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The Crosswalk to Hell
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5/01/2007
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Atlanta, in her unending efforts to make the city something it is not, has recently begun wasting a bunch of our money making the streets more pedestrian friendly. As a guy who walks a 6 mile round trip to work 2-3 times a week, I certainly appreciate the hazards of crossing busy streets. I also understand that this is not New York City and I am in the minority as a pedestrian. Furthermore, I realize that cars are much bigger than I am, and all of the warning signs and government attempts to save my life will not put my guts back in my abdomen if I step in front of a minivan.
Atlanta seems to think that making our inner city surface streets look like a goddamn video game will make drivers more aware of those who walk. WRONG. If you have driven in the Virginia Highlands/Little Five Points areas lately, you will see all manner of curbing, signs, and other construction designed to slow drivers down. As you approach a pedestrian crossing zone you will see the curbing swell out to narrow the lane, a blinky yellow light overhead, two huge green ped-xing signs on the sides of the road, and a new thing they call a "delineator", which is a sign that is actually sitting in the middle of the road getting bashed to hell on a daily basis. While walking to work I have been known to move these signs to the sidewalk to get them out of the way. I would move them to the nearest dumpster, but I think that's illegal.
You definitely don't want to be reincarnated as one of these.
At night, the plutonium coated warning signs reflect your headlights with the intensity of a thousand suns, making it difficult to see anything that might lie beyond them (like people). Now you have to consider the physics of putting your car up on two wheels so you can fit through the tiny space they left between the curb and the delineator, and not much of your brain is left to worry about whether someone is crossing the street. I have personally seen four instances this year where a driver was trying to thread the needle between a sign, some unnecessary curbing, and a cyclist (in the city's infinite wisdom, they almost completely left out bicycle lanes) and almost pegged a ped.
Here is the way I think it would work better - if there was nothing in my way except a human being, that makes a total of one thing I have to avoid, thus reducing my cockpit workload and increasing the chances that said person is going to live to see the other side of the street. Or how about this one - when the pedestrian gets to the edge of the curb, have a motion sensor activate a flashing light. That way we know that if the light is flashing, there is someone there.
If you want folks to slow down, try actually enforcing the speed limits you have posted everywhere. Use those stupid intersection cameras to give us chicken shit tickets while we are on our way to pay more taxes if that's really what it has come to. People who can't read speed limit signs deserve to pay fines, and paying those fines will definitely get their attention for longer than it takes to cross an intersection.
While we are at it, let's not forget to levy similar fines for those pedestrians who cross against the light or don't use crosswalks at all. If pedestrians only had the right of way within designated crosswalks, maybe everyone would pay more attention.
 Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 10:09 AM |
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Septoplasty? How Bad Can that Be?
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4/17/2007
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I Love me some Phil Collins. You do too. Admit it.
Septoplasty - sep-to-plas-ty, n. From the Latin, of course, Septo -"nose" and Plasty - "to rend asunder."
After years of suffering from 45-day bouts of sinus infections every spring and autumn, I decided to make an appointment with an Ear, Nose & Throat guy. I was tired of getting the crap beat out of me twice a year, and worried that repeat exposure to multiple antibiotics would reduce their effectiveness against the Coughing Up Bloody Froth pandemic due this winter. The doctor took a gander up my shnoz and declared that I was a perfect candidate for a septoplasty.
"Huh, really? What's that?" I asked, innocent lamb to the slaughter.
"It's a minimally invasive procedure to correct your deviated septum and reduce your turbinates. You'll breathe a lot easier. The septoplasty is an outpatient procedure performed with minimal discomfort."
Do you ever wonder where Turkish prison guards go when they retire? They come to the United States and become ENT doctors. I agreed to undergo the surgery on a Monday. The following is my official Septoplasty Timeline.
Sunday 11:59pm - The pre-op orders dictated that have nothing to eat or drink after midnight before the day of surgery. Given that I curl into a quivering fetal position if I miss a meal, I fortify my body's food stores with two 32-ounce glasses of water, a fried egg sandwich, kim chee, leftover pizza, and an apple.
Monday 8:04am - Waiting in my temporary hospital room, wearing the ubiquitous striped hospital gown, I debate whether to "Go Commando" as ordered by the Pre-Op nurse. I opt for donning my boxers, as this makes me feel a little less "vulnerable." I should note that the last time I had surgery I was 5 years old and hospitals freak me the fuck out.
8:10am - A pre-op nurse gives me a pill to reduce stomach acid and a pill to reduce nausea. I worry that they know about the fried egg sandwich and kim chee.
8:14am - The pre-op nurse returns to give me some kind of nasal spray that smells like YMCA pool water.
