THE PURPLE FLOWERED THONG

Exactly what is the etiquette when you see a woman openly sporting a purple flowered thong? Do you stare at it? Do you offer her a compliment and a quick wink? (Given the upscale nature of the establishment in which the young woman and her openly sported thong were currently residing, the “nudge, nudge” was totally out of the question.) Or so you cast furtive glances around the bar to catch a passing glimpse now and again? It’s a conundrum.

I once again find myself drinking beer in the center of midtown Manhattan, the self-appointed center of the universe, in a certain upscale establishment, that will remain unnamed, waiting for my brother Richie (or Richard as he is known in business circles) and also waiting for the inevitable beer buzz to kick in.

My most recent slew of furtive glances no longer revealed a purple flowered tong, but the bottom of a gray sweater modestly pulled down over the woman’s lower back depriving all those within the bar of a provocative view of her colorful choice of undergarment. I’m tempted to ask her if I can see her socks. You know what they say about a well-turned ankle. Anyway . . .

I’m ready to order my second beer that will, without fail, tip me past sobriety and into foolishness. My brother has not yet arrived and if he continues to tarry, he will no doubt find me in a wonderful state of inebriation. I am sitting at the rail facing the window and as I got up to get my Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #2, I once again spotted the purple flowered thong. As the beer slowly pushes my brain back to grammar school, I make a vow to walk over and snap her thong if my brother does not show up by the time I am ready for my third beer.

Things may also get complicated if my son by my first marriage shows up. We communicate via text messaging and I am not even sure it is my son with whom I am trading electrical impulses. It could be a terrorist cell I infiltrated by accident or a rogue Conservative Republican hell bent (is there any other way to bend a Conservative Republican) on besmirching the good name and historical record of President-for-Life Obama.

The thong is gone once again. This is troubling as I am halfway through Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #2 and will soon be returning to the bar for Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #3. What of my vow? If the thong is no longer openly sported and thereby easily snapped, what action can be reasonably taken? Do I ignore the lightly-made, drunken promise to myself to perform a juvenile prank that, at my age, will cause me to become a convicted sex offender, or do I “man-up” to my convictions, lift the bottom of her sweater and take those fateful steps to becoming a convicted sex offender? Life does present us with some difficult choices.

I kind of forgot where I was so I will just confine my comments to the patrons of the establishment where I am slowly becoming inebriated. To my right are three German tourists jabbering away in their horrible, hard to listen to, guttural language. Beyond Heidi, Hans, and Feet are Thong Woman and her friend, Hint-of-Cleavage. Continuing around the packed bar are Curly Red and Blond Betty, both females and both clad in black. They are having an intense conversation with Middle Aged Woman who is also clad in black. I missed the memo on black. I am wearing tan pants and a red shirt and feel like a complete wardrobe geek.

(Note: Heidi and Company left and have been replaced by Blondie #2 and Mr. Red-Hair obnoxiously yapping on the phone. They are both alone.)

Past Middle Aged Woman are the Boring Businessmen Buddies and an indescribable group of people thoroughly enjoying themselves at my expense, no doubt. (Most people don’t realize that paranoia can be comforting.) The good news for Charlie, the owner of this saloon, is that the bar is packed with people buying expensive drinks and that there is a bunch of people sitting down to dinner.

ALERT – ALERT: The thong is back in all of its Technicolor glory. It is obvious that Thong Woman has a bit of plumber in her genes.

Blondie #2 (green top) had been joined by a female friend, Blackie, sporting a gray sweater. The death grip that black had on the Manhattan wardrobe scene seems to have had its moment in the sun (or at least its dull fluorescent replica).

Life is amazing. I was finished with Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #2 and getting ready to get Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #3 with all the danger associated with the thong-snapping vow I promised to myself when wonder of wonders, a blonde waitress/hostess came to my rescue and took my order thereby relieving me from having to make a decision on the thong-snapping. I’m happy because being a convicted sex offender can’t be any fun.

There are too many people at the bar for me to comment on, so I will just make some stuff up. Fortunately, my brother showed up shortly after my reservoir of ideas ran low. I was almost giddy when he told me that he knew Thong Woman’s friend, Hint-of-Cleavage. He did not want to make eye contact with her because although they were employed by the same organization, they moved in different hierarchical circles, and, as my brother pointed out, you don’t socialize with the help. Plus, he owed her $135.

Before leaving the bar, we both stopped to use the men’s room. I used it to return some of the beer, but had no idea for what use my brother used it. This whole beer-returning cycle comes into play again shortly and involves an Asian (assumed Korean) nail salon.

