You feel like a little nostalgia? You don’t look like a little nostalgia. You look meaner and older and nastier and, yes, uglier. You might consider having those warts removed, huh?
I was just sitting in my home office trying to figure out how to take a tax deduction for sitting here and writing — and I’m going to try it this year. Don’t rat me out, OK? I’ll come to your house. Kick a little ratting-out butt if I have to.
I was just thinking back to when I was six years old. Damn dinosaurs everywhere and saber-tooth tigers. It was rough. OK, I’m not quite that old. Yes, I feel that old. And yes I look that old. And yes, I have clothes that look like they’re made out of tyrannosaurus hides. But I am not that old, dammit.
OK, ready for some geezer talk? Well, Sonny and Sonnyette, I was 6 years old back in 1947. No, that’s not a typo. I guess you enjoy laughing at old people. I’d kick your butts if I could find my damn cane. Anyway, I lived out in San Pedro in this pretty cool place. There was a bunch of these three-unit Army barrack kind of places. They’d build two of these units and there would be a big dirt yard in between. Must have been 30 of these damn little complexes all over.
And there was a shitload of kids out there. There were kids everywhere. I mean, there must have been some serious after-war intercourse being enjoyed after kicking some Nazi butt, baby. Kids everywhere. We loved it, too. Back then parents were completely unevolved and tried (and succeeded) to ignore us, and we liked it like that. In the summertime, we would eat breakfast, get our Sky King rings out of the cereal boxes, and head out into life in Rolling Hills in Lomita, near San Pedro, next to heaven.
The first thing we would always do was meet near the top of this hill. We’d all have our wagons. Mine was the coolest, of course. It had a damn steering wheel! Really. My dad built the thing himself. I was the envy of the neighborhood. I used to fly down that damn hill, steering with my steering wheel, and then, just when I was at top speed, I’d jump off into the ice plant. Man, I can still smell that squished ice plant smell mixed with my bloody knees. Ah, it was so good.
And then after the wagon racing, maybe a bunch of us guys, no girls (we weren’t commies), would go down to our secret raft that we had built out of secret crap. It was like a damn Huck Finn raft, and I didn’t even know who Huck was back then. And we’d float around for hours in this muddy pond and steer with big poles and go around old tires and junk cars that were dumped there.
Couldn’t have been better.
And then maybe we’d go over to the cliffs and we’d have our club initiations. And you’d have to jump off, say, a 12-foot cliff, into some sand, and when you were in mid-air, you’d be pelted by dirt clods and apple cores and half-eaten sandwiches, and boogers, and life was good. One time a guy broke his arm jumping off the cliff, but we made him tell his parents he fell down on the playground, and the parents bought it. Parents were pretty dumb back then. Of course, not as dumb as they are now, but pretty dumb.
Then, after fending for ourselves for lunch, we’d maybe play some marbles in between the houses. God, we had some great marble games. Big-ass circles in the dirt, filled with aggies and steelies and puries and other marble names I’ve forgotten. I still remember nailing some shots and just seeing my shooter sting that sucker out of the circle. And then you’d get down on your knee in the middle of the circle and keep shooting until you missed or your shooter went out of the circle. And you’d turn to your buddy and say, “OK, Fuzz Nuts, it’s your turn.” And Fuzz Nuts would say, “Don’t mind if I do, Butt Brains.”
And then we’d have to go home to eat dinner. And we’d escape as soon as we could and meet up by Sandra Holt’s house. I always liked Sandra Holt. I don’t know why. I didn’t even know what sex was back then. And now that I do know what it is, I’m sure Sandra would never have been involved in something so dirty and icky. I think I liked Sandra because she was a good wagon driver and she didn’t have any teeth. I still find these traits attractive in a woman.
And all of us would just be lying down on the grass in the evening waiting for the trucks to come by. We’d just be eating cherries or something and spitting the pits at each other’s crotches, and then the pickle truck would come by. I’m not making this up. We’d all buy a pickle for a nickel. Big juicy dill suckers. Came in a sheet of wax paper. And man, those were sour. Just made you pucker like you meant it, baby. I’m sure that’s why I grew hair on my chest. Hell, I had hair on my teeth.
And then a bit later a tamale truck would come by. (Even then there were illegal aliens.) I usually wouldn’t buy the tamales but I loved the smell. Just didn’t have the money. I would always save my money for the ice cream truck, which came by right after the tamale truck. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, I would sneak a ride on the running boards of the tamale truck. I still remember the smell.
And then the ice cream truck would come by. Had this funky little horn thing going for it. And the driver would open up the back door/hatch of the truck and the dry-ice steam would waft out and he’d fan it out a little more so he could see the ice cream bars inside. And we’d all buy our ice cream bars and Eskimo Pies and go flop on the cool grass on a summer evening and life was good.
Very very good.
Contact former Pasadena Weekly Publisher Jim Laris at jim.laris@mac.com.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Tooth Hurty (Cigar Smoke 7-10-08)
I just got back from the dentist. And, you know me, I don’t like to complain. Bitch and moan? Maybe. But complain? Never. Let’s just say I would like to share some things with you.
First, I have had a long and painful history with my teeth. When I was a kid, I had to have all my baby teeth pulled. They just would not fall out on their own. Oh, one time one of my teeth was loose and an uncle came up to me and, after asking me to point out the loose tooth, yanked it right out of my damn youthful head and held it in front of me and said, “Is this the one?” Uncles are kidders.
Then when my permanent teeth came in, there was good news and bad news. The good news: my teeth were incredibly strong. The bad news: they were all over my mouth, running up against each other at right angles, pushing into each other. Kind of looked like a used car lot after a tornado.
So I had to have braces for eight years. Yes, eight years of the orthodontist tightening those damn things so I couldn’t eat for three days, and eight years of those little sucky rubber bands stretching from the top of my mouth to the bottom of my mouth.
And they looked so good, too. I remember in high school going up to a girl with my braces on my teeth and zits on my face and unshaven tufts of hair next to the zits on my face and a few bloody sheared-off ex zit spots and I asked her out and I remember her saying, “Uh, maybe. I didn’t see the weather report this morning. Has hell frozen over yet?”
And when I finally got my braces off, things didn’t get much better. I always had problems with my teeth. A mouthful of cavities and extractions. I’ve had root canals and impacted molars and I’ve had bridges put in and crowns put on and wisdom teeth pulled out and gold fillings put everywhere. So many gold fillings that I count my head as my biggest long-term investment.
Now remember, I’m not complaining. I’m sharing. I remember about 15 years ago I had a memorable dental experience. I had a wisdom tooth taken out. Man, that was an experience. I went to a dentist over in Arcadia and before he started to go to work, I told him I needed extra Novocain. And, like all dentists, he ignored me and started to pull the tooth.
This was a big tooth. And after about a half-hour of trying to yank this sucker, my Novocain started to wear off and then the pain took my breath away, along with 10 years of my life. The dentist said, “I guess you were right about the Novocain.” I said, “I guess I’ll be right when I pull one of your teeth out with a plumber’s wrench.”