8:23am - A different pre-op nurse, very pretty, installs an IV in my hand. I've had tattoos that hurt way worse than this. I'm feeling pretty cocky now. Hell, how bad can this be? I lay back to watch Discovery channel on TV. It's a show about bugs and how they kill each other.
8:52am - Two nurses arrive pushing a rolling bed: my ride to the Operating Room. I tell them I can walk, but they insist that I climb aboard. Sensation of rolling through the hospital, propelled by two nurses, is somewhat relaxing. I may have to do this again sometime soon.
8:54am - We enter the Operating Room. It is as white as white can be. If you took an albino Easter bunny, cut its throat and bled it dry, then threw it in a tub of Clorox bleach, you could not make it as white as that Operating Room. Everyone is wearing masks and clinking sharp shiny objects. The sound is somewhat unnerving, like finding yourself in a real-life version of the movie, Saw. I spy my ENT doctor and he asks me how I am doing. He says, "So Mr. Collins, are you ready for your sex change operation?" I'm pretty sure he is kidding, but the mask covers his smile. My anesthesiologist asks me how high I think I can count after he injects "the liquid six-pack" into my IV. I'm sure I tried to answer him.
While we pause for station identification I'd like to re-define some commonly used terms regarding a septoplasty. Terms my retired Turkish prison guard/doctor used during our pleasant little chat in his office weeks earlier:
Minimally Invasive - if you feel that chucking a half-inch Forstner bit into an 18-volt cordless DeWalt drill and enlarging the urine hole of your penis is "minimally invasive," then a septoplasty should be fluffy vanilla cupcakes to you.
Correct Your Deviated Septum - it sounds so benign doesn't it? Correcting-something. Like a wee child who has made a mistake on her algebra homework and needs guidance. Correcting Your Deviated Septum involves purposely re-breaking your nose in three pieces, without the numbing benefit of 8 pints of Guinness, 2 shots of whiskey, and a glorious bar fight to recount with your friends years from now, all of which contributed to your deviated septum in the first place.
Reduce Turbinates - my ENT doctor told me he was going to use radio frequency current to "coagulate the material under the mucosa." I think the mini-microwave was broken that morning so he used a 4" Bosch grinder with 80-grit sandpaper instead.
I wake up from a dream about my job. Opening my crusty eyes I see that I am in a large Civil War-era surgical tent, surrounded by fellow warriors, all groaning with pain. There is a pile of severed limbs in the corner and the sound of battle is close. I try to say, "Wow, that was fast" but can't, as my nose is packed with a queen-sized bed and there are 16-ounces of coagulating blood blocking my throat. After I violently regurgitate the glob of hemoglobin forcefully across the room, the pre-occupied Recovery Room Nurse pays attention to my plight, "Hey! We got a Choker here!"
The next 3 hours are spent in a haze of pain, discomfort, and oozing blood. Then an angel on wings of silver gossamer enters my hospital room, contrails of soft light trickling from her aura. There is nothing like feeling the cool fingertips of your beautiful wife stroking your forehead to relieve the trauma of surgery.
"Grrrrhgll shremmfull humpto"
"What?"
"Grrhglll..." [hack hack. spit] "I love you"
"Shut up and lay back you fool, you're oozing blood out your nose"
My wife, suspecting this may be the only instance in this lifetime I refuse sex, asks me if I want to get my freak on right then and there.
"God you're sexy!"
[My right eyebrow, the only part of me that doesn't hurt, rises questioningly]
"I mean it...I'm getting hot looking at you! Do you want me to get naked and crawl in next to you?"
"Yeeeessssss"
"Lay back you idiot, I'm only kidding"
I am given Hydrocodone for the pain. Printed on the side of the bottle, in bold 12-point Ariel font letters, are the words "May Cause Dizziness." It should have said, "May Cause You to Dry Heave Continuously for the Next 36-Hours Until You Forcefully Eject Your Testicles From Your Raw Throat."
[Lying on my couch, "blood catcher" roll of gauze taped to my nose, clutching a cold green metal wastebasket]
1:30pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:31pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:32pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:33pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:34pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:35pm - thinking about not throwing up.
1:36pm - thinking about Salma Hayek writhing naked above me, her tawny loins damp with desire. We are in a meadow with the sound of a gently burbling brook in the background. Salma Hayek is throwing up.
1:37pm - thinking about not throwing up.
Tuesday 3:00pm - You know when you are surfing and you accidentally inhale a baby puffer fish? It grows larger over the years, feeding on your sinus emittings, until finally one day something startles it and it blows itself up to twice its size, needle sharp spines digging into your flesh. That is post-operative nasal packing. Thirty-six hours after installing eighteen cubic yards of fabric up my air holes, it is finally time to remove the blockage.