We decided to walk the two miles through the people-clogged and snow-narrowed streets at rush our to meet up with two of my brother’s friends at a small, 100-year old neighborhood Italian restaurant that not only had excellent and moderately-priced food, but also contained an indoor bocce court. The one friend was a certain Ms. Fields (no relation to Abbott and Costello’s landlord). The other friend will be left undescribed and unnamed for reasons that are best left undiscussed.

Before meeting up with the Dining Duo, my brother and I wandered around the East Side of Manhattan in the near vicinity of the 59th Street Bridge (or the Queensborough Bridge as it is known to the residents of Queens) not knowing exactly where this wonderful little restaurant was located. Anyone reading this and who knows my brother will not be the least bit surprised that we were lost. It was, however, a pleasant evening and we passed the time chatting amiably. Under different circumstances this carefree amble would not have presented the least bit of a problem. Unfortunately, my recent beer rental came due and I was having a problem finding a beer-recycling center.

I tried two small eating establishments with no luck and then saw a large, well-lit nail salon stocked with several well-fed Asian manicurists and pedicurists. There under the glaring lights were two doors cleverly marked “Men” and “Woman”. (I was a bit more than curious as to why they would use the male plural and the female singular. The only obvious explanation is that they have many male customers and only one female customer. Continuing this logic, I deduced that this might not be a nail salon, but a cleverly disguised front for a different type of business whose customers enjoyed the companionship of well-fed Asian women posing as manicurists and pedicurists. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more squire.)

I entered the salon with misguided optimism and asked the woman at the front desk in my most pathetic and vulnerable voice, tinged with just the right amount of urgency, if I could use the men’s room. A simple “No”, or, “It is for customers only”, would have been disappointing, but acceptable. Instead, Ms. DLB (Dragon Lady Bitch) told me that they didn’t have one. I usually don’t argue with Asian women, but circumstances dictated bolder action.

“Yes, you do. It’s right there.”
“No men’s room”
“Please, I’ll give you $10.”
“No.”
“I will give you $20.”
“No.”

Almost blind with anger and at the end of my bladder control, I made the astounding offer of $50 to urinate in their men’s room not more than twenty feet away instead of standing between two cars which in times past would have been socially acceptable and only resulted in a small fine if caught by the local constable, but today would result in a conviction as a sex offender. Having dodged that bullet earlier in the evening, I did not intend to once again put myself in harms way.

Amazingly, Ms. DLB just turned away dismissively leaving me angry, bitter, and growing more desperate by the second. Across the street from the nail salon and its corpulent, but compassionless hostesses was another small eatery. Inside were two drably dressed and partially clean individuals standing on either side of the counter. I asked the apron-clad counterman about using his rest room and he quickly obliged with a knowing look as if to say, “I’ve been there bro”. After completing the task at hand, I thanked my benefactor and left feeling fit and ready for further inebriation as my recent panic had destroyed my mellow buzz.

I felt somewhat guilty about not leaving him a tip for the use of his restroom seeing as I had just offered Ms. DLB $50, but my guilt was assuaged as I left the eatery. There were forty whole chickens roasting on the grill (yes, forty and that is no exaggeration) and nary a customer in sight. Given that it was already seven o’clock in the evening, I couldn’t imagine that he would sell all those roasted chickens and most, if not all would go to waste. (Can you really roast a chicken on a grill?) Any money I left in appreciation would most likely be wasted on more unsold roasted chickens.

I tired of wandering around so I called 411 and got the address of the restaurant. It was down the block from Ms. DLB and soon we were comfortably ensconced at the bar of the lovely 100-year old restaurant. Not wanting to disturb the other patrons with our potentially inappropriate behavior, we ate at the bar and had were thoroughly entertained by an old-time bartender who loved to talk and told some excellent stories, some of which may be true.

The food was great and after a while, Ms. Fields and her unnamed friend arrived. We chit-chatted for a while and in the course of the conversation I was informed that Ms. Fields knew Purple Thong’s friend, Hint-of-Cleavage. It’s a small world. Unfortunately, Ms. Fields was not a great fan of Hint-of-Cleavage and this sent her on a bit of a tirade especially when I mentioned that she looked like a nice person even though her friend appeared to be a bit of a tart. Whattaya gonna do?

My brother and I left our friends and then headed in our respective directions. I will see him again in a few weeks in Las Vegas when I fly out to see my nephew and also to look for more material. I mean Las Vegas; five minutes in the airport should keep me in stories for at least a week.

