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If someone were to describe me, he or she would inevitably use the word “nice.” It’s true -- I’m so fucking nice it’s painful. I was raised to be nice; the veil of social propriety was drawn tightly across my eyes like a blindfold, lined with sharp, jagged glass. “Open your eyes – I fucking DARE you, you little faggot.” The result is that I swapped perspicacity for platitudes a long time ago. And the sad thing is, I don’t know how to put this baby into reverse. Perhaps a high colonic, to flush out this “nice” shit from my system.
I thought I would have to go through life with my urine smelling like … well, urine.
But now, thanks to “Gee Your Pee Smells Terrific,” I take one flavor caplet at night before bed, and I’m good to go for 24 hours! There are many aromas to choose from, including: Smokey Bacon; Country Ham; and BBQ Chicken! For you New Agers out there, try Ocean Breeze, Mountain Mist, or Autumn Rain!
My girlfriend came out of my bathroom last night and said, “Honey, your bathroom smells wonderful! Just like fresh baked Peach Melba!”
Thanks, “Gee Your Pee Smells Terrific!”
In my dream I was instructed to clout people over the head with a short length of heavy chain that was handed to me. I went straight to work, smashing in people’s heads without compunction. Even the people changing into kittycats didn’t thwart my mission; that is, until one cat, with brain matter exposed, rubbed affectionately, forgivingly against my leg.
I awoke with vertiginous horror, wondering why I had had such a violent dream. Tellingly, I calmed down when I realized I was bashing aspects of myself over the head.
My dream reminded me how hard I am on myself.
Lists. Lists and litanies.
Eggs, milk, bread, ground beef, rice. Condoms, Nyquil, vitamins, Paxil. “I see Paris, I see France …!”
Shit, shower, shave. Kiss loved one(s) before entering the fray
The champagne of bottled beers. Plop! Plop! Fizz! Fizz!
The sweet commas of Life, the caesurae, that we ignore; the small breaths of time we take for granted. Until the day our vocabulary expands.
Kaposi’s Sarcoma. Glioblastoma Multiforme. Immunotherapy. Medicinal cocktails. Stereotactic localization. Photodynamic therapy.
The cadence of life, the symmetry, is suddenly broken; its memory a distant rumor. I miss most those moments in between.
It’s time to finally give a “heave ho” to my jackass of a boss. Pump the bilge. Jettison the fucker with the rest of the flotsam. He gave me a project today with his customary exiguous instructions. I tried to pry out of him more details; because of this, he looked at me like I was the most insipid, vacuous
he had ever laid eyes upon. Infuriated but controlled, I told him he has a tendency to leave out salient points regarding the nature of specific projects as a whole.
He called me a “Drama Queen.”
The fucking bitch.
Danny was shocked to learn that I have not only skydived, but actually bungi-jumped as well. He – and everyone else at work – no doubt sees me as this timid creature, leading a quiet and prim life outside the office. His astonishment would increase tenfold if he knew some of the OTHER things I’ve done. Like attending “Orgy Night” at the Ramrod. Like irresponsibly administering blow jobs to a local motorcycle gang. Like being strapped into a sling and getting fist fucked by that hot top who made my dreams sweaty.
That would make Danny’s fat Portuguese dick limp with envy.
At the moment of David’s death – my best friend, my fellow stargazer, my lover, my Life Partner – I was softly singing to him “Somewhere” from “West Side Story.” I had my arm underneath his neck and around his shoulder as his life ebbed out; his head rested on my chest; his death-rattle clung obdurately in the back of his throat, its moment won; and I experienced the dichotomy of uncompromising sadness and awestruck wonder that I was sharing this, The Most Basic of Moments, with another human being. That is was with David seemed both exceptionally fitting and cruel. God.