When preparing their dead for embalming, ancient Egyptians used long hooks to remove the brain from the corpse. I notice the similarity in the tool that my ENT doctor is fiddling with as he wraps a towel around my chest and dons a full-face splashguard, the kind you see on hazardous chemical workers after a toxic spill.
"So Mr. Collins, how are we feeling today?"
"Packing sucks"
"Well, we're going to pull that right out of there in no time. I just need you to think of something pleasant for the next 5-seconds or so, as this may be a bit uncomfortable."
Remembering my doctor's tendencies for gross understatement, I grab the sides of the medical chair. He pulls and pulls and pulls and finally deposits a mass of sodden bed sheets and a cow fetus on the little medical tray the nurse is holding.
Gasping for air, "Oh my God! Doc, is that my brain?"
"Ha Ha Ha! ...no Mr. Collins, I assure you your brain is still intact."
It is now ten days since the surgery. Prior to my adventure I had informed my employees that I would be back into work, "by Wednesday, no problem." In reality I spent the entire week on the couch consuming massive doses of Tylenol, way exceeding the limits of responsible pain management, and watching violent movies. I watched the entire trilogy of Lord of the Rings in one day and have found some very valid methods to attracting women within the genius that is Tolkein (but that is another post). The trauma of destroying my shnoz, "so that we can build it back up again", has faded to a fond memory, and I may consider surgically enlarging the passageways of my other orifices. Someday...
Phil "I don't play the fucking drums" Collins
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posted by Dusty at 2:29 PM |
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Inanimate Objects that Need to Die
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4/10/2007
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Much Thanks to Phil Collins for supplying me with another entry:
My Fucking Frigidaire Stove
Dear Stove - I apologize for kicking you in the lower pan drawer last night, but the sound of boot meeting cheap sheet metal was soothing to my mounting frustration. I am the official Cooker of Edible Objects in this house. I try to work with you on a nightly basis. My two main complaints are thus:
- Would it be at all possible to adhere to your knob markings and have a temperature between that of human skin and the center of a volcano? When I engage your dial to MEDIUM for the purpose of, according to my recipe, "sweat[ing] the onions so that they reduce in mass, yet do not brown," I expect to return to the kitchen after 10 minutes and actually see some sort of kinetic energy expended to increase your hotness. Instead you squat there, faux-retro graphics and bird shit colored, attempting to decipher your purpose in life. Twisting your knob to HIGH, and seeing no immediate danger, only lulls me into a false sense of security until I hear the agonizing screams of delicately sliced onion turning a most definitely incorrect brown.
- I live in a house that was built in 1914. Apparently, carpenters did not have levels back in those days and my house slopes eastward, toward the rising sun. I often cook with fluid-like substances called "oils" that tend to pool toward the lowest areas of the pan. It would have been quite a convenience had you included adjustable legs in the rear portion of your body. Shimming your ass-end with one half of my son's plastic Easter egg, evidentially his "favorite toy of all!!", worked for 15 minutes as the preponderous weight of your uselessness drove it mercilessly into the tile floor.
If you could try to improve on these two very simple, yet sanity saving features, I will try to ignore that I am only able to fit pans made for Munchkins on your cooking area. Thanks a bunch.
My Slow Ass Computer at Work or "Dude, I'm getting a rank ass piece of shit Dell!"
It is 2006. My job has devolved into a never-ending battle to reduce the world's population of trees. I expect the conglomeration of circuits that sits beneath my cluttered desk to anticipate my next move. When I click on the button labeled "Open," I don't mean that rhetorically. I realize that the network connecting my office to The Mommy Computer is run by anemic gerbils ambling through a deteriorating Habitrail™; however, I am tired of leaving to get a drink of water as you muddle through your 1's and 0's. Please do try to keep up. I am well versed in the techniques for destroying a hard drive (a minimum of effort and a 5 1/2" drop onto a tile floor).
Microsoft Word Spellcheck
While I agree that the weight of responsibility for editing my written drivel lies upon my narrow shoulders, I believe your sole purpose is to assist in this endeavor.
Case in point: "I realize that the network connecting my office and an The Mommy Computer is run my anemic gerbils ambling through..."
Does that make sense to you? Because it fucking does not make sense to me, nor to the rest of the rest of the world who passed the 1st grade in public school. If I am typing faster than I think, and repeat words or place them out of order, please don't patronize me. Color the offending sections bold red and declare, "Hey asswipe! Did you really mean to write like a Lithium Study control subject who was placed in the sugar pill placebo group?!?"
Microsoft Word
For the last time, if I wanted to change my font from 10-point Ariel to 14-point Times Roman, I would have taken the time to do it myself. When I stated that I wanted my Slow Ass Computer at Work to anticipate my next move, I meant that I wanted the tasks performed correctly. And no, I don't want the "Header" portion of my Roman numeral outline to be 12 sizes smaller than the fourth sub-section. Fuck, stop improvising already!