Well goodbye for now. Take care and hope that you enjoyed sharing my evening with me.

Connor Fleming III

Global Warming and Al Gore

Unending snow storms and constant freezing weather. Is this really consistent with global warming? I come to a conclusion - Al Gore is a jerk.

1440

FOWARD

What you are about to read is neither fiction nor non-fiction. It is a new genre I have created called “delusional reality”. What follows is the real account of 1,440 minutes in the life of a non-fictional individual who shall remain nameless. The occurrences may or may not be recorded elsewhere, but that lack of verification in no way impinges on the reality described. The delusional parts are, of course, exempt from this certification. Read on. Take your time and enjoy the ride. Smell the roses and enjoy the scenery. Eat if you’re hungry and smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. (If you don’t smoke, do something else less injurious to your health.) See you soon.

Connor

0 THROUGH 60

I went to bed at exactly at the stroke of what the developed world refers to as “midnight”. I had just finished watching two hours of “The World’s Dumbest Criminals”. I don’t know what rating system the producers used, but these individuals are certainly more stupid (or is it stupider) than the average person. As I climb into bed I wonder if grammar was included as part of the rating system.

I’m not sure if it should be. Grammar is an arbitrary set of rules for communication enforced by a cabal of supposedly learned scholars who are long since deceased. Why should they control the way we speak and communicate? Who appointed them the rulers of the written and spoken word? Will I be safe if I pursue this to the upper levels of the intelligentsia? I fall asleep wrangling with this conundrum.

61 THROUGH 120

Sleep is fitful. I dream that a friend of mine, whom I shall call Patty, has murdered someone and my wife and I have, for some unknown reason, disposed of the body in a fairly careless fashion. Both sets of our fingerprints are on file with the State of New Jersey for various reasons and the responsibility for this crime will surely fall upon us. The dream ends without resolution.

121 THROUGH 180

I sleep peacefully. This is only an assumption because I am sleeping and am really not sure of my state of mind. I’d like to think I was sleeping peacefully, or is that what they want me to think?

181 THROUGH 240

I wake up and have to urinate. For yet another night I am in control of my bodily functions although who knows I how long I will be able to keep at bay the unrelenting degeneration of my faculties brought on by advancing age. I fall asleep once again, savoring my nocturnal victory.

241 THROUGH 300

I sleep. I have decided not to try and describe my state of mind. They may influence my sentence construction, but not my writing.

301 THROUGH 360

I wake up and have to urinate again. My wife lies quietly next to me and I check her breathing. I realize that I have not had the recurring dream of giant waves crashing on the beach while I am unable to escape. Have I, like Santiago, the old Cuban fisherman from “The Old Man and the Sea”, defeated the forces of nature that are only a metaphor for the struggles and trials and tribulations that life assigns us? Then I confuse myself by wondering why I am basing my personal philosophy on the ramblings of a poor, lonely, hermit barely eking out daily subsistence in a Third World country.

361 THROUGH 420

I sleep fitfully. I am briefly woken by the alarm clock. My wife dutifully rises to prepare for her employment so that we may have medical benefits and not have to rely on the kindness of strangers for our personal well being. I fall back asleep, but wake again, this time for good at exactly 420. The day’s adventures are about to begin.

421 THROUGH 480

At 425 I go downstairs and have a cup of coffee and a slice of Pumpernickel Rye with butter and two pieces of yellow American cheese. Ordinarily, I only have one slice of cheese, but my keen senses tell me that today is going to be full of adventure and whimsy so I decide to live on the edge heedless of the onset of constipation. My wife and I talk and watch a little bit of the televised news.

We watch a short bit about an insane woman with a “Mommy” complex who has had a ridiculous number of children. I walk away, my blood, boiling. I contemplate flying to California to rescue the world from her by filing a class-action lawsuit against her and the medical quack who impregnated her, and absconding with her children and driving through the heartland of this great country leaving these poor infants and their slightly older siblings on the doorsteps of farmhouses so that they could be raised by loving, hard-working, albeit dentally-challenged families. I quickly realize that this will take more than 1440 so I sit back down and seethe.

My wife leaves for work and I am alone.

481 THROUGH 540

I take a shower, brush my remaining teeth, dress, and go downstairs. I connect myself to the word-wide-web and see who has been trying to contact me in the past 540 minutes. Only a few new messages and none of any importance. I have not gotten any feedback from the White House regarding my plan for housing the urban poor in inner-city trailer parks nor of my recent critique of President-For-Life O’Bama. He’s got my phone number, but refuses to call me. Punk.

