Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Joey is Gay

Joey is gay, a divorced man with a daughter, and quite good looking, in a gay sort of way. If I was gay I would certainly consider fucking him, but I am not, so I have chosen to see him as only a friend without benefits. I have not known Joey long, but I have known Jim for over fifteen years. Jim is not gay, but he is incredibly aggravating. Jim is touchy-feely, hyper-emotional, and prone to cry. Jim married a woman with 2 kids whose husband left her after realizing he was gay. Jim's first wife left him because he was aggravating, in an emotionally draining sort of way. Jim is the kind of man who makes you cringe when he hugs your teenage daughter. I wouldn't worry about Joey hugging anyone. I'm happy that my daughters are no longer teenagers, but I think Jim has transgender issues. If Jim were a woman, I would never consider fucking him. Jim's second wife will eventually divorce him because he is an emotional cripple, if she hasn't already. I don't know, because I don't talk to Jim anymore because he drives me up a fucking wall. They met at a Unitarian Universalist church, a gathering place for the emotionally damaged and the touchy feely, although I do like Bob, a reverend at the make believe church, a hell of a good guy and one of the most knowledgeable baseball fans I have ever met. It's hard not to like a good baseball fan. Jim doesn't know anything about baseball. I don't think Joey even likes baseball, but I don't care.
Joey took sole custody of his daughter after his separation, and has stood by his ex-wife during her drug rehab (that's right, the divorce had nothing to do with his sexuality), and continues to work toward joint custody. Jim has tried to be a part of his new found childrens' lives, but even with the emotional scars they both must bear, I'm sure that they still must hate him. Jim is inept at everything he does. He's the kind of guy who just drops in with chinese food when you're having sex with your wife for the first time in six months. Imagine how those two boys are gonna feel when Jim finally admits that he is a woman.
Jack was one of my best friends growing up. We swapped many sexual partners when he thought he might still like women. Jack was drop dead gorgeous, right up until the day he died of AIDS. He wouldn't let me in the house the day he died, but he made me laugh, and I mean out of control, gasping for air belly laugh right up until the day before that. I drank enough single malt for the both of us the day he died. Jack was always up for good scotch.
The point is Joey is a good man and may become a good friend. Jack was a good man and a great friend. Jim is more like a boil on your ass. So, here's to good friends. Bottoms up!

Sunday, June 22, 2008


It is fairly obvious to me that I am in the minority regarding my amusement with disembodied human feet. I'm fairly certain that there is someone, somewhere, missing, or ruing the half dozen human feet that have washed ashore in British Columbia. I am also fairly certain that those same people are not missing the shoes those feet were wearing. The story has also piqued my continuing curiosity regarding the frequency of finding single items of footwear abandoned in the streets of America.

I am a firm believer that the hokey pokey is what it's all about, but this does not explain the phenomenon of disowned feet/footwear. Surely, they haven't fallen off while 'shaking it all about'. And it seems to me that most people would rather cut off their hands than give up 1/2 a pair of their most comfortable shoes. So, I think it is relevant to examine the advantages of being monopedal.

I believe that most of the advantages lie in what we would not be able to do. For instance, it would be impossible to run an errand, or plant your feet firmly on the ground. Running around in circles would be much more difficult, but getting nowhere would be a reachable goal. Going to hell in a hand basket would be much more likely, while jumping for joy would be much more tedious. Tantrums would be made more difficult since stomping your feet would be eliminated, and clearly, Dorothy would still be in Oz, but 'there's no place like home' would be adopted by many more of us. We would, by definition, lose Runaround Sue, but Hopalong Cassidy could make a strong comeback.

Regarding more practical matters, Dancing with the Stars would become a thing of the past. All discussion of raising the basket in the NBA would come to a screeching halt. The three-legged race, which you must admit makes us look like the fools that we are, would be erased from the family reunion landscape. We could no longer run into dead ends, but running headlong into brick walls would be far more frequent. And the world would be a far safer place as well. Bicycle thefts would surely decline, running from the law is out, and prison escapes would be a thing of the past. We could get our civil liberties back as well, since no one could ever kick your door in again, with or without a warrant, and sobriety tests would be far more limited. And voting would be far more clear cut as it would be far easier to determine whether a candidate was leaning left or right of center. While toeing the line would still be possible, walking the line is out, as is walking the straight and narrow.