My RCA Lyra MP3 Player (May It Rot In Hell)
I go to the gym, not to mold my 168-pound body into a hard body Adonis, but rather to slow the inexorable descent into middle age paunch and Increased Risk of Heart Disease. It is hard enough to maintain a level of exercise exuberance without my RCA Lyra MP3 player inexplicably and consistently shutting off during The Distiller's "City of Angels." And yes, it had a new battery. I tried the old trick of shifting the battery, sweat burning my eyes and on the verge of falling off the elliptical trainer. Same result. I lost my eternal sweet soul waiting on hold for an RCA representative to pick up the phone. My e-mail to RCA went unanswered. Epinions.com finally provided the hint that sometimes, when the battery is too new (?!?), the RCA Lyra will shut off. The suggestion offered by one of the forum's complaintees was to install a slightly used battery. Where the fuck am I suppose to use one AAA battery? My world is AA and larger. I finally explored the inner workings of the RCA Lyra with my Vaughan 28-ounce framing hammer. The next day I received an e-mail from RCA - "We suggest you contact our help desk at 1-800-Really Crappy Accessories."
My Parents' Lo-Flo Toilets
The Eljer Ultra 1-G™ was invented in 1984 by a bunny humping forest elf who existed solely on photosynthesis and distilled water, thus expelling waste the size of an atom. Eljer proudly proclaims that the Eljer Ultra 1-G™ toilet was introduced "10 years before government regulations." Unfortunately for Eljer, in 1993 the Government opted for Decrease Water Consumption over the Republican sponsored Increase The Number Of Flushes It Takes To Make A Single Ply Tissue Disappear From View. These toilets were not meant for toddlers with the digestive speed of a glacier. I long for the industrial-grade small cat sucking power of my old high school toilet.
Phil "I don't play the fucking drums" Collins
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posted by Dusty at 4:53 PM |
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What the Hell is Wrong with People?
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4/04/2007
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This happened two years ago, and I recently had a series of similar experiences that started me writing. Halfway through, I realied that I was essentially re-writing the same story-
I'm leaving my office on Saturday, sitting at a busy intersection on piedmont road. 4 lanes 40 mph busy. Across from me is the entrance to a big strip mall, and it is a divided entrance. Standing on the middle island with a cane is a blind and quite disoriented man in his late twenties. The opposite light turns green, and as the cars start to go by, he begins walking out in the intersection, thinking he is on a crosswalk. People slow down and go annoyedly around him, and by now I'm out of my car thinking "Why the fuck is no one DOING anything? If Jesus sees this, he's going to be pissed." I figured I had a better chance in traffic than he did (having fully operational peepers and all), so I went out in the middle of the intersection and irritated a bunch of people by making them stop. The poor guy was scared having just realized that he was in an active intersection. I could feel the tension leave him when I touched his shoulder and asked him where he needed to go. Bus stop across the street? No problem, my man.
Here's the part that makes me want to cry for some of these selfish jackwipes who breathe my air but can't be legally killed in order to make life easier for the smart people- We're walking across this intersection and someone actually honked their horn at us for impeding their precious progress. He jumped, thinking we were milliseconds from being turned into pizza toppings, and I reassured him while being glad he could not see me, because I was using my free hand to make a pointed gesture directly into a windshield not six feet from me. Seriously probably the best middle finger I have ever delivered- straight arm, elbow locked, blazing glare filled with the kind of energy you can smell, no question about it middle finger that will make you call your dad and ask him what to do. That's some hard core multi-tasking. If that guy had the nuts to get out of his car, the rest of his day would have been dedicated to figuring out how to walk with a collapsible walking cane up his ass, and I would have been shopping for a new tappy stick for my friend because he wouldn't want that one back.
I thought this was Atlanta, not New freekin' York.
But wait, there's more.
I got him to the bus stop and now had to return to my car, which was across a lane of moving traffic with the door still open. Of all the people who saw what happened, do you think anyone stopped to let me get back to my car? Not unless "stop" now means "continue along your retarded path so you can get your quarter pounder and milkshake before your appearance as grand marshal of the moron parade". My light is green now and my car is sitting at the front of the line. When I got back to it, the girl behind me honked her horn too. This time I didn't flip anyone off. I stopped and stared at her for a long five seconds as the light poetically went from green to yellow to red behind me (gave me time to count to ten before I did anything violent. My only witness would have been a blind guy, so I thought better of it) and wondered what life must be like for people who are too damned stupid to appreciate what's happening around them. It was a stare that I hope communicated my frustration and a certain degree of pity.
Slow the hell down and understand that there are times when it doesn't matter where you are going or how soon you need to be there.
Gosh.
Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 9:38 AM |
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Guest Blogger: Phil Collins
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3/27/2007
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This has been my favorite blog entry for a while now. My friend Phil "no, I don't play the fucking drums" Collins will now share his trials of love and hopefully shed light on why men grow up to behave the way they do.
Smooth Operator: Learning Through Failure
1973 - Age 8, Vermont: Written on the back of a torn piece of grammar school paper: - I like you. do you like me and can I wait with you at the bus stop. Circle 1 YES or NO -
The note is tossed back to me after being folded into the size of a lentil bean - the word "NO" circled with what looks like the kind of black permanent marker lumber companies use on their large pallets of 2x4s. The word "YES" has been obliterated until it is reduced to shredded wood pulp. I can feel the disgust emanating from the page. Numerous exclamation points have been added to the word "NO".
1977 - Age 12, Vermont: On my first date. My Dad is driving us to and from the movies in the silver Buick LeSabre station wagon. I spend the first 3-hours agonizing over the best strategy to "getting some shoulder." I finally make my move as the ending movie credits roll and accidentally smack her ear with my sweaty hand. She winces, then smiles and snuggles closer. I am filled with spiritual tranquility as I gently stroke her warm cheek.
At the end of the night my Dad is very cool and parks the car so that the 4000-watt headlights do not expose the Greek tragedy unfolding upon the front stoop of her house. We exchange witty repartee:
"Good movie, huh?"
"Yes"
"Uuhhmmm"
"Yes?"
"It's cold out isn't it?"
"Yes"
I go for it. My entire world shrinks to the size of her Ivory-girl face as she leans toward me, pursing her lips just like on TV. I smell the Prell shampoo in her golden hair and her lips taste like bubble gum lip-gloss. As we part, the relief that I've finally kissed a girl washes over me and I sigh, expelling just enough air through my nose to inflate a small bubble of snot, bobbling inches from her brown eyes like a friendly green play-toy. The look of revulsion on her face is palatable, "Eeeewww! That's gross!"
There is no second date.
1980 - Age 15, Vermont: I am at the High School dance. I am standing before an oval lime green cafeteria table occupied by eight intimidating giggling girls with Camaro hair and glittery eye shadow. Bob Seger is groovin' the beat with the last few verses of "Night Moves." I am wearing white jeans. I am wearing cowboy boots.
"Hi. Would you like to dance?"
[hysterical laughing from her friends] "Are you kidding me? I don't dance with sophomores."
[in the cathedral silence between Bob Seger and Air Supply] "That's ok. I had to go take a shit anyway"
Eight lovely jaws drop.
1983 - Age 18, Vermont: Somehow I misplace my virginity. According to my friends I am 5 years late. According to my girlfriend I am 45 minutes early. I move to get up out of bed but she stops me:
"Mmmmm. Let's lay here a little and hold each other."
[confusion] "Why?"
December 1986 - Age 21, Chincoteague Island, VA: I am dating an island girl:
"You're just going to leave me when the tourist girls show up this summer."
"What?!? No way babe! Renee, I totally love you!"
6-months later. I am on the phone with Renee:
"I think we should see other people."
"I knew it! Who is it! Is it that slut Sue? I'll bet it's Sue. Oh God! [starts tearing up] I just knew you would leave me for a tourist girl!"
"Hell no! Sue?!? Who's Sue? No way man! I haven't even met anyone, really. Ok, well...umm. I'll call you later, alright? Look we're cool. I just need a little breathing room here, ok?"
[sniff. small voice] "Ok. I love you."
"Oooookay. Bye"
10-seconds later, I dial the phone:
"Hey, Sue?"
[shocked hurt sound of a puppy being crushed in a trash compactor] "Oh my God! It IS Sue!" [sound of weeping]
"RENEE?!? OH SHIT! RENEE, I am SO SORRY! SHIT! Oh, Man! I thought I dialed another number!"
1987 – Age 22, Chincoteague Island: I am dating a girl named Misti Beach:
"With an 'i,' not a 'y,' silly!!" [giggle 'n flip of hair]
The laughter and abuse I suffer from my two younger sisters is intense. It is a turning point in my life as I discover the importance of intelligent conversation during the remaining 80% of a daily relationship.
1989 - Age 24, Vermont: Every guy has one Obsession Relationship in their life. Mine was Lisa. We begin with a white-hot passion that generates smoldering letters and rapturous nights of staring into each other's eyes. With tender hands we lovingly embrace words like "ache" and "forever" and "love." It is more than just sex to me. We do not have sex. Lisa is the type of girl who lives for the hunt. I am still wearing my heart on my sleeve. After four months I notice a slight cooling of the atmosphere, a certain distance in her voice, and an increase in games:
"You didn't notice the motorcycle helmet in my car?"