OK, that’s all in the past. So about a month ago I notice something outside one of my lower teeth on the right side of my mouth. It’s bulging up, but the tooth isn’t really hurting. So my dentist suggests that I go see a microscopic endontics guy.
So I go to see the guy. And he tells me I need to have the tooth pulled and then I need to have an implant. I inquire as to the approximate cost of this procedure. He tells me the approximate cost. I tell him that’s approximately what I used to pay for a car.
After a fairly long pause, he says, “Well do you want to go ahead with this?” I say, “You know, the tooth doesn’t really hurt me. What would happen if I just didn’t do anything?” He looked at me for a few seconds and said, “My kid couldn’t get into a good college, that’s what would happen.” Those microscopic endontics guys are kidders. No, what he really said was that the tooth was infected and if I ignored it I would lose that tooth and all the other teeth around it would become infected and I would have to gum my words when I ordered in restaurants and if I ordered mashed potatoes I would end up with mathed pimentos.
So I decided to have him pull the tooth. Well, I was in there for over an hour. He tried to pull it. He couldn’t. The tooth was too damn big. So he had to drill and cut the killer tooth into four quarters. Divide and conquer, baby.
So after the tooth was out, he told me I couldn’t have anything hot or hard. And I couldn’t have any coffee and I couldn’t even smoke. I asked him if I could eat meat. He said no. I asked him if I could eat donuts with the left side of my mouth only. He said no. I asked him if I could have sex. He said no.
Finally, I said, “Well, could I at least play the piano?” He said, “OK, you can do that.”
I said, “Great! I never could play it before I had the tooth out.”
Contact former Pasadena Weekly Publisher Jim Laris at jim.laris@mac.com.
First, I have had a long and painful history with my teeth. When I was a kid, I had to have all my baby teeth pulled. They just would not fall out on their own. Oh, one time one of my teeth was loose and an uncle came up to me and, after asking me to point out the loose tooth, yanked it right out of my damn youthful head and held it in front of me and said, “Is this the one?” Uncles are kidders.
Then when my permanent teeth came in, there was good news and bad news. The good news: my teeth were incredibly strong. The bad news: they were all over my mouth, running up against each other at right angles, pushing into each other. Kind of looked like a used car lot after a tornado.
So I had to have braces for eight years. Yes, eight years of the orthodontist tightening those damn things so I couldn’t eat for three days, and eight years of those little sucky rubber bands stretching from the top of my mouth to the bottom of my mouth.
And they looked so good, too. I remember in high school going up to a girl with my braces on my teeth and zits on my face and unshaven tufts of hair next to the zits on my face and a few bloody sheared-off ex zit spots and I asked her out and I remember her saying, “Uh, maybe. I didn’t see the weather report this morning. Has hell frozen over yet?”
And when I finally got my braces off, things didn’t get much better. I always had problems with my teeth. A mouthful of cavities and extractions. I’ve had root canals and impacted molars and I’ve had bridges put in and crowns put on and wisdom teeth pulled out and gold fillings put everywhere. So many gold fillings that I count my head as my biggest long-term investment.
Now remember, I’m not complaining. I’m sharing. I remember about 15 years ago I had a memorable dental experience. I had a wisdom tooth taken out. Man, that was an experience. I went to a dentist over in Arcadia and before he started to go to work, I told him I needed extra Novocain. And, like all dentists, he ignored me and started to pull the tooth.
This was a big tooth. And after about a half-hour of trying to yank this sucker, my Novocain started to wear off and then the pain took my breath away, along with 10 years of my life. The dentist said, “I guess you were right about the Novocain.” I said, “I guess I’ll be right when I pull one of your teeth out with a plumber’s wrench.”
OK, that’s all in the past. So about a month ago I notice something outside one of my lower teeth on the right side of my mouth. It’s bulging up, but the tooth isn’t really hurting. So my dentist suggests that I go see a microscopic endontics guy.
So I go to see the guy. And he tells me I need to have the tooth pulled and then I need to have an implant. I inquire as to the approximate cost of this procedure. He tells me the approximate cost. I tell him that’s approximately what I used to pay for a car.
After a fairly long pause, he says, “Well do you want to go ahead with this?” I say, “You know, the tooth doesn’t really hurt me. What would happen if I just didn’t do anything?” He looked at me for a few seconds and said, “My kid couldn’t get into a good college, that’s what would happen.” Those microscopic endontics guys are kidders. No, what he really said was that the tooth was infected and if I ignored it I would lose that tooth and all the other teeth around it would become infected and I would have to gum my words when I ordered in restaurants and if I ordered mashed potatoes I would end up with mathed pimentos.
So I decided to have him pull the tooth. Well, I was in there for over an hour. He tried to pull it. He couldn’t. The tooth was too damn big. So he had to drill and cut the killer tooth into four quarters. Divide and conquer, baby.
So after the tooth was out, he told me I couldn’t have anything hot or hard. And I couldn’t have any coffee and I couldn’t even smoke. I asked him if I could eat meat. He said no. I asked him if I could eat donuts with the left side of my mouth only. He said no. I asked him if I could have sex. He said no.
Finally, I said, “Well, could I at least play the piano?” He said, “OK, you can do that.”
I said, “Great! I never could play it before I had the tooth out.”
Contact former Pasadena Weekly Publisher Jim Laris at jim.laris@mac.com.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Glad to Be Home (Cigar Smoke 7-3-08)
As you know, my dog, Hadley, has some pretty bad back legs. He has real difficulty getting up and cannot climb stairs any more. So while we were at my friend’s ranch in Colorado recently, we’d always be sitting on his deck, which was on the second floor. Vic and I and his two dogs and various cats and critters, would all be up there having some damn fun, and Hadley would be on the ground floor envious of all the noise and action.
So, because he’s a smart dog, he went to the bottom of the stairs, and started to bark. So Vic and I, being not quite as smart, said, “Shut the hell up, you mutt!” Finally, we figured out he wanted us to carry him up the stairs. Pretty cool, huh?
So Vic would grab him under the front legs and chest and I would grab his rear end, and we’d carry him up the stairs. At first, his heart would beat really fast, and he’d be very unsure of the whole thing, and then he gradually got used to it, and relaxed, and told us in doggie yelps to carry him faster. And we did, and he got up there and ran around and smelled a few butts, and life was good. (I don’t get any more heartwarming than that.)
But before you come to the conclusion that Vic is a nice guy, I have to say that I stood at the bottom of the stairs a number of times and barked and he didn’t do shit. He never carried me up. Not once. The bastard.
By the way, remember in my last column when I used the word “dickhead,” as in “Did you bring the steaks, dickhead?” Well, I asked Vic if he used that term with love as kind of a guy insult thing, and he said, “No. I always thought your head looked like a penis.”
Anyway, on the way home, Marge and I were driving through Arizona and we were on Highway 10, pretty much flying, and we saw an Arizona Highway Patrol car stopped by the side of the road, and we went by him, and then a few minutes later he comes up behind us with his lights flashing. I told Marge, “I guess he thinks going 90 in a 75 is speeding.”
We stop. He comes to the window. I roll it down. And he says, “Do you know why I stopped you?” And I said, “Because my head looks like a penis?” He said, “What?” I said, “I don’t know. Why?” He said, “Because you failed to move over to the next lane when you saw a Highway Patrol stopped car at the side of the road.”
