Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Face of the Screaming Werewolf


It's Midnight, And You Talk Too Much

About an hour ago, Nancy and I realized that the supply of Diet Coke was simply too low to be accepted. We have standards here. Not high standards, but standards. So I donned my pantaloons and went to Walgreen's, which was a mistake, for several reasons.

The first manifested itself even before I walked in the door. Hovering in front of the entrance like a fat moth drawn to fluorescent lighting was a large man in a, "wife-beater" t-shirt. I ambled and gave the man a wide berth, because he didn't look happy to be at a Walgreen's at 11 o'clock at night. He kept staring at me, which made me angry, but I negotiated the space he occupied and arrived safely in the little room they put before the actual store. At least 400 round, yellow stickers informed me that I could get a flu shot at the pharmacy. Good to know, good to know.

Having passed the wife-beating moth, I bolted to the back of the store, grabbed three 2 liter bottles of sweet, sweet Diet Coke. And just between us, I also bought a Mounds. Those things are fucking awesome.

The second problem was the raging argument between the cashier and a woman (with her quiet, frightened husband in tow) about a discrepancy with the bill. That took 10 tense minutes, and the cashier was right. The irate customer apologized and got the Hell out of there. That pleased me, but I was a bit rattled. I kept thinking about the Mounds bar in my hot little hand. That luscious Mounds bar.

The final problem (to be revealed later) with my trip to the Walgreen's was more of an existential crisis (beyond the angst that occurs every time I'm in a store of any kind). As I finished my purchase, I noticed a slip of paper on the floor that was clearly a fortune cookie dispatch. A rectangular slip of paper with something written on it. I grabbed it and put it in my shirt pocked, went out to the car, ate my Mounds bar, and drove home.

Just now I took my shirt off, but not before taking a look at the cookie-less fortune. It reads, "A person is not wise simply because on talks a lot." Not something a blogger wants to read.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Women and Anal Sex Part 2: Cherry TV

The women at Cherry TV discuss anal sex and it's pretty damn funny and more than a little gross. Butt (ha!) by all means, enjoy. Don't worry, nobody is watching you.

Bum sex video discussion right here!




















Thursday, August 25, 2011

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Old Timey Books and the Quaking Earth

Today a little about recently read books that I recommend. Solo was written by Rana Dasgupta. I didn't have the book with me for this little demonstration because it had to be returned to the library. Mr. Dasgupta is among the best writers I've ever read. An amazing artist.


Monday, August 22, 2011

The Little Balls That Couldn't

This video is dedicated to Torsten "OneNut" Koehler, a man I admire who had one testicle removed due to testicular cancer. It is now his mission to educate men about self-examinations. He has given me good advice over the years, and is a very thoughtful and kind fellow. I hope it's amusing and educational! This is his website. There are television commercials that advertise testosterone therapy for older men, to make them feel young again. Those commercials piss me off. Pathologically low testosterone (well below the normal range) is a serious health concern, not to mention a quality of life issue. My condition is called congenital hypgonadism. If my malfunctioning testes were not removed, the doctors assured me that I would definitely get cancer. So out they came! Since then, testosterone replacement therapy has been part of my life, and will be until I croak.

Secular Orgasm


Cat Infestation at The House of Four Cats (and a dog)

Sunday, August 21, 2011

The Majority of You and I

Since the majority of me
Rejects the majority of you,
Debating ends forthwith, and we
Divide. And sure of what to do

We disinfect new blocks of days
For our majorities to rent
With unshared friends and un-walked ways,
But silence too is eloquent:

A silence of minorities
That, unopposed at last, return
Each night with canceled promises
They want renewed. They never learn.

Philip Larkin

Republican Summary and Obama the Milquetoast

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Of Sounds and Blood-Red Soles

He read about it in the newspaper and decided to go.

The Boston Center for the Arts threw itself a party. A new facade brought together the three distinct theaters under a single roof, a modern and expensive looking glass enclosure, with theater-goers inside. Once, those theaters lined the street separately, creating the illusion of a disconnected artistic community along Tremont Street. Now, there was celebration because The Black Box, Cyclorama, and The Plaza theaters had joined together physically. A vibrant union of live theater venues. In addition, The Calderwood Pavillion, which contributed rehearsal halls, another theater (The Virginia Wemberly), and galleries joined the BCA. The end result was a four acre Mecca for the arts in the South End, that extended to Warren Avenue and Clarendon Street. Happy day.

The BCA invited patrons to come and enjoy the new digs, and to give money. There was a cash bar, with free food from the trendy new restaurant, "The Beehive," which was down the street. The event naturally attracted people with money, so they could give it. Even with free food, the coat check required a tip, as did the bartender, and it was strongly implied that if you were there, you should have donated generously to the endeavor at one point or another. The round-trip subway fare almost broke him, leaving him with only enough money to have his over-clothes checked, provide a tip, and buy a drink and nurse it through the evening.