"No. Oh, there it is. Ok"
"Don't you want to know whose it is?"
"Uh, ok. Whose is it?"
"This guy who gave me a ride to the mountains yesterday"
"Cool, what kind of bike does he have?"
"A Yamaha. Aren't you jealous?"
[dog-hears-something-high-pitched-look] "Huh?"
The last day of Obsession Phase One we are walking my dog by the side of the lake. He is bounding idiotically by the water's edge, self-absorbed and immersed in the fascinating smell of dead trout, oblivious to my turmoil. I am desperate to salvage my crumbling universe:
"Lisa, I think we need to talk about our relationship"
"Really? I don't think we need to."
[simpering faggoty whine] "I just...I don't know...I just want to feel needed."
MY SUBCONSCIOUS- what the FUCK! Did I really just say that?!? I WANT TO FEEL NEEDED?!?!? OH MY GOD, please remove my testicles from my crotch right now, I am obviously not worthy of them! Please, for the love of all that is righteous, let me take back those words and beat them into submission with a rusty shovel.
"Um, heh heh, just kidding. You're right, we don't need to talk about this"
"I think we just need to be friends."
1990 - Age 25, Vermont: I turn to poems. No, not the ones expressed by 18th century limp-wristed fops who carry their hankies in the ruffled sleeves of their ivory shirts. The cool Latin poems that make Anglo girls get all weak kneed and heart flutteringly open to sex suggestions. I put some words together. Words like cielo (sky), azul (blue), estrellas (stars), and ojos (eyes). I create a number of these and present them to my girlfriend. After reading them I become a Love God in the eyes of her friends, and she says she wants to marry me. It occurs to me I may have gone too far. My roommate's girlfriend, born in Brazil, asks to read my poems:
[shaking her head and laughing] "Oh my gosh, your Spanish is awful! And do you realize that in this one you call her a cheese boot?"
"Whatever, Gina. They work. Some people like cheese and boots."
1992 - Age 27, Vermont: I am sitting in Nectar's Bar with my best friend. He is very drunk. We are sitting in a booth on the brightly lit food side of the establishment. The fluorescent lights are sucking the vitality from the last call patrons - at 1:34am we all look like meth addicts. The puddle of beer on the gouged wooden table feels sticky warm on my elbows. The lonesome wail of years of hard-livin'-pain pours from my blues harmonica like life blood from a torn soul. I fucking rock. I too have partaken of much beer. The very cute waitress I've wanted to ask out, black tresses and Irish green eyes, saunters to our table and asks my best friend to stop throwing Nectar's fries at the preppy frat boy in the next booth. She turns to me and says, "You know, you sound pretty good." I turn to her, bleary blood shot eyes, pasty faced, and drool coming from the corner of my mouth. I focus on her breasts at eye level and shout, spittle flecking her blue Samantha name tag, "I CAN WELD TOO!!!"
I fall out of the booth.
1992 - Age 27, Vermont: Obsession Phase Two. Lisa and I are back together. We finally have sex. It is the most amazing sex I have ever ever had in my entire life.
Years from now I hearken back upon this feeling and wonder: If I was ever lost in the desert for 92 days with no beer, and then offered a Coors Light, would I think it was the best damn beer I had ever tasted?
We enter the familiar secondary phase of our dysfunction; however, I am starting to learn:
"I just don't think we are compatible. I think we should just be friends."
"Whatever. I'm sleeping with your best friend Stacy."
"WHAT?!?"
"Are we still friends?"
1993 - Age 28, Vermont: I am paying for college by working as crew on a ferryboat. There is a Latin goddess who takes the hour long crossing every day at 3:00. Flowing dark shoulder length ringlets of hair, angelic brown eyes, musical laugh, B.S. in English, and 3rd grade school teacher. I am drowning with desire, my eternal heart and soul pledged in the pursuit to stand close to her and absorb her mesmerizing aura. My co-workers know of my tormented plight and incessantly dog my ass, encouraging me to ask her out. One warm spring day she arrives at the King Street dock wearing a white peasant shirt, delicate lacy fringe caressing her pulse at the soft underside of her wrists. She leans against the railing on the second deck of the ferryboat, my co-workers observing from the pilothouse above as I approach her. We talk our usual talk. Inane pleasantries that barely hide my weakened state:
"So, this sounds like a really good book. Thanks so much for letting me borrow it."
"Oh, no problem. I really think you'll like it." [pregnant pause] "That's really nice perfume you're wearing, what is it?"
"It's called Kryptonite...here smell."
She gracefully raises her exquisite arm aloft, offering me the exposed flesh of her inner wrist. I can see the pulse of her heart, beating strong beneath her glowing skin. I lower my head to partake of her heavenly scent and sniff. I sniff too hard. One of her lacy fringe things, all 4 inches of it, flies deep into my nose. I pull it out like the towing hawser on a tugboat. The muffled roar of laughter coming from behind tells me my co-workers witnessed the whole thing:
"Oh my gosh! I'm really sorry!"