I told him I had never heard of that law and that we didn’t have it in California and that I was sorry. I really, truly hadn’t heard of the law, and I was sincerely sorry. He kind of looked at me over his sunglasses and asked to see my driver’s license, registration and my insurance card. Well, I had my license and registration, but my insurance card was outdated — by a month.
He told me my insurance card was not good, and as I was looking for the right one in my special car envelope I pulled out a 50 dollar bill (that I keep for emergencies) and he saw it and said — and if I’m lying I’m buying — “Is that for the nice Arizona Highway Patrolman?”
Marge’s jaw dropped and she looked at me like she would be visiting me in jail, and she said, “Officer, I don’t know this gentleman. I was hitchhiking and he picked me up.” True love.
The nice patrolman only gave me a warning and we made it back to good old Altadena. Glad to be home. Until I opened the accumulated pile of mail. I had a notice from the IRS saying that I owed them $2,300. I called my accountant, Steve Boyer, and asked him if I had any other alternative than paying and he said, “Prison.”
So, the next day, after sleeping in my own bed, the bed with the dried bloodstain on my pillow, the bed where I use my CPAP machine to blast off into dreamland, the bed that is even softer than the Lakers, I get up and go out to the kitchen. Marge is there at the table with her oatmeal and coffee. We read the papers. And then we each take a crossword puzzle, one from the Star-News and one from the LA Times, and we start working them, and then, as always, we switch about halfway through, and we slide the puzzles over to each other.
As we slid the puzzles to each other, we both, at exactly the same time, also slid our pencils over. Did you catch that? We slid our pencils over to each other. Do you see what I’m saying? We were both incredibly moronic at the same exact point in time. I guess we figured the puzzles could only be completed by pencils they already knew. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a new law in Arizona.
Then I went to Brookside Park to get back into my routine, and within three minutes and 100 yards, these things occurred. I swear. On a stack of pancakes. A kid in a school bus said, “Is that your nose or your trunk?” and then ducked down under the window; a guy in a captain’s hat told me his dog more than liked my dog, his dog loved my dog; I overheard a tennis instructor tell his young 8- to 10-year-old students, “Quiet! I want to be able to hear a cricket fart.” I walked by the swimming pool where elderly lanky-ladies in one-piece bathing suits were doing water nymph exercises to the recorded scratchy blaring of “Mellow Yellow.”
Glad to be home.
Contact former Pasadena Weekly Publisher Jim Laris at jim.laris@mac.com.
So, because he’s a smart dog, he went to the bottom of the stairs, and started to bark. So Vic and I, being not quite as smart, said, “Shut the hell up, you mutt!” Finally, we figured out he wanted us to carry him up the stairs. Pretty cool, huh?
So Vic would grab him under the front legs and chest and I would grab his rear end, and we’d carry him up the stairs. At first, his heart would beat really fast, and he’d be very unsure of the whole thing, and then he gradually got used to it, and relaxed, and told us in doggie yelps to carry him faster. And we did, and he got up there and ran around and smelled a few butts, and life was good. (I don’t get any more heartwarming than that.)
But before you come to the conclusion that Vic is a nice guy, I have to say that I stood at the bottom of the stairs a number of times and barked and he didn’t do shit. He never carried me up. Not once. The bastard.
By the way, remember in my last column when I used the word “dickhead,” as in “Did you bring the steaks, dickhead?” Well, I asked Vic if he used that term with love as kind of a guy insult thing, and he said, “No. I always thought your head looked like a penis.”
Anyway, on the way home, Marge and I were driving through Arizona and we were on Highway 10, pretty much flying, and we saw an Arizona Highway Patrol car stopped by the side of the road, and we went by him, and then a few minutes later he comes up behind us with his lights flashing. I told Marge, “I guess he thinks going 90 in a 75 is speeding.”
We stop. He comes to the window. I roll it down. And he says, “Do you know why I stopped you?” And I said, “Because my head looks like a penis?” He said, “What?” I said, “I don’t know. Why?” He said, “Because you failed to move over to the next lane when you saw a Highway Patrol stopped car at the side of the road.”
I told him I had never heard of that law and that we didn’t have it in California and that I was sorry. I really, truly hadn’t heard of the law, and I was sincerely sorry. He kind of looked at me over his sunglasses and asked to see my driver’s license, registration and my insurance card. Well, I had my license and registration, but my insurance card was outdated — by a month.
He told me my insurance card was not good, and as I was looking for the right one in my special car envelope I pulled out a 50 dollar bill (that I keep for emergencies) and he saw it and said — and if I’m lying I’m buying — “Is that for the nice Arizona Highway Patrolman?”
Marge’s jaw dropped and she looked at me like she would be visiting me in jail, and she said, “Officer, I don’t know this gentleman. I was hitchhiking and he picked me up.” True love.
The nice patrolman only gave me a warning and we made it back to good old Altadena. Glad to be home. Until I opened the accumulated pile of mail. I had a notice from the IRS saying that I owed them $2,300. I called my accountant, Steve Boyer, and asked him if I had any other alternative than paying and he said, “Prison.”
So, the next day, after sleeping in my own bed, the bed with the dried bloodstain on my pillow, the bed where I use my CPAP machine to blast off into dreamland, the bed that is even softer than the Lakers, I get up and go out to the kitchen. Marge is there at the table with her oatmeal and coffee. We read the papers. And then we each take a crossword puzzle, one from the Star-News and one from the LA Times, and we start working them, and then, as always, we switch about halfway through, and we slide the puzzles over to each other.
As we slid the puzzles to each other, we both, at exactly the same time, also slid our pencils over. Did you catch that? We slid our pencils over to each other. Do you see what I’m saying? We were both incredibly moronic at the same exact point in time. I guess we figured the puzzles could only be completed by pencils they already knew. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a new law in Arizona.
Then I went to Brookside Park to get back into my routine, and within three minutes and 100 yards, these things occurred. I swear. On a stack of pancakes. A kid in a school bus said, “Is that your nose or your trunk?” and then ducked down under the window; a guy in a captain’s hat told me his dog more than liked my dog, his dog loved my dog; I overheard a tennis instructor tell his young 8- to 10-year-old students, “Quiet! I want to be able to hear a cricket fart.” I walked by the swimming pool where elderly lanky-ladies in one-piece bathing suits were doing water nymph exercises to the recorded scratchy blaring of “Mellow Yellow.”
Glad to be home.
Contact former Pasadena Weekly Publisher Jim Laris at jim.laris@mac.com.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Reality Checkpoint (Cigar Smoke 6-19-08)
The first day on the road was pretty dang good. Just drove through the desert, had a BLT at Denny’s and got to Phoenix in six hours of fulfilling anticipatory delight. We got settled in our Holiday Inn room (please, stop the envious looks) and we rested for a couple of hours, and then some of the anticipation started to hit the fan.
We were deciding to eat at either Chili’s or The Cracker Barrel. Marge didn’t really have a strong hankering for either one, so I made the decision to go to The Cracker Barrel. Mainly because I like cookie-cutter fake-antique places that are exactly the same either in South Carolina or Albuquerque and serve food you need help with lifting to your mouth.