The Red Line rumbled, the Green Line clattered.

Despite his lack of money, and a hint of nauseating anxiety twisting in his stomach, he confidently ascended the stairs, checked his coat and hat, and bought his one glass of white wine. He hadn't noticed the insufficiency of his clothes until he sat at a table alone, and began to consider the people around him. They were all dressed well, even the ones who chose to dress casually (all men). The women were dressed to kill, and some of their beaus and husbands rose to the occasion. Many of the men were like him, dressed neatly but not particularly well. But even they looked like they belonged somehow. He did not, and the little bit of confidence that had weakly sustained him up until that moment began to wain.

One striking young woman made him particularly self-aware. How could he reconcile his presence with hers? It was hard to imagine that they were both there for the same event. She was wearing a black, one-shouldered, knee-length evening dress with a side slit that was draped in such a way that it appeared and disappeared as she moved, and she moved a lot. Was that a bit of perfume he smelled? Could it be hers? He didn't know. As people mixed in the crowded room inside the ring of tables, she shook hands, affectionately patted shoulders, laughed, and even extended her leg to reveal her choice of shoes to a friend; 4-inch platform pumps in leather, with a sole the color of blood.

He watched her, but kept looking back at the coat-check just inside the entrance, and thought of leaving. As he tried to relax and enjoy the spectacle of this ebullient, well-dressed woman, their eyes met for a split second. It was awkward, and he suddenly felt as if he were naked. After considering the slowly warming glass of pinot grigio, and the sweat beading on his back, he thought again of leaving, and left. After tipping the coat-check with two wrinkled dollar bills, among his last, he exited and found himself standing atop the stairs he had just climbed.

The night air outside was crisp and dry, and tiny snowflakes slowly struggled to reach the ground, where they melted instantly on the warm pavement. People and cars were all about, and the sounds of the city (honking horns, the whine of a bus as it braked to a stop, shouts, laughter, and two street musicians within earshot) rose for a moment and disappeared, distinct before dying in the general cacophony. He headed home, toward the "T" station at Copley Square. The lines went green to red now.

Back in his apartment, while lying on his couch and watching television, a series of remembrances, entombed in his memory, came to him quickly. They weren't pleasant, and arrived with a rapidity that was withering. Unseen but felt, they leaped into the empty space above his head, like paratroopers sinking slowing downward toward the hedge rows of Normandy in World War II. The future of the place in which they landed was forever changed, or seemed to be, or at least should have been. Down they fell, speaking and gesturing wildly, impossible to ignore. Despite the din of sounds; from the radio, the television, and outside in the courtyard, each one was heard distinctly. Every voice was clear and discernible, like a single actor or singer performing on-stage, although what was being said was often spoken in a whisper or mumble. In the city, sounds joined together and became indistinct, but these people from his past could be heard easily and separately. The acoustics were marvelous.

The memories came, and he braced himself.

An actress he once knew in college had some things to say. He had been smitten with her, but she barely knew he existed, unless he praised her performance in a play. There were no words, although he did seem to hear something. It all came from her eyes, and this is what they whispered to him:

The play is over, goodbye gentle friend, these lips you'll never kiss. Do I dislike you? Of course not...I never think of you when you're not in the room, as you think of me.

He winced and felt stupid. It embarrassed him when he heard the translated language of her eyes, spoken softly to his soul, where they seemed to transform and pain him. She knew how he felt about her, and was rejected. The rejection, and the aloof way in which she dealt with him, said quite a bit, and did so loudly. How beautiful and effortlessly confident and interesting she was!

The open tomb spilled out countless other dead memories for him to consider; a friend who had recommended him for a job years ago and was disappointed, his mother's sadness at a cancelled wedding, losing his temper with a neighbor over a trivial matter, and on and one. Self-loathing set in, and he apologized to the air, the cat, the candle, and the wall for being alive. This went on for many sleepless hours.

In a haze of loneliness and exhaustion he let it wash upon him. His mind raced, the thoughts came, and (knowing them) let them pass through. They took an emotional toll, but it was one he had paid many times. This subtle torture was familiar. At least until about 3:30 in the morning, when she walked-in and sat on the edge of the bed, after turning off the television and radio, and shutting the window to the few sounds left outside.

He felt her there, but kept his bleary eyes shut. He vaguely wondered how she got into his apartment, which was surely locked, but he didn't think on it for long. She was there on the edge of his bed. He smelled a bit of snow and white wine and perhaps just a bit of sweat. Was that a hint of perfume? Perhaps. Yes, it must be.

Her exotic presence pierced the familiarity and comfort of his apartment like a knife, and he could see her plainly with his eyes now consciously closed to avoid a conversation. Surely, he could have been sleeping in these small hours of the morning. It was an easily believed deceit. Childish, but it was sure to work. She would sit and consider his sleeping body and then at least leave his bedroom.