"Uhhm. That's ok." [she looks a little uncomfortable, and why not? I only flossed my sinuses with her sleeve]
[A sudden burst of inspiration] "Tu ojos son como las estrellas en el cielo zapatos."
She quickly turns her head and her narrowed dark eyes search my earnest face. The clouds pass and golden rays of a small smile crosses her lips. She says, "You're cute. We should go out sometime."
Finally.
As we slowly walk down the stairs to the car deck, she takes my arm and I can feel the warmth of her through my shirt. She leans close, and adds, "We really need to work on your Spanish."
Dunderfunk (not my picture, either)
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posted by Dusty at 10:42 AM |
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More Classic Salami
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3/20/2007
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A story of penile trauma from 2004. Enjoy.
On Sunday I was sitting in my underwear working on a model airplane I am building for a friend, and using something called CA glue to hold it together. It’s pretty much like superglue as far as the properties and dry time, except it is really thin, like water, and it tends to go everywhere if you aren’t careful. I usually have a couple of drops of the stuff on my glass work surface at any given time as a result. One of the properties of this glue is that it takes a while to dry if it isn’t spread very thin, so drops of it tend to stay wet for a while until I glue my hand to the bench. I also use very sharp razors to make cuts in balsa and plastic during the process, so I keep a small stash of band aids on a shelf above my work table. As usual, I managed to slice my finger, and since I didn’t want to get my blood all over this beautiful balsa frame, I stood up and reached for a band aid.
About this time, my penis flopped over the edge of the table into a small drop of glue, which instantly soaked through my boxers and glued the end of my weewee to the table. Actually to the ten pound piece of glass that is on top of my table.
For those of you who have your own penis, you know how sensitive it is. For those who don’t, give yourself a paper cut on your nipple, and wear a wool shirt for a day. That’ll give you a rough idea.
Another thing that CA glue does when it sets up is get pretty hot. In my shock, I dropped my last band aid behind my desk, forcing me to deal with both problems at once. I had to hold the cut closed with my good hand to keep from getting blood on anything, and keep from pulling away from where my ding dong was anchored. I couldn’t reach the phone, but it didn’t matter, because I wasn’t going to call anyone.
“Hi, this is Dusty. I seem to have glued my dick to a table. Could you bring me a band aid?”
Right.
I hate having to think during times like this. I could pick up the glass and go find a band aid, but that would mean getting blood on stuff and the risk of falling/dropping the glass and causing infinitely more problems. Then I remembered that I had bought a bottle of special de-bonder that dissolves this kind of glue! Saved!
Now where is tha-…Dammit. I’m not walking out to my car with a 2 foot square piece of glass glued to my dick. Plus, as usual, I had no idea where my keys were and I wasn’t wearing shoes. Or pants.
After looking carefully around to see what I could get to without moving, I found a razor blade and just cut my penis off at the base. The damn thing only causes problems anyway. Then I made a tourniquet out of a rubber band…
Actually, I managed to scrape the involved tissue and cloth away form the glass without hurting myself. Now I could walk around, but my thing was still attached to my undies, and moving actually hurt more than being glued to the table. I found a band aid, and fixed the cut on my finger that was actually worse than I thought it was, and went about deciding how to get out of my predicament, or more to the point, out of my underwear. I even toyed with the thought of just cutting away the bit of cloth that was glued on and wearing the cotton patch until it fell off.
I’ll spare you the details of the fifteen minutes it took me to get it unstuck, but I was more careful than I think I have ever been. I decided against the de-bonder, as it contains six different solvents, and would probably do more harm than good.
You’ll be delighted to know that everything seems to be in working order.
Dusty
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posted by Dusty at 8:15 AM |
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All Up In Dem' Guts...Tenderly
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2/13/2007
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Yet another gem from blossoming blogger Derek Lawler.
Give it up.
True love is in the air. But it can be a very confusing emotion. Luckily, when it comes to matters of the heart, one can always turn to poetry and find reflections of their innermost thoughts and feelings.
And who better to shed a little swanky, red-light on the subject than a trio of romantics. Am I speaking of Blake, Shelley and Keats? No, fool! I'm talkin' 'bout three boys who really know what true romance is all about...gittin' yo freak on.
I'm talking about Ricky Bell, Michael Bivins and Ronnie DeVoe - better known as Bell Biv DeVoe. And now ya' know.
Slick, Biv and R.D. begin their lesson of lust in a poem known simply as "Poison." As we all know, before one can freak, one must mack, which is the equivalent of a peacock showing his plumage to a potential mate. Mack correctly, and a freak will surely follow. But you can't just freak on anyone. There has be a connection that's deeper than simply "getting up in dem guts." Let's read from Ricky Bell's first verse.
