Somebody please…

 

 

…come up with a better way to scan a woman’s breast for cancer!  I went back for a second scanning today because I have natural imperfections let’s just say.  I dreaded it.  For the first mammogram over a week ago I was inspired to write  “The Sloan Kettering Titty Smashing Machine…”  This time I’m just crying out for a better way!

Thanks goodness I don’t have cancer.

The poor technician doing the mammogram began sweating.  I felt sorry for her.  I’ve never had that thing cranked up so tight — “Fuck!”  I yelled.  The woman looked troubled.  I felt bad.  “Are you okay?”  I ask.  Look at me all still concerned for somebody else after being tortured.  “Doing this all day to women’s breasts must be hard,” I said.  I asked her if it was hard to watch women in pain.  She nodded.  I apologized for cursing and thanked her.   She went out to get the doctor’s opinion and told me to have a seat.  I might have to have another scanning, she said.  Great, I thought.  This time I’ll take it like a man.

Yup, that’s what she had to do.  I took it like a man.  I thought sick thoughts — Some people pay good money to have this kind of pain inflicted on them.  I flipped it around, see?  And gosh darnit it worked!

Draaaaaaaaainage!

I never wanted to spawn.  I have baby’s fathers though.  They’re men I’d be biologically compelled to spawn with:  Jimi Hendrix, Patrice Lumumba, Andre 3000, Nat Turner, D’Angelo…  Forrest Whitaker used to be one but he married a woman who’s too pretty.  He should’ve married a regular-looking sister like the president, to show he has character.  (I’m just jealous.)  Malcolm X can’t be on my list because I respect the marriage that he had – he was righteous!  Of course there is Peter Steele, Rod Serling, Charles Bukowski, Clark Gable and Bill Clinton.  I didn’t mean to list the blacks with the blacks and whites with the whites, I swear!  My list is segregated – oh my!

My one now is Daniel Day Lewis.  I watched There Will be Blood again.  He plays Daniel Plainview in it.  I want to be Daniel Plainview for Halloween.  He’s the meanest, well, besides Nurse Rached.

Shianwrites wrote a cool post on catch phrases.  You should check it out!  To follow-up, here are really mean Mr. Plainview catch phrases, including one video:

–  “I can’t keep doing this on my own with these…people.”  He says it like people are roaches!

–  He says this to his estranged son:  “You’re just a bastard from a basket!  Just a bastard from a basket…”

–  He’s drunk, collapsed, sitting on the floor after beating the simpy minster to death.  His servant comes to witness the bloody scene, and Daniel Plainview yells:  “I’m finished!”  Then the dramatic staccato Brahms’ Violin Concerto in D Major plays – it’s so cool and dramatic!

– “Draaaaaaaaainage!  I drink YOUR milkshake!”  Check it out:

Dainiel Day Lewis is a great actor.  I include fictitious characters on my list of baby fawvas too, so Daniel Plainview would normally be on there, but I don’t know if it would work because he hates people.  He’d have to screw me with a bag over my head and through a hole in the sheet — and I’d gladly have him with his mean ass!

Have Some More Ass Cake

 

I’m not naïve. But why is my ‘Have some of my ass cake’ post popular?  It doesn’t have actual ass in it just pictures of nice cakes.  There isn’t any porno.  One of the popular tags that people follow leading them to my blog is ‘ass’.  I had no idea ass was popular – I thought it was tits people preferred – well maybe I should try a tits post and see how many folks hit that up. And it won’t be about actual titties, it’ll be about the suckling teats of a rhinoceros.  I’m trying to imagine what people think a post called ‘Have some of my ass cake’ is about.  Do they think the ‘cake’ part means I’m saying that my ass is sweet?  Maybe they think it’s sex talk:  ‘Comere baby, gimme some of that ass cake lovin’.  Yeah, you know what I’m here for?  Some of that big ‘ol ass cake, bitch — yer!”

The Morals of a Rabid Squirrel

I hate gossip – okay so let me not be holier than thou – I don’t quite like gossip and talking bad about people for sport.  It appears that gossip and such is all some people can come up with to discuss.  This is the only conversation that they can muster.  Maybe they think it makes their lives seem interesting — being a receptacle of “juicy” hearsay dresses up their own dull lives.  They imagine people saying, “Look at all the fancy things she knows!  She’s soooo interesting!”

At work I received some gossip this morning.  I got off my high horse and listened attentively, reminding myself that I’m not perfect – why, there were moments when I’ve uttered something only realizing later that it was actually gossip!  So I listened and listened, said bye, bye and had a remembrance.

I worked with a woman once whom I loved loved loved.  Turns out some people there thought she was a hag shrew.  “I don’t want to hear what you’re saying to me about her, bad office gossiper you! – After all, I like the hag shrew,” I told them.  More came to tell me about the sins of the hag shrew – “Okay, whatever.  I love her, fuck off!”  I said.  Another came and said, “I want you to displace her – I think she’s a know-it-all and a big fat hag shrew!”  “Oh that’s so awful and mean,” I replied.  Finally, another came and said to me, “She waits for you to be surrounded by people then makes her attack to make you look bad!”  “Shoo, shoo,” I said.  “Oh but just you wait and see, she’ll do it to you!” Said this shatterer of my illusions.