I think it is time to prepare. Frogs are losing limbs around the world. Can human beings be far behind? Stop running from your feelings, the past, your responsibilities; stop running period. Slow down and enjoy the music. Soon enough, you will have no choice. Soon enough, you are going to fall down, tip over, give up your flip or your flop, look down and discover it's already half gone.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Casual Observations from the Balcony On the Eve of Fathers' Day

When sitting on the balcony, having already tucked your son into bed, smoking quietly with blank slate mind, it is easy to realize how little you know. On this particular evening, it would all center on the world of insectia, specifically 3 bugs previously unobserved by yours truly. Since I have no way to inform you as to their identity, I will give them names based on their behaviors: the Kamikaze beetle, the Helicopter fly, and the red and beige two-tined finger lance.

The Kamikaze beetle is large as bugs go around here, about 3/4" long and about 1/2" wide. It is a deep copper-brown, the flagship color of confusion. I have always believed that efficient feeding and sexual attraction constituted the primary behaviors off most insects, most living things in fact, but this beetle cast all that into doubt. The beetle began his night time dance by strafing me several times, then disappearing for brief moments. I was warned of his approach by a buzzing sound, not unlike a cellphone set to silent supersonic. Once he decided that I wasn't going to move, he proceeded to fly full speed into the lime-beige siding of my apartment building several dozen times without any apparent injury. Now I realize that flying headfirst into solid immovable attitude is very attractive to the human female, but I would not have thought this translated into the beetle mating dance. Since no mating partner appeared in the hour or so he continued this behavior, I assume I am correct. After his hour of concussive head banging, he eventually took up residence on my lawn chair, paralyzed by frustration, or perhaps by a headache of Lyman alpha blob proportion. Of course it is also possible that this was one pissed off female, angry over the poor quality of her most recent color job, but I'm thinking no. This resounded with testosterone, not Lady Clairol. In any event, the Kamikaze beetle is now enshrined in the Mamou hall of fame.

It is often said that what one observes is altered inherently by the fact that it is being observed. This is pure hooey. That beetle didn't give a rat's ass that I was there, and even though he is only a beetle, the sound I made when uttering 'What the fuck' was clearly audible to those not around to hear it.

The Helicopter fly is the prima ballerina of the insect world. My initial observations led me to believe that this specimen was female, although it easily could be construed as a gay male. While my vision is not what it used to be, I do believe I may have seen a codpiece in the area of the thorax.. In any event, the dance was elegant and should not be diminished in any way by our perception of sexual bent. This multiwinged fly, reminiscent of a mayfly, although much larger, danced with such grace that it was almost ethereal. Her wings sort of rotated, like a slow motion hummingbird; their movement was non linear, nothing like the dragonfly. Her four wings caused her to rise like a double helix of cigarette smoke, twirling and pirouetting like a psychedelic kite tail on the winds of whimsy. She had a great deal of difficulty landing, as if her delicate legs were never meant to touch solid ground. It would be impossible to envision the sexual pairing of this fly occurring anywhere but midair, like two hawks, talons locked, spiralling on the updrafts with no fear of falling. I watched her closely as she finally perched on the frame of my slider. Her antennae looked like miniature bottle brushes, multi-tined receptors, furling and unfurling like coiled clock springs, searching for a signal from insect subspace bringing her the transmission that love would soon appear. She eventually swirled away upward, beyond my sight line, hopefully headed for her penultimate dance of death.

The red and beige two-tined finger lance was an odd creature indeed. Reminiscent of that torturous device used in junior high school self blood-testing experiments, I initially observed it crawling for about 2 millimeters, but then it stopped and just lay there, like a disinterested, self-loathing hooker. It is far too small to infer any sexual identity, although it could be described as pretty. I was most intrigued by the color of it; the red of fresh blood coexisting with the grey-beige of the newly dead. It may in fact be dead, as it has not moved in over 13 hours, but I am loath to disturb it, to prod it to movement. I have grown used to having it there, glued to its own little microdot. It is now part of where I reside, like wall paint, and I will leave it undisturbed until it flies away, or blows away in a cold, rainy gust of eternity.

I had every intention of taking this essay into some non sequitur connection of human logic, but I have decided, that since they outnumber us a millionfold, that I would leave it as a paean to bugs and only bugs. Draw whatever conclusions you like.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Corralling the Free Range Chicken

Many of you are under the impression that you can believe what you read, especially when it comes to labels, but in the interest of the general public, I feel it is my duty to dispel one of the great myths of the modern era--the health benefits of the free range chicken.

