laugh, it’s always healthy to find jocularity in all things.

“Why the fuck did you do that? I’m a sick man! Are you crazy!? You are so out on the street” He sadistically manages between his groaning gasps…More like a fart resembling a punctured tire, all the foul air was knocked out of me

That did it.

The microchip in my brain just redlines off the charts and as it implodes, I predictably let fly verbally this time.

I open the bag to fully expose the contents.

“IT’S BROWN BUT IT SURE AIN’T BROWNIES - YOU FUCKING SMARMY IDIOT! ‘JUST LIKE MOM’S’!!! UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLE! IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT- YEAH.

“My fault?” he says totally confused at the accusation.

“THOSE LOW FLUSH TOILETS THAT A PYGMY COULD CLOG, FORCED ME TO PLAY HOMEMADE COLOSTOMY BAG- AND INSTEAD OF PUTTING IT DOWN THE DUMP CHUTE, I WAS TAKING IT OUTSIDE, MAKING A ‘PUBLIC GARBAGE CAN RUN’ WHEN YOUR SELF-SERVING LAST LICKS COMPELLED YOU TO TELL ME HOW MUCH YOU DISLIKE ME- BIG FUCKING News ASSHOLE!!!- SO SHUT THE FUCK UP, ENJOY THE SMELL AND GO AHEAD, TRY TO EVICT ME- I’M SURE STANLEY YOUR BOSS WOULD ENJOY THE STORY!”

Usually it takes a few weeks for eviction proceedings to be executed but if you grease the works with cash, you can manage to be out on your ass much sooner. I managed to get most of my stuff to a Manhattan Mini-Storage and I had met this chick at a neighboring showroom- she was a tall stringy blonde, originally from Alabama and had sought a change from her buttfucking siblings. Somehow she had gotten under the spell of a couple of hippy Israelis who ran a commune up on East 116th Street in Harlem. A huge mess of a place for intransigent Sabras to come and go as they please, after being discharged from the Army and taking the ‘Grand Tour’.

Life takes on a sweeter meaning after mandatory service to your itty bitty country unjustly scorned and slandered by its neighbors and the world media. Fuck them all! So it was ‘Hava Nagila every night- doing the horizontal ‘Hora” on a grand scale but at $300 a month and communal showers to boot, I was happy to pay way more and offered my services as bathroom attendant.

“Ehhhh why? Not necessary” answers Yaron ( pronounced ‘urine” by most Americans). “Stay, go whatever, we don’t get many Ashkenaz vous vouses here, eh Avi?”

“lo ( no)” he says in Hebrew and he puts his head down enjoying the impromptu massage from the girl in the cutoff ‘Sahal” shirt with the two under ripe Jaffa grapefruits.

Kol ha Kavod! (way to go!) Ooh Hah!

Is that a no, we don’t get many or a yes, we don’t get many- but around here who cares?? Israelis are a different breed and hot Israelis are by nature irresistible; The permanently tanned, electric silken skin can only be tolerated by the bristly burred locals- even Russians turn to mush. Thought, as with resistance is futile. The positive correlation of ‘jutting tits to flat stomach’ ratio is off the charts. How they can also be tank commanders is beyond me. That is a Renaissance vagina with such range, it shamefully turtleheads us males who are not equally ambidextrous with our genitals. Sure they’ll rip your balls off but only for safekeeping- they ride shotgun better than Secret Service front and side airbags.

I am by far the oldest letch in the place – Lucky me. Note to self: a box of ‘Russell Stover’ sampler chocolates at Duane Reade and some Red Bull for Mobile Home Annie next door- I owe her one for sending me here.

As the weeks go by- I know my days are numbered here. The possible outcomes are simple: Death by exposure.

Death by marriage.

Death by all the fluids drained out of body.

How can they have tats? Forget being buried in a Jewish cemetery, having an ‘inked sleeve’ is the current Tel Aviv blasphemer’s coat of many colors in a constant pursuit of current cool. Joseph’s precedent in a sacrilegious twist. The Golden Calf should be a favored motif. The seven years of famine have already begun with skinny cows everywhere. While it would be very cool to have a Star of David in 3-D inked on my bicep, as I have aged I see how the skin tone has changed to a pebbly grain and ruins the effect of the tat; making it shrink, curling inwards and giving a purplish-bluish hue so it looks faintly like a healing bruise from an horrific collision.