My cat has been diagnosed with feline idiopathic megacolon. The symptoms are similar to constipation, but it is much worse … she is actually obstipated, which means her stool is too large to pass in the normal fashion. A piece of her colon has become paralyzed, affecting her motility, and excrement eventually backs up until she needs to be “cleaned out” by a veterinarian.
The irony of all this is that I am unable to take a dump in a public restroom, or even in a shared bathroom. My cat’s malady is forcing me to face my own dark demons.
For the first time in many years, I had a flying dream last night. As always, it was wonderful, exhilarating, sensuously, achingly euphoric, joyful beyond redemption. I would leap off cliffs or building tops and free fall until I nearly slammed into the earth; then I would arch my back and sail magnificently up into the stratosphere, warm air cooling rapidly, expertly avoiding electrical wires, over spires and steeples and weathervanes, above tree lines, bearing witness to impossibly verdant vistas and rocky, blue ocean coves. As a result of the dream, I have felt “different” all day today – positively transfigured.
I haven’t seen Phyl since we were children, since he spelled his name “Phil.” Replacing the “i” with the “y” in his name seemed like the most pathetic affect I’d run across in a long time. It reminded me of the Sarah Jessica Parker character in the movie “L.A. Story” who spelled her name “SanDeE.” Totally affected bullshit. Like it meant the difference between going to Harvard or to a state college.
Incredibly, Phyl has bloomed into a Hunk of the First Water: statuesque; taut, rippling muscles; iridescent blue eyes overlooking his thick red-brown stache. Good to the last drop.
I once worked with a woman who had a most annoying verbal tic. Every sentence she uttered invariably ended with the words “
.” “So I went shopping for shoes,
? And they didn’t have my size,
? So I asked if they could be ordered,
?” Finally one day I told her if she ever again uttered the words “
,” I would, beginning with her nostrils, insert dynamite into every one of her bodily orifices and then personally push the plunger.
She lasted 93 seconds.
I’m told her teeth landed as far away as Duluth.
Many years ago I was stabbed three times in a mugging incident. I obviously survived the encounter, although just barely I’m told. I carry only one really ugly scar from that event; it is, however, a scar that breathes and vibrates at times, often aching with a supernatural knowledge. The scar knows intimately of the knife, of the sweating, frightened hand that bore it. I remember the eyes of my stabber; not deadly and calculated, but heartbreakingly infantile, confused, lost. I honestly believe my abdominal scar pulsates whenever my attacker recalls that moment, trembling under its enormity. Guarded. Haunted. Awash.
Today is my birthday, my natal day, the day I was expelled from my mother lo those many years ago, mewling, shrunken and irredeemably ugly, I, the surprise, the one no one expected, not my mother, not the doctor, no one, no one, that is, except my twin brother with whom I shared the womb, heartbeats in sync, my brother who decamped first, the one that was known, was planned, and then the nurse pushed for the afterbirth and behold, the world’s only living, breathing, walking, talking placenta emerged, for nine months an unknown entity to all but my sibling.
Part of the leprechaun contingent held Kendra down in the grass while the rest of them scurried to the riding lawnmower. The leprechauns had been drinking, and they wouldn’t be happy until they took down a human or two, the murderous devils. After quickly organizing themselves, the machine roared into life, blades chopping rapaciously, and sped towards Kendra’s screaming head.
Suddenly St. Patrick himself appeared, angrily swinging his shillelagh until the leprechauns dispersed. Kendra lay in the grass, nearly unconscious, whispering, “Thank you God, thank you …”
That’s when St. Paddy jumped on the mower and finished her off himself.
A terrific day today. We went into town to see “The Full Monty,” which was a complete blast (I’m hoarse from cheering and whooping for them nekkid guys), and then off to The Naked Fish at Fanueil Hall for a robust, pseudo-Cuban dinner. I had some anticipatory angst before we left, and made sure I had my “chill pills” close at hand, but I had no need for them. I was unusually comfortable in my own skin – it was utter Nirvana. Today made me realize how much I’ve been isolating lately, and that I need to cut that shit out.