We’re looking at the menu and Marge says, with clenched little feminine teeth, “They don’t serve wine here.” And I know she wanted to add, “comma, Dumb-ass.” But she didn’t. Because she has two things I sometimes dream about having — class and restraint.
So, throughout the entire meal of consuming dumplings with white gravy that you could mortar a house with, she didn’t speak to me. And I didn’t talk to her either, because I was enjoying my mashed potatoes that were making the table tilt towards Tucson.
We got back to the hotel room. She still wouldn’t talk to me. We went to bed. I cooed, yes cooed, to her, “You want me to go to a liquor store and buy you some Annie Green Springs and pour it on your Cracker Barrel body and then slurp the little puddle out of your navel.” She did not respond.
The next morning I get up at 5:30 because Hadley the Airedale has to take a whiz. I got out of bed, put on my sweat pants, threw on my SC T-shirt, slid into my sandals and took him out to the parking lot to consummate his urinary desires.
Well, Hadley did fine. And then I reach into my sweat pants pocket to get my hotel key to slide into the door to gain entry into such hotel. And, yup, no key.
So I walk around to the front entrance and walk back to our room and knock on the door. No response. I knock again, really loudly. Nothing. I start yelling, “Marge! Marge!” I know she can hear me, but I just hear parts of her answer, like “Maybe next time you’ll pick a place that serves wine.” I yell out, “I’m sorry!” The guy in the room next to us opens his door, and says, “You cheat on her?” I said, “No! I took her to a restaurant that didn’t serve wine.” He said, “Dumb shit.” And he closed the door.
So I walk Hadley back to the front of the hotel and we walk up to the desk clerk, and I say, “Uh, I locked myself out of my room. Could I please have another key?” And she looks at me and my hair is all sleep-matted down to one side with the top of my hair sticking straight up like I’ve just been hit by lightning and there is dry spittle on my chin and crusty eye deposits on the corners of my crusty eyes. And the clerk says, “Can I see some identification?” And, or course, my wallet is in the room, next to my key. You talk about anticipation not meeting expectations, baby. They were strangers.
Eventually I get back into my room (they got tired of me scaring their guests with my crying) and after not speaking with Marge for an hour I dropped her off at her son’s house, and Hadley and I went on our way to Colorado, the land of anticipation.
Then about four hours into the day’s drive, I stopped for lunch at a McDonald’s in Kayenta, Ariz. I got a Big Mac and Cheeseburger for Hadley, and I got a Fish Sandwich for myself, because I get sleepy after eating beef, and I was driving, so I wanted to be responsible and alert and mature. Yes, I am wonderful. By the way, how does McDonald’s find all those perfectly square fish for their sandwiches?
After we finish off the sandwiches, I go back in and order a large soft-serve ice cream cone. When I get it, it is indeed large. Probably six inches of ice cream on this tiny cone base. It was scarier than false anticipation. The ice cream just tottered there waiting for its fate. And then it happens. The entire tower of ice cream breaks off. It does not fall off, or topple over. The ice cream doesn’t separate where it meets the cone. No. It breaks off in the middle of the dinky-ass cone it’s heaped onto!
What I’m trying to say is that it wasn’t my fault it fell. My alternative-side-licking was good. No, McDonald’s had engineered a faulty cone! Those commies. Really, the cone was so damn small it couldn’t hold the weight of the ice cream, so it snapped off. That’s just not right.
And here I had a giant glob of ice cream in my hand and I tried to eat as much as I could until my fingers froze and then I got pissed off and just dropped the glob on purpose and let it plop on the pavement. I’m still irritated. I think we have a class action suit.
Anticipation, meet reality. The sound of that plop was just, as my friend Fred Bankston always says, “So life.”
We were deciding to eat at either Chili’s or The Cracker Barrel. Marge didn’t really have a strong hankering for either one, so I made the decision to go to The Cracker Barrel. Mainly because I like cookie-cutter fake-antique places that are exactly the same either in South Carolina or Albuquerque and serve food you need help with lifting to your mouth.
We’re looking at the menu and Marge says, with clenched little feminine teeth, “They don’t serve wine here.” And I know she wanted to add, “comma, Dumb-ass.” But she didn’t. Because she has two things I sometimes dream about having — class and restraint.
So, throughout the entire meal of consuming dumplings with white gravy that you could mortar a house with, she didn’t speak to me. And I didn’t talk to her either, because I was enjoying my mashed potatoes that were making the table tilt towards Tucson.
We got back to the hotel room. She still wouldn’t talk to me. We went to bed. I cooed, yes cooed, to her, “You want me to go to a liquor store and buy you some Annie Green Springs and pour it on your Cracker Barrel body and then slurp the little puddle out of your navel.” She did not respond.
The next morning I get up at 5:30 because Hadley the Airedale has to take a whiz. I got out of bed, put on my sweat pants, threw on my SC T-shirt, slid into my sandals and took him out to the parking lot to consummate his urinary desires.
Well, Hadley did fine. And then I reach into my sweat pants pocket to get my hotel key to slide into the door to gain entry into such hotel. And, yup, no key.
So I walk around to the front entrance and walk back to our room and knock on the door. No response. I knock again, really loudly. Nothing. I start yelling, “Marge! Marge!” I know she can hear me, but I just hear parts of her answer, like “Maybe next time you’ll pick a place that serves wine.” I yell out, “I’m sorry!” The guy in the room next to us opens his door, and says, “You cheat on her?” I said, “No! I took her to a restaurant that didn’t serve wine.” He said, “Dumb shit.” And he closed the door.
So I walk Hadley back to the front of the hotel and we walk up to the desk clerk, and I say, “Uh, I locked myself out of my room. Could I please have another key?” And she looks at me and my hair is all sleep-matted down to one side with the top of my hair sticking straight up like I’ve just been hit by lightning and there is dry spittle on my chin and crusty eye deposits on the corners of my crusty eyes. And the clerk says, “Can I see some identification?” And, or course, my wallet is in the room, next to my key. You talk about anticipation not meeting expectations, baby. They were strangers.
Eventually I get back into my room (they got tired of me scaring their guests with my crying) and after not speaking with Marge for an hour I dropped her off at her son’s house, and Hadley and I went on our way to Colorado, the land of anticipation.
Then about four hours into the day’s drive, I stopped for lunch at a McDonald’s in Kayenta, Ariz. I got a Big Mac and Cheeseburger for Hadley, and I got a Fish Sandwich for myself, because I get sleepy after eating beef, and I was driving, so I wanted to be responsible and alert and mature. Yes, I am wonderful. By the way, how does McDonald’s find all those perfectly square fish for their sandwiches?
After we finish off the sandwiches, I go back in and order a large soft-serve ice cream cone. When I get it, it is indeed large. Probably six inches of ice cream on this tiny cone base. It was scarier than false anticipation. The ice cream just tottered there waiting for its fate. And then it happens. The entire tower of ice cream breaks off. It does not fall off, or topple over. The ice cream doesn’t separate where it meets the cone. No. It breaks off in the middle of the dinky-ass cone it’s heaped onto!