So the half life of a tat for most meat eating/alcohol swilling/birthcontrol pill popping/nicotine craving/ sun worshipping females is early 40’s at best- then it just makes you look like the truckstop tranny you really are…

There are the extreme cases of exception for a purpose such as a Mom engraving her wrist with the name of her beloved Purple Hearted son lost in Afghanistan or the Grandchild of a Holocaust Survivor having their Bubbe’s Auschwitz serial number on their left forearm or the Alzheimer’s victim having all their important info written upside down on their stomachs- I can actually laud such notions but the weekend tattoo enthusiast irks me as much as paying astronauts…

Click here to download the book from Amazon Kindle Store!

Click here to download the book from Amazon Kindle Store!

The Calm Before the Calm

A pleasant distraction if only for an 'oasis in the cesspool' moment…. 

A long lost friend had contacted me on FaceBook- someone whose inevitable future critique I had always regarded with a certain wincing, as he was as brutally honest as he was perceptive… a 'no bull shit' excoriation of my thin skin was long overdue when it came to my closely guarded flim-flammed secret of my writing disabilities.

A Jack of all Trades, I always thought he would be best suited as an unpandering Book Reviewer- leading an apostastic revolution against the drooling sycophantish types whose deluded mastery of word butchery starts out as bothersome and goes downhill from there- Why the fuck must we put up with them? - They're the print equivalent of Bravo TV with psoriasis

He was unexpectedly positive about some of the stories he'd read on the blog, comparing the style of writing to a "Confederacy of Dunces"- Although in my case it's a majority of one.

 

I rarely read anymore, especially since I took up writing - I am scared I'll be influenced by the talented types and lose my tone- so I just dip a toe in the water now and then to see if they write well enough to take note.  I'd just had a passing notion of the title and knew less than nothing else about it…but I always like to see what the competition is up to, if it's actually brought to my attention.  

Well if I'm to follow in the author's footsteps, the guy killed himself at 32 which means I"m on the right track but just procrastinating… This John Kennedy Toole was pretty funny but having edited my book for the zillionth time, there was no way I was going to help this dead guy with his ( was 'Kennedy' a nickname  boxers are given like Smokin' Joe or Tommy the 'Hitman"? Or did he give it to himself like john cougar mellencamp- still one of the world's greatest mysteries…) 

 It had a surreal zany mish-moshed feel that was very familiar, although the content was completely different but I probably would have the same constraints back in the sixties when this book must've been written as he deleted himself  in '69

Bottomline: an unexpected compliment and I'll always welcome the dirty win…although I can really think why I feel this one's dirty..

I guess because there's nothing sweeter in Life than something undeserved and there's nothing more undeserved than a dirty win.

2. If I die of a broken heart it's probably because I slammed 

into something really hard

I entitled this blog installment: 'the calm before the calm' as the Book finally goes Online next week- much to the levels of foofaraw & fanfare that would make dentures fall into milquetoast…..A non-event of such epic proportions that erectile dysfunction and constipation are green with impotence envy

While my frosted side thinks it's nothing short of Nirvanic that will go viral on the internet and it's talk show circuit time in an ascot- my plain side remains  convinced that the sun never sets on my failures and it will be undiscovered until it's too late - like a Girlfriend who does the crawl back after you've become a beloved pornstar….

A destiny rife with disappointment and fat chicks

I just marvel at how many certified genii were overlapped by waves of inconsequence- their talents drowned by non-recognition:

 PF Sloan

 Margo Guryan

 Billy Nicholls

 and now, Toole- what good is post-humous recognition except for compost?  And old age dulls the bevel to any edge…. pale comfort in what could have been such glorious reveling in their talents

As my Dad use to say' When you stop hitting your head against the wall, it feels pretty good'  but he was never a quitter in what he believed in- so let the cards fall where they may, most likely under the carpet where no one can see them…but

There's always my second book ;D

Here’s my sincere, heartfelt Holiday message to all:

Here’s my sincere, heartfelt Holiday message to all:

Here's my sincere, heartfelt Holiday message to all:

Here's my sincere, heartfelt Holiday message to all:

"I always splash on the cologne before a blind date because dogs can smell fear"

"I always splash on the cologne before a blind date because dogs can smell fear"

My Idiotic Twitter End Game Strategy

I always come to things late so missing the boat on Twitter and drowning in the sea of faceless followers is no big surprise…