The shatterer of my illusions was right.  The hag shrew turned on me like a rabid squirrel.  She did every goddamned thing they said she’d do and more!  This was a church where I worked and this hag shrew used to be a fucking nun!  If you need anything more to shatter your vision of organized religion I give you permission to use this as an example.  The church was nothing more than a corporation and the senior minister was a CEO.

Ah well, the moral of the story is, well there are a few morals to this story.  Number A, never trust a rabid squirrel; number B, never ever befriend a hag shrew nun – and number C, never get your morals from a goddamned church!

I like it.

Coke or Pepsi?

Coke.

Charmin or Scott?

Scott.

Beatles or Stones?

Beatles.

But…

Mick Jagger is intriguing, especially that mystique and sexual ambiguity that he had in the sixties and seventies…  But I was never a big fan of the music that he made with the Rolling Stones.  I loved the pretty pictures of him with those big lips, however. Satisfaction fascinated me as a child, the opening with that wicked twang, and there was a dark wildness to it. And later I liked “Little T&A,” especially the tits and ass    part – I couldn’t get over that they played that on the radio.

Mick Jagger no matter what I or anyone else thinks has influenced legions.  And his influence showed when he performed with the Foo Fighters on SNL last Saturday. They performed It’s Only Rock ‘n Roll.  You could see that the Foo Fighters were entranced.  David Grohl was all sweaty and thrashing.  Mick Jagger danced on stage with rhythmic fluidity, but completely out of bounds.  His voice reached down and touched you in your gut and commanded you.  It’s a cliché, but he was a wolf.  My eyes were wide open, watching.  I screamed the lyrics with them because I had to.  (I imagine the show of jumping up and down and screaming I would have put on if I were there.)  Their performance had the power of a southern Baptist revival. Mick Jagger as old as he is had the sexual energy of an ancient oracle, the kind of energy that isn’t common and I could feel it through the television.

Have Some of My Ass Cake

 

The pictures my sister took of me look like ass.  I asked her to please not post them on fb.  Oh, oh, but I’m just waiting for this one that she has to cyber-process or whatever that technical thing you non-Luddites do to turn a picture taken from an IPhone or a Uphone whatever, and transroll it into an email to send to me.  It is a picture of my ass – no not naked.  I’m wearing pants.  ‘Memba, I said I wanted to take a picture of it to see how big it was after eating all that cake?  Aw man you didn’t read my post did you?  That’s okay.  But when she finishes processing, depending on how I feel about it, I’ll post it!  ‘kay?

[No transition whatsoever]

When I started blogging I thought all I had to do was write, lay back and collect followers.  Whew!  Blogging is a lot of damn work.  I had no motherfucking idea!  I also had no idea that it’s a community, a community of distinct personalities.  I didn’t know there’d be so many of you out there.  I went on the blog to tell people about my book, but it’s turned out to be fun!  I’ve met some groovy people whose blogs I really dig.  I don’t ever have to go out and socialize again – I can stay totally hermetically sealed in my apartment talking to you all in here forever…

Blasted Widgets!

I don’t know how to make my Pepto Bismol colored blog look better.  I don’t know how to use the widgets.  Yesterday I tried to get the Goodreads widget from their site so that readers can click on my book which is advertised on that site.  It was frustrating.  I left messages for them but they haven’t gotten back to me yet.  I am the Luddite so I get frustrated with these technical processes.

I don’t have a camera or even a decent phone to take a half-ass photo of myself – forget about videos!  The picture above is one that my brother-in-law took of me and one of my fake sons.  My sister emailed it to me today.  It was partially cut off.  I’m going to Massachusetts to see my sister, her husband and my fake sons.  My brother-in-law used to have the camera in my face all the time and I hated it.  The pictures he took are of me frowning or shooing him away.  Now that this old Luddite has been dragged to the 21^st century, and has joined the facebook, the twatter – I mean the twitter, and blogging, I need to have more photographs of me.  So I would like for my shutterbug brother-in-law to snap snap away so that I can put photos of me and my fake sons on my social media.  Yesterday I was so mad I wanted to throw glass, but I listened to this instead and felt relief: (More sick music for sick people, a phrase that I used for the title of my post the other day – I meant to mention that I didn’t coin that phrase.  I don’t like taking credit for shit I didn’t make up.):

 

What a dumb ass

 

He took a shower first — came out wearing a towel.  “Do you want something to wear to bed?”  I say.  “No, that’s fine,” he said in his Swedish accent.  He has something in his bag to put on, I think, and go in to take my shower. After, I put on ‘sleeping’ gear and came out into the room.  He was in bed with the blanket over him.  There was an electrical storm.  Very romantic. Loud thunder, lightening bolts, heavy rain.  I have a nice view, so I pulled the blinds up all the way so that we could see the storm.  He was my friend’s cousin from Sweden, biracial, six foot two or three, handsome, lean, tone. My friend lived on the floor below.