What I’m trying to say is that it wasn’t my fault it fell. My alternative-side-licking was good. No, McDonald’s had engineered a faulty cone! Those commies. Really, the cone was so damn small it couldn’t hold the weight of the ice cream, so it snapped off. That’s just not right.
And here I had a giant glob of ice cream in my hand and I tried to eat as much as I could until my fingers froze and then I got pissed off and just dropped the glob on purpose and let it plop on the pavement. I’m still irritated. I think we have a class action suit.
Anticipation, meet reality. The sound of that plop was just, as my friend Fred Bankston always says, “So life.”
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Anticipation (Cigar Smoke 6-12-08)
There aren’t too many things better than the anticipation of an adventure. (Oh sure, I anticipate dating a sex surrogate who has season seats in Section 112 for the Kings, but that’s just a false anticipation.) Getting ready for a trip is just plain old fun. The actual trips may be great or not so great, but the thinking about them ahead of time is always well worth the delusion.
I’m getting ready to go see my buddy, Vic Vieira, who lives on a ranch in Colorado. I’m taking Hadley, my 11-year-old Airedale, who is literally on his last legs. His legs are in pretty bad shape, but he just loves it out there in Hicksville. Once I actually said the word “Hicksville” while I was there and I learned the meaning of a new term — shotgun blast. But that’s another story. I kid the hicks.
I think this is probably Hadley’s last trip over there. The ranch is about 80 acres or 120 acres or 5,000 acres. I don’t know. It’s pretty big. And Hadley just loves to explore and sniff and pee and dig and run around. And Vic has a chicken coop (yes, Virginia, there are actual chicken coops) and Hadley turns into a chicken-killing machine when he smells that place. One time we went there and we hear this commotion and serious clucking and we see Hadley tearing into the chicken coop and he’s got fire in his gut and death in his eyes and a chicken in his mouth.
Hey, I felt bad for the chicken, but wow, that city-slicker dog had gotten in touch with his inner wolf and it was kind of primal, baby. Jeez. He ate that dang chicken. Feathers and all. I wasn’t gonna stop him. I’m dumb, but not that dumb.
I’m getting ahead of myself a little. (There’s a flash.) I was talking about the anticipation of the trip. Not the actual trip. So I am anticipating the kind of fun I have already related to you a little, and I go to Ralphs to get some stuff for the trip.
I’m at the check-out counter and I pay for my items and the helper-guy says, “Enjoy your hog pood and penis.” I kind of look at the checker and she has a quizzical look on her face, and she kind of nods her head towards the helper-guy. And I’m contemplating if I will enjoy my penis and my hog pood. And then I realize that Ralphs, to their credit, hires mentally challenged people to pack the groceries. And I realize that he slurred his words a bit and he meant dog food and peanuts. Not hog pood and penis.
But I didn’t want to offend him, so I said, “Thank you for your interest. I will enjoy my hog pood and penis. It was very thoughtful of you to have my welfare in mind.”
Well, now that I had my supplies, I was ready to get fully involved in the anticipating of the trip. And let me tell you, I anticipated my butt off. And with my butt, that’s a whole lot of anticipating. I thought about just getting on the road and heading out towards Palm Springs and seeing all those wind turbines spinning and then cruising past Joshua Tree and into the California desert with the wind in my hair — which is kind of tough without a convertible — and stopping at a Denny’s for some nice hog pood and relieving my peanuts.
And then I thought about going through Kingman and Flagstaff and other cool-sounding places and venturing into the northern Arizona desert and driving for, literally, hours without seeing a gas station or a cafe in 115-degree heat and then feeling the excitement of running across an Indian trading post in the middle of you-know-what Egypt.
And I thought about going in there to get an overpriced soft drink and being happy that there was overpriced anything. And I thought about seeing that old Indian guy in there, whose face you could make a saddle out of, who looked at me like I was Custer, and he would have spit on me but he wanted to save his spit to roll a ciggy. And I thought I’d probably buy some $14.95 Kachina doll so he would think I was really OK and evolved and that my ancestors weren’t cavalry officers. Yes, I anticipated all of that. As I said, I am an anticipator.
And then, because I was anticipating having hunger pangs, and I couldn’t keep anticipating about anticipating that I would be hungry on an empty stomach (an empty head, yes) I anticipated stopping at one of those little side-of-road semi-hogan-like places to get a couple of flatbread tacos. That charred bread and spiced-up coyote meat. And cilantro. With that red stuff. I think it’s the blood of an Englishman. Hadley and I love those suckers. Of course, he has his taco with, you guessed it, chicken.
And finally I anticipate rolling into Cortez, Colorado, and going out to Vic’s ranch, and driving down his dirt road and squishing a few cow pies and having him greet me with those seven words that have to come to define our 50-year-old friendship, “Did you bring the damn steaks, dickhead?”
Oh, it brings tears to my eyes. And then I anticipate having Davy Sanford, another great Humboldt buddy of mine, who has a farm nearby, come over with his two sons, Paul Bunyan and Bigfoot, because he heard the city-slicker butt-face who brings the steaks is in town. The warmth is just too much. I have to stop this anticipating. A man of my age, a man with only 7.9 years left, has to ration his anticipatory glands. I’ll try.
OK, one last anticipation. I think ahead and I know Vic and I will sit up on his great log deck overlooking the Mesa Ass Mountains and, yes, we will be sitting in old padded rocking chairs and puffing on a couple of bad-boy stogies and he will shoot at some raccoon or varmint 75 yards away with his 30-ought six rifle (I’m not making this up) and we will talk about life and love and enlarged prostates and we will acknowledge each other with a manly and rugged, yet non-Brokeback Mountain kind of love, which is accepted by most enlightened people nowadays, and he will lift his left butt cheek just slightly and say, “Pull my finger.”
I can hardly wait..
I’m getting ready to go see my buddy, Vic Vieira, who lives on a ranch in Colorado. I’m taking Hadley, my 11-year-old Airedale, who is literally on his last legs. His legs are in pretty bad shape, but he just loves it out there in Hicksville. Once I actually said the word “Hicksville” while I was there and I learned the meaning of a new term — shotgun blast. But that’s another story. I kid the hicks.
I think this is probably Hadley’s last trip over there. The ranch is about 80 acres or 120 acres or 5,000 acres. I don’t know. It’s pretty big. And Hadley just loves to explore and sniff and pee and dig and run around. And Vic has a chicken coop (yes, Virginia, there are actual chicken coops) and Hadley turns into a chicken-killing machine when he smells that place. One time we went there and we hear this commotion and serious clucking and we see Hadley tearing into the chicken coop and he’s got fire in his gut and death in his eyes and a chicken in his mouth.
Hey, I felt bad for the chicken, but wow, that city-slicker dog had gotten in touch with his inner wolf and it was kind of primal, baby. Jeez. He ate that dang chicken. Feathers and all. I wasn’t gonna stop him. I’m dumb, but not that dumb.
I’m getting ahead of myself a little. (There’s a flash.) I was talking about the anticipation of the trip. Not the actual trip. So I am anticipating the kind of fun I have already related to you a little, and I go to Ralphs to get some stuff for the trip.