How can you be 'fruitful and multiply' your own followers in a minimal amount of time? - A familiar, kicking myself in the ass and banging my head against the wall as I should have been cultivating this even before Twitter was a gleam in someone's eye…

So taking a page out of Chinese Tweeters of whom it seems have the same sort of deal as an Airplane Miles credit card- you sign up and get an automatic 200,000 followers- Thank goodness it is following and not swallowing; I'd need a surfboard and hazmat suit for that kind of tsunami

So I'm furiously skirting the borders of suspension in order to make my followers go exponentially ballistic- getting slapped hourly on limiting my activities, then hitting the wall of 2000 following without commensurate 2000 followers- I had to endlessly go through my extensive lists and memorize who was not reciprocating and joyously zap'em (which is problematic with pre-early onset Alzheimer's)…. 

It was driving me batty that is until I tripped over Tweepi who it seems did all the work for me if I only tweet that I used the service ( whereupon I would immediately delete the uncool Tweet) - with that in place I'm back at a healthy ratio of F'ers to F'ings in no time.

Now it's a double edged challenge as the majority of Followers speak Asian so I can tweet about green sebaceous gland oozings from discreet orifi without any backlash-

 But how can I display my swordmen's wordplay when I know next to nothing about making burritos and chimichangas… I should probably hit a million Followers in the next week or two but my chances of getting discovered remain foreign.

FOLLOW BACKWASH

These ungrateful UnFollowing Backwash-it's like throwing water on the Wicked Witch of the West.  'All my lovely wickedness is melting, melting…

For all I do for them- slaving behind a Stove-like thing…well it feels like that!- Just trying to make them laugh, it's tough  …alright they only understand Korean but nonetheless I put it out there so appreciate it dammit!!  Don't they understand nuance??  Savages!!!

Let's get something completely clear: I will not follow you back! I might hunt you down like the dog you are but no following or stalking!!  Twitter is a cruel mistress now I know you can't be everything to everyone unless you're omnipotently ubiquitous.

What good is checking your brain at the door and losing the stub?

SoI've gone from those heady heights of 2,300 followers down to a shocking 1,600 in less than 2 days- the funny thing is that the follow 4 follow set are still trying to hook up the ninnys- just wake up ad smell the coffee in the back of a Starbucks dumpster…

Ooops sorry it's 1,724- the slow tire leak is still irritating

I don't know how this people get more people without 'begatting' them like in the Bible- this is all so foreign and frustrating

Crack is a Many Splendored Thing Story

My eyes were magnetized shut….Literally…. Those fridge doors were on top of each eye - how they stayed aloft the whole morning and the better part of the afternoon was way beyond my weekend pay grade.

After such a particularly virulent bender, trying to open them up is akin to being revived after a centuries long cryogenic deep freeze in crushed aluminum foil.  The kind you'd expect to find in a really cheap Italian sci-fi 70s movie…. invariably involving a Sears Diehard car battery for special F/X, with lots of gratuitous sparks, burning flesh and the bloodcurdling scream signaling re-animation (End of Act 1).  It takes me a goodly amount of time to thaw out- it could have been a few hours or days as I can only approximate, not being sure where I am and what appendages are still in functional working order…

Living in the moment or around that time, I, true to form, have no food in the apartment and my mouth has that distinct taste of being used as an anal tampon receptacle throughout the night before.  My cabinets are cleaned out, nothing rotting, growing, fermenting or forgotten.  So it's a 50-50 chance that I woke up when the grocery stores are open- as 24hr Drugstore food, lately my main staple, has numbed my palate.

I get into my local Barrio C-Town supermarket- I naturally assume with steadfacist conviction that the 'C' must stand for Crap.  Following that slanderous train of thought, my creative juices come up with an ad campaign to support the new name change. The tag line in the C-Town bus stop ads should read: " 'Best used by' the dregs of society " or 'C-Town, c'mon and shop here, it could mean disability…"

I needed some artificial energy and I found myself craving a near burnt baked potato slathered in gravy, cheese and whatever was on the floor in the back of my fridge- Was I fricken preggers or was there brain seepage out of my nose during my recent comatoma?   Man that's cuisine fit for Renfield, Dracua's PA…just don't think about it… put your fingers in both ears and hum 'Pop goes the weasel" really loud…  Wait am I a gay?  Shit…oh now I remember… I get these searing bouts of paranoia when I'm blotto- SO I haven't fully come down just yet… good to know… I have to smile to myself thinking back to times before I can to this discovery about myself, I'd go dating and drinking and inevitably at some point during the evening, usually later on, I'd just get these feelings of betrayal and instead of messing things up by being needlessly accusatory I would just vanish- usually to see the young Lady nevermore….Ha that was a fun flashback.