"It's oh, so (beautifuuuuuuuuul)
Relationships they seem from the start
It's all so (deadllllllllly)
When love is not together from the heart"
How true, young Ricky. How very true. Pick the wrong ho and you could be entering into what psychologists refer to as a "toxic relationship." The girl is your poison. P-P-poison. Next, the former New Edition lads pontificate on what happens when this poison enters your bloodstream. It goes straight to your heart.
"It's drivin' me out of my mind!
That's why it's hard for me to find
Can't get it out of my head!
Miss her, kiss her, love her
Wrong move you're dead.
That girl is POISOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!"
And in their most revelatory line, the boys let us in on a little secret that it took me years to learn.
"Never trust a big butt and a smile."
If only I had followed this mantra in my younger years, I might have not fallen into the deadly trap of a "low pro ho" who was "cut like an aaa-fro."
Only now can I see that she was simply "schemin on house, money and the whole show."
The un-whack wordsmiths also preach of the importance of brotherhood. If the subject of our poem had only heeded the words of his friends, he would have been able to avoid the entire ordeal. Observe.
"But I know she's a loser (How do you know?) Me and the crew used to do her!"
Oh, DeVoe! Why didn't I take your advice to heart? If the entire crew fornicated with this young fly girl, what could possibly make me think I could change her? For she is clearly poison...and there is no antidote.
Then, one sweet day, you'll fight your way through the throngs of fly, yet fatal honeys, and you might be able to find that one dope girl that stands out from the rest. And when you do, you can read her a passage from Bell Biv Devoe's second most famous work. Sit her down, look her in the eyes and say the three little words that every girl longs to hear..."Do me, baby."
But it's not always as simple as that. You have to know the girl is up to the task. Let's read together from the first few stanzas of this literary masterpiece.
"Take a look at me
Tell me do you like what you see
Do you think you can
Do you think you can do me?
Kiss me pretty baby
Touch me all over
Girl, what makes you think you can do me Do you think you can do me, girl?"
These questions are important. If she can't keep up, you might give her a heart attack, or worse, you could risk having a less than stellar freaking experience. So, they offer some advice on what to do to maximize your freakiness.
"Girl, let your hair down
Take off your clothes and leave on your shoes Would you mind if I looked at you for a moment Before I make sweet love?"
Notice the tenderness. Ask your lady if you can gaze at her beauty, for which there is no comparison. Then freak the shit out of her.
Also, feel free to whisper other sweet nothings into her various orifices, such as:
"I like to do the wild thing"
And...
"Oh, come on and sweat me."
Also, let her know it's not all about you. You're flexible enough that you can freak her at different hours of the day. Women love to know that a man is taking their needs into account before they flick the freak switch to the "on" position.
"Do me, baby (I like it in the morning time, yeah) Do me, baby (Sometimes I love it in the evening, baby, yeah) Do me, baby (Can you do me all over, girl, yeah, yeah)"
Once things get going, you’re going to need to know exactly what actions to take. Luckily, B.B.D. offers these detailed tips on how to please a woman.
"Smack it up.
Flip it.
Rub it down.
Oh, noooooo."
Sounds simple enough, right? Just be sure to follow their instructions in that order. I can't tell you how many times my lovemaking has been hindered by the fact that I rubbed it down first, then proceeded to flip it. By the time I was going to smack it up, she had fallen asleep.
But, if all goes well, the "Oh noooo." you hear is the precursor to a successfully timed climax and not the disappointing shout of premature new-jack-swingulation on your part.
But most importantly...
"Kinda wet, don't forget
The J, the I, the M, the M, the Y, y'all I need a body bag."
That's right. Ricky, Michael and Ronnie want us to remember to always practice safe sex. Or possibly necrophilia on a guy named Jimmy. The lyrics are a little vague. But I like to think the body bag they're referring to is that of the Magnum variety.
Well, I hope we've all learned a little something today. Stay away from toxic hoes and make sweet love whenever you can, for the booty is as fleeting as time itself.
And if anyone would like to join my popular fan club, The Bell Biv DeVotees, we meet every Tuesday night in El Bar, behind El Azteca.
I'd like to conclude with a practice that no early 90's R&B jam would be complete without...the shout out.
"Yo' fellas, that was my end of bloggin.
You know what I'm sayin'?
Yeah, D-Law in full effect
And I can't forget about my boy, Bobby Brown and the whole New Edition crew.
Another Bad Creation for-eva! Uh. Uh. What.
Peace.
And I'm gone."
Yours truly, Derek Lawler (still not my picture)
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posted by Dusty at 3:10 PM |
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