This guy and I had spent the day together, and he decided to stay with me overnight instead of at his cousin’s.  Just because.  He was seven years younger than I was.  He was enchanted by being in the U.S., by the prospect of getting to know an American woman by eating dinner with her and sleeping in her bed.  I thought, “Well, he’s European.  I think that they sleep platonically with people because they’re more sophisticated.”  So I climbed in the bed, inches away from him, and we marveled at the storm and talked.

Fifteen or so minutes later, he got up to go to the bathroom. The storm was raging and the lightening flashed throughout my apartment.  He came out of the bathroom and was illuminated.  He was naked.  And hung.  I didn’t know he was naked.  Fuck, me.  But did we, do anything?  Noooo.  What, was I trying to prove how pro-gressive I could be?

What if it was the “Swedish” way to wait for the maiden to make the first move and I didn’t do it!  What if his etiquette prescribed that the hostess should make the first move, and I didn’t do it!  Ohhh, the pain, when I think of this today…  All that thunder and lightening!  What could have been!

Yes, I am “dumb ass.”   Oh, I want this to happen now…I want it to happen now.  All these years later and this dawns on me today, April 5^th, 2012.  Eighteen years later.  But it’s too late.  I’m old now.  I’m old now.  This opportunity will never present itself again…

I’m Late for Shabbos

 

I tell my buddy at work before leaving on Friday evening that I’m exhausted because I don’t get much sleep.  I want to run, but don’t know if I’d survive it.  This young woman’s a big runner, so we often discuss running and the races she participates in.  She’s much younger than I am, so of course she says I should go on ahead and do it.  “It energizes me when I’m tired,” she says.  “Oh all right.  I’ll try,” I say.  “Yeah, just run real slow,” she tells me.

I don’t know that I can refer to my running as running anymore, it’s more like jogging these days.  As years pass, I get slower and slower.  I watch young bunnies pass me by and remember the old days when I sprinted along with the wind in my youth.   I think with pride – “I’d beat your ass right off if I was your age!”   I do what I can now, sweating like a pig, taking forever to jog the few miles I try to tackle every week, swallowing my pride about how I look.

Having left work, walking on the path to the bus, I feel like I’m trudging through molasses I’m so tired.  My senses are dull, the color green in the trees and grass doesn’t seem that green, and my hearing is muffled.  Walking irritates me.  I stop an impulse to start whining, and my pocket book feels like a bag of rocks.  I hope I don’t run into anyone I know on the bus.  I work in the lush area of Riverdale, where you don’t find the heavy traffic of people that you find in midtown.  There you can hide from people in the throng of suits.  The idea of small talk overwhelms me and makes my chest tense up – the energy it demands, the cheerful façade you have to put up.  I am sure that a grimace would seep through the conversation and that the other person would think:  “Sandee is finding this conversation painful.”   At the bus stop, I prop myself on the garbage can, which smells like a dead rat, but I don’t care —  either that or I’m stretching out on the grass behind me.  The BX7 pulls up, I get on and think, ‘How the hell’m I goin’ runnin’?…zzzzzzzzzzzz…’

At home I put on my running clothes right away before I change my mind.  Should I drink coffee first why hell yes!  This’ll do the trick to propel me down the street.  I’m doing it, jogging down Seaman, toward Bennett now.  I’m on that stupid incline turning from Broadway onto Bennett, shit!  — This is the part of the jog where I start sweating — I’m sapped.  I coach myself, ‘Fuck it I’ll walk-jog, I ain’t fittin’ to have a heart attack’.  I’m fine as long as I don’t think too hard and don’t worry about how I look – the ego’s a bitch like that.

Four blocks into Bennett I hear the clacking heels of shoes.  It’s just a few yards behind me.   It doesn’t sound like the heels of a woman’s shoes.  The sound is a solid stride that comes from a man’s shoes.  It gets louder.  No, I think.  It’s louder now.  NO, NO!  I say to myself.  This person is merely walking.  I turn around.  He’s an…interesting, well, he’s a young Jewish/black kid, wearing a yarmulke.  He’s got kinky blonde hair, full lips, and other partially African features – I think, I know this kid – could life be weirder.  When I worked in midtown years ago, there was a black woman who’d get on the train with her obviously biracial son who was about three or four at the time.  She was dressed in orthodox Jewish clothes and the kid was wearing a yarmulke – this was that same kid now grown up, a teenager.  How many orthodox black/Jewish kids with kinky blonde hair could there be?  He’s walking faster and faster I can hear — race walking.  I look him in the face now as he’s side by side with me!  Through my huffing and puffing in my version of running, I say pointing at him, “You’re trying to make me look bad!”  I start laughing then.  He smiles and says, “No, I’m just late for Shabbos,” and he continues to walk past me.  He leaves me in the dust by two whole blocks!   The rat bahstid!  I’d just been passed by somebody walking?!  This is the funniest shit that’s happened to me in quite a while – I’m so invigorated by the humor in this that I don’t even feel tired anymore!  Between laps, I’m laughing my ass off when no one’s looking.