As I'm pleasantly reminiscing, I'm brusquely jostled out of my stupor and fly  face first and open-mouthed into to the side of the frozen food aisle. Unfortunatley I ad the glass door opened and now my tongue gets stuck to the sub-zero metal vege shelf, pristine in it's iced blockiness as it hasn't seen any action in millennia-this is after all CTown, eat at your own risk…..

 As I slowly gain my focus I scream in lisp for help!  Staying motionless and having only one clear view down the aisle, it's the most unlikely sight… of this completely bloated weirdass Family in long black coats – Is it Feb or June? Just like me to stumble tongue first onto a NYU Film grad student 'no budget' movie set.  It's as if my head was a broken rabbit-eared TV set with a snowy picture and harsh hissing sound…The old lady and the teen are really into their roles, both fluidlessly emaciated, except their coats look like the Balloony guy in the Michelin tire ads. They are all inflated- puffy and pointy-what gives? They seem to be moving imaginary shopping carts like pantomimes putting in stuff and from time to time staring down the security cams… as if to say 'I GOT THE SCRATCHES AND I'M SEEING GIANT MUTANT BUGS- WITHDRAWAL SUCKS MAN!'

As I plod to the check out line, there is the First Family of Crack with 2 cans of soda – grape- generic and dusty. As the Older Lady reaches into her pocket to pay, I pray it's to pay or to be beamed up without paying… I hear a massve 'CLUNK" on the checkout counter.  And lo and behold there's a huge slab of meat just lying there- what it was I can't say, remember it's 'C' Town…and maybe it was home-slaughtered and they breed rats that big around here…but it obviously slipped out from under her coat and she is noticeably slimmer- talk about the biggest loser

All the while the syncopated relaxing tones of 'Do YOU KNOW THE WAY TO SAN JOSE" FLOW FROM THE FILTHY SPEAKERS….The Hispanic checkout chick freaks out with the 'MIA MADRI! OOH PAPI! DOS EQUIS!!' stuff and she is crossing herself over and over again, fast, like shooing a wasp's nest in front of her- and She keeps looking at the ceiling for a hole as she's trying to figure out what happened….But before she can call over the obese smelling Manager, the older 'Crackee' Lady ( heretofore known as the Crackwhore of the first part) proacts by yelling 'SOMEONE THREW THIS MEAT AT ME! WHO THE FUCK THREW THIS MEAT AT ME! ?  WHERE ARE YOU? !!'                                                                                                                                                                 And she starts heading for the door, a human shopping cart dragging the kid- both looking like the previous experiment before Dr. Frankenstein got it right- sort of….

The little kid is visibly nervous and antsy - 

HE'S POINTING TO THE DOOR AND ALL I'M THINKING IS: DID I TELEKINETICALLY  THROW THAT MEAT AT HER?  AND IF I DID HOW COME I MISSED?

Sitting this one out and watching from the sidelines seemed the prudent thing to do but for some strange reason this whole thing smacked of a combination of the Gift of the Magi' Christmas' goodwill to man' Meets Robin in the hood's 'stick it to the man' (boy that's got to be some strange reason!)

SO I run to the hardware section and grab some charcoal spray paint and tackle the manager and anoint him in the eyes – he's pretty annoyed and totally blind – I do the same with hysterically beserk Checkout Chiquita who starts speaking in tongues and goes into convulsive seizures ( swallowing all those tongues?) as if she's in religious ecstasy and the then cameras lenses or did I do the cameras first?  Can't remember it, this took all of 15 seconds to accomplish- the old lady and kid are halfway up the street and I run after them for my share- kidding-

I figure I can probably revisit that store in about the same time as the half life of Carbon-14

I start walking home the other way, hankering for some Grape Kool-Aid and wondering just how good must crack really be in order to inspire such devotion- it's must be like a voluntary wet dream in delicious plaid rubber boots- I respect those crack trash, they put it all on the line and used up their allotted smarts for the month just for a few pounds of USRDA Rat. I've always secretly yearned for a love with that kind of ballsy dedication- the desperation of never giving in with faceless odds in every direction.