Weldon Wainwright was an eccentric old gob, if not actually certifiable. My stomach would always roil whenever I watched him sip through a straw grape Kool-Aid from an old colostomy bag. He spoke in a kind of iambic singsong that was, if nothing else, singular and inimitable. His daily rituals included standing on his front porch and hailing passersby with the words, “Lang may yer lum reek,” a traditional Scottish benediction which always sounded faintly obscene to me, but meant “Long may your chimney smoke,” a wish for good fortune and prosperity. Weldon was odd, but good-hearted to the roots.
Shoe Shopping with Jesse
Jesse Helms was on a mission. He was jonesing for more shoes. I was trailing after him, trying to talk him out of the array of stiletto-heeled pumps he was so intent on purchasing. I reminded him that he had more shoes than Imelda Marcos, for God sakes, but he continued his determined march to the women’s section of Payless.
“Jesse, honey, just think … you’re almost 230 years old!”
“Fuck you, you little faggot!” he shot back.
I mimed a microphone, intoning, “Bitter, party of one, Bitter.” Jesse cackled like on old maid on steroids.
Shoe Shopping with Jesse II.
While Jesse admired his spike-heeled feet in the mirror, I brought up the question I had been dying to ask.
“I heard you gave Puff Daddy the boot. True?”
“True,” he nodded vacantly, still eyeing his reflection. “Mary Mother! Don’t these babies make my legs look like a fifty year old’s?”
I steered him back on course. “But what happened, Jesse? I thought you and Puffy were practically married.”
“Jesus!” he suddenly snapped. “All he ever wants is to get rimmed. Night after night! His ass is stunning, but … I have MY needs too!”
Shoe Shopping with Jesse Finale.
Jesse had purchased a dozen pair of shoes and was deciding upon a final pair when I noticed Mike Tyson a few feet away, trying on the identical sequined slingbacks that Jesse had on. Impishly, I called Jesse’s attention to it.
“Girlfriend!” Jesse suddenly shrieked at Tyson. “Don’t you even THINK about it!!”
Mike grinned and replied, “Don’t mess with me, Sister, or I’ll whup your ass good!” His voice was like Michael Jackson’s on a hit of helium. Jesse smiled covertly.
I could just hear Barry White singing “Love Is In the Air …”
It is difficult to acknowledge -- to concede -- that, at a comparatively young age, the happiest years of my life are now probably behind me. David's untimely death closed that chapter. As per his wishes, he was cremated, and even though his ashes were eventually to be scattered at Slea Head on Dingle Peninsula in Ireland, I incurred the expense of a cremation receptacle to temporarily house his remains. A handsome mahogany container, polished bright, with inlaid enamel. I couldn't bear the thought of having him handed to me in a cardboard box, like he was a Happy Meal.
Bruno and I met in prison, sharing the same cell. I was simply terrified of him at first, but from the moment he grabbed me by the crotch and shouted, “Serve it up, Bitch!” I knew I was in love.
Upon our release we set up housekeeping together. I would fetch Bruno Spam sandwiches and beer while he sat and watched WWF Smackdown, shouting at the television, “The Rock is a prick tease!” We even had pet names for each other -- Bruno was always my “Special Angel," and I was his “Little Fuckstain from Hell.”
Those were halcyon days.
Incredibly, within a 48-hour period two different guys have asked me out. Feast or famine, eh? Dan F. and Andy H. are both handsome men; of the two, Andy is the more attractive, although his swagger seems to indicate that he's aware of his comeliness. Dan has large, round eyes that renders his visage one of perpetual astonishment. But there's sweetness in his disposition; he exudes a quiet grace that is endearing. He seems like a wise, old soul.
But I shouldn't be making up my mind yet. I'm seeing Dan today and Andy tomorrow. It'll be an interesting weekend.