I’m at the check-out counter and I pay for my items and the helper-guy says, “Enjoy your hog pood and penis.” I kind of look at the checker and she has a quizzical look on her face, and she kind of nods her head towards the helper-guy. And I’m contemplating if I will enjoy my penis and my hog pood. And then I realize that Ralphs, to their credit, hires mentally challenged people to pack the groceries. And I realize that he slurred his words a bit and he meant dog food and peanuts. Not hog pood and penis.
But I didn’t want to offend him, so I said, “Thank you for your interest. I will enjoy my hog pood and penis. It was very thoughtful of you to have my welfare in mind.”
Well, now that I had my supplies, I was ready to get fully involved in the anticipating of the trip. And let me tell you, I anticipated my butt off. And with my butt, that’s a whole lot of anticipating. I thought about just getting on the road and heading out towards Palm Springs and seeing all those wind turbines spinning and then cruising past Joshua Tree and into the California desert with the wind in my hair — which is kind of tough without a convertible — and stopping at a Denny’s for some nice hog pood and relieving my peanuts.
And then I thought about going through Kingman and Flagstaff and other cool-sounding places and venturing into the northern Arizona desert and driving for, literally, hours without seeing a gas station or a cafe in 115-degree heat and then feeling the excitement of running across an Indian trading post in the middle of you-know-what Egypt.
And I thought about going in there to get an overpriced soft drink and being happy that there was overpriced anything. And I thought about seeing that old Indian guy in there, whose face you could make a saddle out of, who looked at me like I was Custer, and he would have spit on me but he wanted to save his spit to roll a ciggy. And I thought I’d probably buy some $14.95 Kachina doll so he would think I was really OK and evolved and that my ancestors weren’t cavalry officers. Yes, I anticipated all of that. As I said, I am an anticipator.
And then, because I was anticipating having hunger pangs, and I couldn’t keep anticipating about anticipating that I would be hungry on an empty stomach (an empty head, yes) I anticipated stopping at one of those little side-of-road semi-hogan-like places to get a couple of flatbread tacos. That charred bread and spiced-up coyote meat. And cilantro. With that red stuff. I think it’s the blood of an Englishman. Hadley and I love those suckers. Of course, he has his taco with, you guessed it, chicken.
And finally I anticipate rolling into Cortez, Colorado, and going out to Vic’s ranch, and driving down his dirt road and squishing a few cow pies and having him greet me with those seven words that have to come to define our 50-year-old friendship, “Did you bring the damn steaks, dickhead?”
Oh, it brings tears to my eyes. And then I anticipate having Davy Sanford, another great Humboldt buddy of mine, who has a farm nearby, come over with his two sons, Paul Bunyan and Bigfoot, because he heard the city-slicker butt-face who brings the steaks is in town. The warmth is just too much. I have to stop this anticipating. A man of my age, a man with only 7.9 years left, has to ration his anticipatory glands. I’ll try.
OK, one last anticipation. I think ahead and I know Vic and I will sit up on his great log deck overlooking the Mesa Ass Mountains and, yes, we will be sitting in old padded rocking chairs and puffing on a couple of bad-boy stogies and he will shoot at some raccoon or varmint 75 yards away with his 30-ought six rifle (I’m not making this up) and we will talk about life and love and enlarged prostates and we will acknowledge each other with a manly and rugged, yet non-Brokeback Mountain kind of love, which is accepted by most enlightened people nowadays, and he will lift his left butt cheek just slightly and say, “Pull my finger.”
I can hardly wait..
Thursday, June 5, 2008
At Least My Dog Likes Me (Cigar Smoke 6-5-08)
I’m looked down on for a lot of things. Oh, sure, you’re going to say it’s because I am short. Real funny. And I’m not that damned short, dammit. I’m taller than Napoleon. I’m taller than that woman race driver. I’m taller than them short people who Randy Newman sings about.
But, I have to admit there are numerous traits I have that are looked down on by people such as yourselves and your critical friends. To which I say, “Pshaw.” I am going to keep those irritating traits and I will enjoy exercising them until I either buy the farm or one of you sells me the farm.
I cannot go into all of those traits right now because this is a limited space, so I will just highlight one of the things I do which seems to irritate people who observe me doing it. I like to feed my dog weird shit, OK. Is that so bad?
Here’s how I see it. A dog is on the planet for, say, 13 years. And I think he should be happy for those years. And most people I know just feed their dogs dog food. They think it’s healthy and their vet tells them it is and maybe it is. I don’t know.
What I do know is that it is damn boring. And if I were their dog I would bite them as hard as I could or at least pee on their leg.
One friend of mine, who I consider a great friend, just dumps a 50- pound bag of kibble crap on the garage floor and if his dogs eat it, fine. If not, they die. I took Hadley the Airedale to his house one day, and he looked at that pile of supposed dog food and he got back in the car. I couldn’t blame him. We left and went to In-N-Out and shared a couple of double-doubles.
I spend time fixing Hadley his meal every night. He never knows what the hell he’s going to get. But he usually eats it all. Yes, I am that great of a cook. I’ll usually give him two packets of Caesar dog food just to give a nod to vitamins and minerals and such. But then I’ll add some hot dog chunks. And some strands of string cheese. And some pieces of liverwurst. That kind of thing.
Each night I try to do something different. Like I’ll buy sliced ham and cheap baloney and cut off hunks of salami. And I’ll just add those to his dish. And, of course, if we have any leftovers, I’ll put meat loaf or chicken or two-week-old, fat-covered stroganoff lumps in with his packets of health. I’m telling you, he smiles. Really. He looks at me, and I smile back at him and he tells me in dog language (which, by the way, is very similar to stuttering) that he is so glad he doesn’t live with my garage-floor-dog-food-spilling, animal-mistreating friend.
Every once in a while I will buy him some ground round. And I’ll just give it to him raw (although at times in the past I admit I have lightly browned it in the skillet) and he goes over to his dish and his nostrils flare and he sticks his long-headed dog nose in that raw meat and he wolfs that ground round down, and then he comes out into the living room walking on his hind legs and he high-fives me. Oh God, that’s a great feeling.
Hey, the point is, I try to think of him. That’s all. Hell, he’s made it to 11 years old. That’s 77 in our years. Heck, he’s older than I am. And he seems happy. And all his dog friends want to come over to our house to eat. I don’t know, I think dog health is overrated.
The other night I went to Panda Express and got some Orange Chicken and some chop suey and sweet and sour something and cashew nut chicken and beef broccoli stuff. And I brought it home and sat on the end of the couch and was eating it, and then Mr. Fur Face comes over like he always does and sits right in front of me and looks sadder than a monk seeing Madonna naked. And he just looks up at me with his big eyes and dripping tongue. Kind of reminds me of someone I dated in high school. Oh, no — that was me.
I couldn’t stand the sound of a dog crying, so now and then I would give him a piece of cashew chicken to shut him up. He liked it. And then I gave him a few tidbits of the bad fatty pieces of beef I didn’t want, and he liked them, too. Then I gave him a big glob of Orange Chicken and you know what he did? If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. He spit it out! On my pants!