The chicken, like its close relative, the pigeon, will eat anything. This includes used condoms, radioactive waste, thumbtacks and, on the odd occasion, the black mamba. Therefore, it should be obvious to all right thinking humans that it is imperative that we confine the chicken to a safe area where it will be forced to consume the chemically altered hormones and the vitamin water that are best for them. It might benefit the reader to learn a little bit about the day-to-day life of the free range chicken to illuminate the inherent dangers. Approximately 99.27% of all free range chickens eat, romp and play in the vast acreage of the Alamagordo testing grounds in New Mexico. The remainder are scatterd about in the ebola breeding grounds in Gabon, and in the NYC subway system where they are allowed to ride free of charge and are often noted mating at ground zero. The free range chicken, not noted for its herding behavior, are often observed, however, in a modified phalanx akin to a duckpin bowling setup. They are most often led by the dominant mamba assasin. They are rounded up by specially trained Mexican free-tailed bats, who utilize their highly evolved sonar guidance systems to chase the scatterbrained, and often herky jerky chickens to the beheading chambers.

I was immediately struck, as I'm sure you were, by the striking similarities with the internet dating behaviors of the the free range vagina, whether or not it is being used for good or evil.

I recently went on my first date with the Demure One, and I accidently discovered several tactics that might prove useful to others traversing the terrain of the FRV, especially if you are well over the typical dating age, as I am. I will list them below.

1. Roses still work, especially when you want to send them.
2. Birthday presents, especially when having considered the likes of your prospective date, still work.
3. Pretending to be normal, even if you are not, is useful initially, although in the long run, the truth shall set you free.
4. Listen attentively. While this is a difficult task for most men, it is important. You never know when the words 'blue' and 'subway' will pop up
5. Pass out at dinner. I know, I never would have thought of this one either. It is especially important to try to pick a day when temperatures will exceed 100F. Long walks and lack of hydration are vital. Museums are also a great take. The little collections of ancient knick knacks seem to elevate a woman's libido. Besides, you will be protected by countless Polynesian fetishes.
Anyway, passing out, sweating profusely, and lying prone on the sidewalks of NYC seemed to work especially well for me. As an added bonus, I wound up so enamored of the Demure One that my brain has failed to jumpstart nearly a week later.

I'm feeling like I just ate a free range, radioactive, hormone-laden 12-egg omelette filled with salmonella tomatoes and bat guano, my brain synapses are misfiring like an overheated B.A.R., and my chest is puffed out like a mating woodpecker. Golly jeez, I never felt so good.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

The Problem with Love

The problem with love is that nobody, and I mean nobody, knows what it is. And if you make the mistake of thinking you know, it runs away like a tie-dyed tee shirt. So today, in the context of the Great Triad, I will attempt to examine love, and maybe even try to define it.

It seems to me that all love starts in the genitals. I know, many of you are already thinking that I am being facetious or glib. Let me assure you that I am not. Sex is the seed of love. The Mamou in all of us is always striving to achieve a state of perfect chaos. What, may I ask, is more chaotic than multiorgasmic, empty-your-brain-of-any-coherent-thought, sex?. The answer, and I'm sure you will agree, is nothing. The Whole Shebang, the domain of 'love', injected the concept into our collective psyche, to get our brains working again. Unfortunately, he/she left the concept a little too vague, thus enabling us to become even more stupid. There are many of you who will maintain that Jesus is love, but let me assure you, you may as well be searching for it through Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Women as a rule are far more guilty of confusing the concepts of love and sex. The prevalent thing goes something like this: "Well, he wanted to, and I let him get into my panties, so we are going to have to fall in love. We can get married and he can keep my closet full of shoes that I hardly ever wear." Men, however, are equally stupid. "It's worth 5000 pairs of shoes if she keeps it up". Unfortunately, an old pussy isn't like an old dog. The old dog keeps on loving you no matter how much you beat it.

Lest I obsess about sex alone, let's examine the other commonly held concepts of love: trust, honesty and affection. Unfortunately, trust is an unattainable goal for most of us. To truly trust someone requires a fairly strong sense of self worth. Oh, I know, all the gods say we are born pure and righteous, but for most of us, surviving an upbringing riddled with maternal guilt lashing sprinkled with good ol' garden of eden temptation leaves us with a sense of self-uselessness akin to a broken condom. It's hard to lay your heart in the hands of a partner when you know you don't deserve it. As for honesty, we all possess it. The only times dishonesty comes into play is when we are afraid. We only lie when we know our partner will beat the living crap out of us if we tell the truth. And don't lie to me and tell me that's not true. And affection, that's something we freely give; to our spouses, our partners, our friends and the people we cheat on them with.

So, where does that leave us on the subject of love. Nowhere. Our failure at love results from striving for something we don't inately understand. To attain something, you have to know what it is, and, quite frankly, it's different for each of us. The best you can really hope for is a whole lot of like, copiously laced with pheromones, sprinkled with magic and awe. It is the chaos of the seeking that gets us there. Embrace the chaos, lovingly nurture it, and don't leave out the magic.

Bibbity, Bobbity, Boo.