But she didn't. He felt the bed move as she stood up, but heard no other movement. The only sound was the ticking clock. A minute later, he heard her inhale loudly, sigh, and then speak. What she had to say was not kind, and it was directly spoken to him as if he were wide-eyed and eager to listen, and this is what she said,

I work very hard, and rarely do I ever get to go out, and earlier tonight I tried to enjoy myself. It was so great to meet new people and to laugh easily with old friends. How wonderful I felt, after a bit of wine. Laughter came easily for me, and my worries and sadness waned. Then you showed up and you ruined it. When our eyes met, it was like a slap in the face, and it made me anxious and self-conscious. Why don't people like you leave people like me alone? I've done nothing to you.

He considered protesting, but knew better. She seemed more sad and uncomfortable than angry. What had he done? What did he do earlier tonight to deserve this? It must have been something...she isn't crazy.

A long time passed, and he kept his eyes pressed shut. The television sprang to life, then the barely audible radio. The window opened, and the soft sound of cars passing by alighted in his ears. The smell of white wine and sweat and perfume were gone, but was she? Carefully, and very slowly, he opened his left eye and scanned the room. As he did, he caught sight of her leaving his bedroom. The last thing he saw of her was a flash of color on the soles of her shoes, the color of blood.

He finally fell asleep as the sky brightened and birds began to chirp outside. He did not dream. The tomb quietly closed and the memories were quiet for now. There was peace.


Tuesday, August 02, 2011

The Corpse of Debs vs. The Butt Plug

Obama gave in to Republicans again. The sun rises, the sun sets, the tides come in and go out, and Obama drops the soap in the prison shower. It never seems to be otherwise. Obama apparently enjoys rough ass play, and gets it again and again. The question for my people, those of us radically left-of-center, is, once again, what do we do in the next election? Do we cast our vote for a "Democrat" like Obama, or go with a 3rd party candidate who won't win?

As a member of the Socialist Party for 23 years, I go back and forth, as if I suffer from a split personality. One day, I feel practical and think that the Democrats aren't so bad. The next it's, "Fuck the donkey! I'm voting for a Red or Green...who cares if they meet around a card table with room to spare! I'll bring the chips!"

What to do. It doesn't help that most of my Comrades do not help. They like to simplify the issue by overstating the negatives of the Democrats and understating the differences between the two parties (of which there really are some). Centrist Democrats don't help either, by celebrating Obama's every move like he is another fucking Mandela or something. The avatar of each approach sits on each of my shoulders. The radical left is represented by the corpse of Eugene V. Debs, the Democrats look like a butt plug dipped in Icy Hot. This is how the conversation goes in my head:

DNC Butt Plug says, "The Democrats aren't that bad. Look at Obama, he is certainly a reasonable fellow, very likable, and he can win, unlike your Red buddies. He almost never does what you want, ever, but at least he is not Santorum or Bachmann. The Democrats really do love you, and you know that they complete you. Chin up, fatso!"

Eugene V. Debs replies, "O-Bomba sucks ass, he is the worst president ever! Bachmann would be no worse! The two party system must die! Don't be such a fucking pussy and vote for someone who can't afford cable and uses the word, "Imperialist" a lot. At least then your conscience would be clear, even though you may lose Social Security benefits and be kicked out of public housing. Eating cold beans out of a can isn't that bad!"

I have an answer for Dead Debs, which goes like this, "Bachmann and her associates really are much, much worse than you think. They are obsessed by the "dangers" of homosexuality (in a bad way), hate the poor, are indifferent to the plight of the middle class, and think that God is an American citizen. The GOP is genuinely hostile to people like me; poor, atheist, Left and accepting government assistance. If any of the Republican presidential candidates were to win, I'd be like a Jew in 1935 Munich and I'd have to get out of town very quickly. This truth extends to all Republicans. Obama really is far less evil. And cold beans (and cold, homeless nights in Beantown) suck. We can't risk Republicans in power."

My answer to Monsieur Butt Plug, as he jigs and ambles on my shoulder, is this, "Most Democrats are as bad as the Republicans. We are in the middle of class warfare, and only a couple of Democrats know it, or care. Obama truly is a nice little fellow, but what has he done for the people who voted for him? Nothing! Fuck off, Butt Plug, and take your fucking flag pin with you. My vote goes to a Comrade!"

It goes back and forth like that for several months, until I have a psychotic breakdown. After a few shock treatment sessions, I'm back on the horse, and Debs and the Plug are back, perched on my shoulders like angels from a Wim Wender movie. The process begins again.

It's been like that for me since I was 17, more or less.

Right now, I'm of a mind to fling a pie (strawberry rhubarb, none of this cream pie crap) at Obama, Reid and Pelosi and poop on the White House doorstep. I'll feel that way until I hear Bachmann's next comment, given on television while looking strangely to the left of the camera. She'll say something mind-blowing and stupid and dangerous, and I'll run like Curly back to the relative protection of Obama's Portuguese Water Dogs.

The pills help, though, as I run back and forth.