That ungrateful little weasel. Anyway, I finished eating and had some leftovers, so I thought I would piss him off and teach him a lesson. I got a plate and put out the sweet and sour pork stuff that even I couldn’t stomach and threw in a little chop suey and the Orange Chicken gooey-ass sauce. And I put the broccoli right on top. I put the plate down in front of him. I think it was moving by itself. And you know what?
He ate the whole thing! Just slopped it up like a four-legged vacuum. Man, it was gone. Fast. And then he is going around the living room wiping his snout-face on the chairs and all over the rug and smiling his dog smile. So what did I do? The only thing I could do. I gave him a fortune cookie. He ate the whole thing. Even the little paper fortune.
Which I carefully picked out of a moist pile with my chopsticks, and was able to decipher that it read, “Canine who eats General Mao Chinese shredded chicken will do a dog barf on your carpet.”
Those commies are very wise.
But, I have to admit there are numerous traits I have that are looked down on by people such as yourselves and your critical friends. To which I say, “Pshaw.” I am going to keep those irritating traits and I will enjoy exercising them until I either buy the farm or one of you sells me the farm.
I cannot go into all of those traits right now because this is a limited space, so I will just highlight one of the things I do which seems to irritate people who observe me doing it. I like to feed my dog weird shit, OK. Is that so bad?
Here’s how I see it. A dog is on the planet for, say, 13 years. And I think he should be happy for those years. And most people I know just feed their dogs dog food. They think it’s healthy and their vet tells them it is and maybe it is. I don’t know.
What I do know is that it is damn boring. And if I were their dog I would bite them as hard as I could or at least pee on their leg.
One friend of mine, who I consider a great friend, just dumps a 50- pound bag of kibble crap on the garage floor and if his dogs eat it, fine. If not, they die. I took Hadley the Airedale to his house one day, and he looked at that pile of supposed dog food and he got back in the car. I couldn’t blame him. We left and went to In-N-Out and shared a couple of double-doubles.
I spend time fixing Hadley his meal every night. He never knows what the hell he’s going to get. But he usually eats it all. Yes, I am that great of a cook. I’ll usually give him two packets of Caesar dog food just to give a nod to vitamins and minerals and such. But then I’ll add some hot dog chunks. And some strands of string cheese. And some pieces of liverwurst. That kind of thing.
Each night I try to do something different. Like I’ll buy sliced ham and cheap baloney and cut off hunks of salami. And I’ll just add those to his dish. And, of course, if we have any leftovers, I’ll put meat loaf or chicken or two-week-old, fat-covered stroganoff lumps in with his packets of health. I’m telling you, he smiles. Really. He looks at me, and I smile back at him and he tells me in dog language (which, by the way, is very similar to stuttering) that he is so glad he doesn’t live with my garage-floor-dog-food-spilling, animal-mistreating friend.
Every once in a while I will buy him some ground round. And I’ll just give it to him raw (although at times in the past I admit I have lightly browned it in the skillet) and he goes over to his dish and his nostrils flare and he sticks his long-headed dog nose in that raw meat and he wolfs that ground round down, and then he comes out into the living room walking on his hind legs and he high-fives me. Oh God, that’s a great feeling.
Hey, the point is, I try to think of him. That’s all. Hell, he’s made it to 11 years old. That’s 77 in our years. Heck, he’s older than I am. And he seems happy. And all his dog friends want to come over to our house to eat. I don’t know, I think dog health is overrated.
The other night I went to Panda Express and got some Orange Chicken and some chop suey and sweet and sour something and cashew nut chicken and beef broccoli stuff. And I brought it home and sat on the end of the couch and was eating it, and then Mr. Fur Face comes over like he always does and sits right in front of me and looks sadder than a monk seeing Madonna naked. And he just looks up at me with his big eyes and dripping tongue. Kind of reminds me of someone I dated in high school. Oh, no — that was me.
I couldn’t stand the sound of a dog crying, so now and then I would give him a piece of cashew chicken to shut him up. He liked it. And then I gave him a few tidbits of the bad fatty pieces of beef I didn’t want, and he liked them, too. Then I gave him a big glob of Orange Chicken and you know what he did? If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. He spit it out! On my pants!
That ungrateful little weasel. Anyway, I finished eating and had some leftovers, so I thought I would piss him off and teach him a lesson. I got a plate and put out the sweet and sour pork stuff that even I couldn’t stomach and threw in a little chop suey and the Orange Chicken gooey-ass sauce. And I put the broccoli right on top. I put the plate down in front of him. I think it was moving by itself. And you know what?
He ate the whole thing! Just slopped it up like a four-legged vacuum. Man, it was gone. Fast. And then he is going around the living room wiping his snout-face on the chairs and all over the rug and smiling his dog smile. So what did I do? The only thing I could do. I gave him a fortune cookie. He ate the whole thing. Even the little paper fortune.
Which I carefully picked out of a moist pile with my chopsticks, and was able to decipher that it read, “Canine who eats General Mao Chinese shredded chicken will do a dog barf on your carpet.”
Those commies are very wise.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Funny You Should Bring That Up (Cigar Smoke 5-29-08)
Everything has been going along pretty well for me. I just tossed out my empty can of Clean Linen bathroom spray and am now using Country Garden. It’s so much better having the bathroom smell like a tomato patch than a towel. I’m still pretty excited.
So, after this deodorizer excitement, I’m sitting out on the couch eating a no-sugar-added Fudgsicle, watching the tube and playing online Scrabble with someone from Newfoundland, and my dog Hadley starts to retch a little. I offer him a bite of my Popsicle thing, even though I know dogs shouldn’t eat chocolate because I am a what? A rebel. And a non-thinking pet owner.
But he doesn’t even want it. He’s too busy heaving his guts out on the rug. I mean, he was doing some serious Airedale hurling, baby. Mixed in with the hurl-goo were blades of grass and a Reese’s Pieces wrapper and what looked like a chicken foot. I think he made the right decision to hurl it.
And, of course, that reminded me of three of the favorite throwing-up experiences I’ve had over the past 30 years or so. And because I live to share things with you readers and readerettes, I am about to share my empty stomach with you. Warning! If you are about to eat lunch, that would be a mistake. Unless you want a fourth throw-up story of your own.
My first upchuck memory happened in the early ’60s. I was a student at Humboldt State College (where the men were men, and so were the women. I know I’ve said that before, but I just love repeating it.) I was attending a little party just off campus. The primary goal of this party was to drink as many cans of Brew 102 beer as you could and then take a shot of bourbon after each beer and then consume some Corn Nuts and baked beans and PB&J sandwiches and then see who could light the longest tightly pulled-skivvies-over-your-buttocks red rocket. Oh, the fun we had. I’m just glad we could pass these achievements on to the younger generation.
Anyway, around midnight I didn’t feel too good. I don’t know why. And I walked out onto the deck to get some fresh air and maybe survive the night. Well, this deck was on the fourth floor of the house we were in. Pretty high. Kind of like a certain columnist.
As I stood there, holding the rail, I knew I could not keep the evening’s refreshments down. And I also knew I could not make it to the bathroom or a sink or a pan or a bag or a hat. So I stuck my head over the railing and let her fly.