Dan and I had a lovely, old-fashioned "date" yesterday. He took me to the Museum of Fine Arts, and, although neither of us speak the language of Art, we both know what we like and found a common vocabulary to share that experience. We picnicked on the Boston Common, tossing stray bits of nourishment to the ducks in the pond. Dan probed me about David, about our relationship and about his death, with sturdy yet palpable compassion, his large eyes turning to water at all the appropriate moments. Back home, he actually asked my permission to kiss me goodnight. KEEPER.
Well, my date with Andy was short-lived. He greeted me at his doorway in his underwear, shamelessly sporting a pup tent to boot. Within two minutes his tongue was down my throat, his breath heavily stained with whiskey; one of his hands was aggressively twisting my right nipple, while the other was on my ass, pulling my crotch into his, as he engaged in an epileptic orgy of frottage. Extricating myself with difficulty, I offered a feeble excuse and left. I went home, took a long, hot shower, as if to rid myself of his contaminated aura, and telephoned Dan.
At Dan’s suggestion, we both played hooky from work and spent the day together in Newport. It was a beautiful, sun-soaked day, complete with azure skies and a scattering of friendly cumulus. We strolled the Cliff Walk and toured a couple of the mansions. I assured Dan that I had lived there in a previous life – I could almost see myself coming down one of the grand staircases. He joked, “Take a closer look – you’re holding a pail and a mop.” Upon our return home we officially consummated our relationship, after which we fell asleep, entwined sleepy heads classically spooning.
I work with a few really ignorant dumb-asses. I have been getting some major flak regarding my friendship with a new employee who is an Arab and a Muslim; he's also a funny, intelligent, compassionate, peace-loving young man. But for some people you'd think I was in league with Osama himself, and that I was eating roasted babies with members of al-Qaeda. One bitch shrilly advised me that befriending him was tantamount to treason. I laughed outright into her sniveling, obtuse face, and replied that since she's an American, she must be another Timothy McVeigh. That shut her cunting mouth.
Driving to work this morning, I took note of this well-endowed female jogger running towards me, a lovely woman, blonde and probably blue eyed, and I'm gay mind you, but my eyes went directly to her tits, flopping heavily, and I wondered, what on earth does that feel like? How does it feel to breastfeed, to provide nourishment to your newborn infant? To have them handled by a tradesman with red callused hands? To have them cloaked within the long hair of your female lover? To encase them in a wired, restrictive garment that has little regard for Nature's laws?
In my dream I am attempting to convince Colin that snakes are indeed capable of affection. I offer proof by summoning Muffin, my 30-foot python. I stamp my foot three times (deaf, they are … Muffin responds to the vibration); suddenly there is a movement, a motion--not a sound, really, but more the radiating wavelength of an approaching enormity. Muffin slithers into the room; I stand, and he wraps himself around me until his head rests on my shoulder, eyes peacefully glazed, his dry tongue flicking absently into my ear.
(Calling Dr. Freud … Dr. Freud, come in please!)
File this under "Wish You Had Told Me BEFORE We Slept Together . . ."
Dan called today to say he "just wants to be friends." I was dumbfounded, to put it mildly. When I asked why, he launched into an esoteric explanation that was meant to be kind, but the calcified transliteration was that he finds me unattractive. In other words, don't mess with the big leagues when you don't even qualify for the minors. Stick with your own kind. Move to the back of the bus. Return to your kennel. Mask thyself and hide, you ugly faggot fuck.
I'm convinced the clue to being handsome is lots of thick hair, tumbling over an otherwise wide forehead, and sweeping back heroically in a tousled, waving splendor. A crisp jawline doesn't hurt either, and dimples that beg for spackling certainly complete the façade. I have none of these attributes. My thin, fine hair is incredibly soft to the touch, and would drive a blind man wild; it does not, however, conceal the shiny little tonsure gracing the crown of my head. Nor does it spill over a forehead upon which one could show a fucking movie. In Cinemascope, no less.
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