Wow. I can still see the chunks of spaghetti and meatballs and nuts in this foamy glob of beer and saliva just drifting down through the cool night air. It was like it was in slow motion. A Fellini movie. Each chunk of gunk was slightly separating as it fell toward the parking lot. And then it hit with a fourth-floor splat and it just missed a couple who were face-sucking. And I’ll never forget what they said. “Let’s check out some other party.”
About seven years later — but not seven years smarter — I was at a party with my ex-wife, who shall remain nameless because of my gallantry, good judgment and the provisions of the restraining order. I was working at the Army Corps of Engineers and they were having a little party for all of us to get to know each other at some guy’s house.
There were about 20 of us there, and we were all getting, uh, as they say in the construction industry, plastered. Everyone was pretty damn happy if your definition of happy is “can’t walk.” At some point in the evening’s proceedings, we all gathered in a big circle. I don’t remember why we were in this circle. People would go out into the middle and do something and then return. Well, when it was my turn, I went out into the middle of the circle and did something, too. I barfed.
Even in my condition, I could tell that this was not well-received. Especially by the hostess of the party. I remember her husband telling her that he didn’t know who I was and I would never be invited back. And then he took the kitchen knife away from her.
The last thing I remember was being carried into the bedroom where they put all the guests’ coats and they plopped me right in the middle of all those big coats and jackets and scarves. It was actually pretty comfy. I felt all snug and warm and loved as I wiped my face on a really soft chinchilla coat collar. (Furs were OK back then.)
Finally, on my little trip down vomitory lane, I remember back in the ’70s I spent a pleasant evening at The Catacombs, a cool little Mexican bar in downtown Los Angeles. The place was actually underground and it was dark and damp and seedy. Me and my other ink-stained wretch compadres would go there after putting out an edition of the paper. They owed us money for ad space and we took that out in giant platters of guacamole de huachucas and Coronas.
Four of us were sitting there in a dark leather booth and one of the young ladies we were hoping to have meaningful and fulfilling sexual intercourse with later was getting, as they say in the trucking industry, pretty loaded.
My potential love partner of the opposite sex turned towards me, looked at me with her big brown eyes, and she fluttered them a few feminine flutters like they did back then, and she tried to smile, but instead of smiling she projectile vomited her earlier consumed taco plate which was loosely held together by warm cerveza and female spittle. Or maybe it was warm spittle and female cerveza. I don’t know. But it was definitely memorable. And it was all over my chest and my shirt and my psyche. And if I knew the Spanish word for traumatized, I would relate that to you now.
Well, I hope you all have enjoyed our little trip down upchuck lane. Maybe we can meet again next week and I’ll tell you how I had my warts removed.
So, after this deodorizer excitement, I’m sitting out on the couch eating a no-sugar-added Fudgsicle, watching the tube and playing online Scrabble with someone from Newfoundland, and my dog Hadley starts to retch a little. I offer him a bite of my Popsicle thing, even though I know dogs shouldn’t eat chocolate because I am a what? A rebel. And a non-thinking pet owner.
But he doesn’t even want it. He’s too busy heaving his guts out on the rug. I mean, he was doing some serious Airedale hurling, baby. Mixed in with the hurl-goo were blades of grass and a Reese’s Pieces wrapper and what looked like a chicken foot. I think he made the right decision to hurl it.
And, of course, that reminded me of three of the favorite throwing-up experiences I’ve had over the past 30 years or so. And because I live to share things with you readers and readerettes, I am about to share my empty stomach with you. Warning! If you are about to eat lunch, that would be a mistake. Unless you want a fourth throw-up story of your own.
My first upchuck memory happened in the early ’60s. I was a student at Humboldt State College (where the men were men, and so were the women. I know I’ve said that before, but I just love repeating it.) I was attending a little party just off campus. The primary goal of this party was to drink as many cans of Brew 102 beer as you could and then take a shot of bourbon after each beer and then consume some Corn Nuts and baked beans and PB&J sandwiches and then see who could light the longest tightly pulled-skivvies-over-your-buttocks red rocket. Oh, the fun we had. I’m just glad we could pass these achievements on to the younger generation.
Anyway, around midnight I didn’t feel too good. I don’t know why. And I walked out onto the deck to get some fresh air and maybe survive the night. Well, this deck was on the fourth floor of the house we were in. Pretty high. Kind of like a certain columnist.
As I stood there, holding the rail, I knew I could not keep the evening’s refreshments down. And I also knew I could not make it to the bathroom or a sink or a pan or a bag or a hat. So I stuck my head over the railing and let her fly.
Wow. I can still see the chunks of spaghetti and meatballs and nuts in this foamy glob of beer and saliva just drifting down through the cool night air. It was like it was in slow motion. A Fellini movie. Each chunk of gunk was slightly separating as it fell toward the parking lot. And then it hit with a fourth-floor splat and it just missed a couple who were face-sucking. And I’ll never forget what they said. “Let’s check out some other party.”
About seven years later — but not seven years smarter — I was at a party with my ex-wife, who shall remain nameless because of my gallantry, good judgment and the provisions of the restraining order. I was working at the Army Corps of Engineers and they were having a little party for all of us to get to know each other at some guy’s house.
There were about 20 of us there, and we were all getting, uh, as they say in the construction industry, plastered. Everyone was pretty damn happy if your definition of happy is “can’t walk.” At some point in the evening’s proceedings, we all gathered in a big circle. I don’t remember why we were in this circle. People would go out into the middle and do something and then return. Well, when it was my turn, I went out into the middle of the circle and did something, too. I barfed.
Even in my condition, I could tell that this was not well-received. Especially by the hostess of the party. I remember her husband telling her that he didn’t know who I was and I would never be invited back. And then he took the kitchen knife away from her.
The last thing I remember was being carried into the bedroom where they put all the guests’ coats and they plopped me right in the middle of all those big coats and jackets and scarves. It was actually pretty comfy. I felt all snug and warm and loved as I wiped my face on a really soft chinchilla coat collar. (Furs were OK back then.)
Finally, on my little trip down vomitory lane, I remember back in the ’70s I spent a pleasant evening at The Catacombs, a cool little Mexican bar in downtown Los Angeles. The place was actually underground and it was dark and damp and seedy. Me and my other ink-stained wretch compadres would go there after putting out an edition of the paper. They owed us money for ad space and we took that out in giant platters of guacamole de huachucas and Coronas.
Four of us were sitting there in a dark leather booth and one of the young ladies we were hoping to have meaningful and fulfilling sexual intercourse with later was getting, as they say in the trucking industry, pretty loaded.
My potential love partner of the opposite sex turned towards me, looked at me with her big brown eyes, and she fluttered them a few feminine flutters like they did back then, and she tried to smile, but instead of smiling she projectile vomited her earlier consumed taco plate which was loosely held together by warm cerveza and female spittle. Or maybe it was warm spittle and female cerveza. I don’t know. But it was definitely memorable. And it was all over my chest and my shirt and my psyche. And if I knew the Spanish word for traumatized, I would relate that to you now.
Well, I hope you all have enjoyed our little trip down upchuck lane. Maybe we can meet again next week and I’ll tell you how I had my warts removed.
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