541 THROUGH 600

I spend 20 minutes writing what is written above and then I got bored. I’m taking a break right now surfing daytime television. I’m tempted to pop in the latest “Girls Gone Wild” DVD, but decide against it. At 552 I belly-crawl into the hallway and up the stairs. I sneak into the attic and tuck into my 360-degree outlook post in the center of the attic. From this position I have a clear shot of a small section of the trees behind my house and my neighbor’s mailbox across the street from the front of my house. The remaining 320-degrees is mostly sky.

601 THROUGH 660

I complete my surveillance and carefully sneak down into the basement to do some real work. I go through my notes on a residential building being constructed on the outskirts of Pittsburgh in a Camden-like town called Braddock.

661 THROUGH 720
I continue my work on the Braddock project. When my notes are incomplete, I rely on my memory, faulty as it is. When all else fails, I make stuff up.

721 THROUGH 780
I finish the report and break for lunch. I use the house phone in the basement to call my cell phone that lies on the kitchen counter in front of the rear sliding glass doors. It is in full view of anyone spying on me from the dense vegetation to the rear of my yard. I leave no message in case they are monitoring my cell phone. After making several similar calls and leaving (or not leaving) similar messages, I leave the basement and have lunch, satisfied that I have convinced anyone that may be watching that I am not at home since my cell phone was left unanswered for the past 25 minutes.

I then make lunch – tuna on rye with chocolate milk. My wife again has purchased Bosco instead of Hershey’s, my favorite. Some corrective measures will be required. Fortunately, my disappointment is eased by a re-run of “NYPD Blue” with Rick Schroeder as Sippowitz’s partner. (Is it one “p” or two?)

781 THROUGH 840

I cannot break the magnetic hold that “NYPD Blue” has on me. I am helpless to leave the couch until the second episode has been completed and Judge Joe Brown is about to begin. I race to the bathroom and discharge my bladder. Whew!

841 THROUGH 900

At 841 I start getting ready for my bike ride. I start to do the dishes and notice that the shade for the window over the sink is up. Are they watching me? I can’t be sure so I waste 10 climbing up onto the countertop and sliding my old tired body silently across toward the string of the shade. Like a Ninja, I silently lower the shade. I almost fall off the counter, but my cat-like reflexes save me. For an instant I am disoriented and think I am a Democrat. I quickly recite the “Pledge of Allegiance” and regain my senses.

At 871 I set out on my bicycle. If I’m lucky they’re still in the back trying to look through the shade. I am halfway up the block and realize that if they have heat-detecting equipment my ploy was for nothing. Damn technology! Damn Al Gore! I put the bike in low gear and pedal up the steep hill in front of my house with all the power my atrophied legs can muster. By the time I get to the top of the hill, my muscles are burning and cramps are setting in. At 873 I stop and stretch, hoping they haven’t noticed my get-away.

901 THROUGH 960

At first I am somewhat paranoid and try not to let “them” assassinate me with their VIN-less, stolen automobiles. Then I realize that I am not paranoid since there are really people after me. I just don’t know who they are – yet.

I arrive in a large farm area and I am alone. I have my CD player cranked up to the Beatles classic “Help” album, but I do not have the headphones plugged in. I need all my senses to avoid a possibly fatal attack. Birds fly from the tree tops and I sense danger. I get off my bike and slowly enter the woods, searching for the hidden would-be assassins. I search in vain, but this distraction is not without benefits as I take this opportunity to urinate. Satisfied that I am not being watched, I zip up and get back on my bike and head home.

961 THROUGH 1020

My wife is already home from work, the gym, and a visit to her elderly, but mentally alert mother. She is already cooking dinner and has started the laundry. I feel like a complete loser when I compare my meager days output with her. I often wonder if she is “sleeper” working on breaking my confidence down so as to make me more vulnerable to a surprise attack. I greet her warily and sit down to dinner.

We dine on grilled meat formed in a circular pattern that is placed on circular pads of baked flour. Various vegetable-based sauces are applied to the top surface. The completed meal is then eaten with the hands. My personal discipline is at an all time low and I make the mistake of consuming two barley and yeast based alcoholic beverages with the meal. The energy I exhausted on my bike ride coupled with the narcotic effect of the alcoholic beverages makes me sleepy. I elect to push past my drowsiness and remain alert. I feel my wife’s excellent cooking may have compromised my senses. Once again, I eye her warily.

1021 THROUGH 1080

I give up on trying to remain alert and resign myself to the fact that I will be assassinated in the near future by people and/or organizations unknown to me. I decide to take a nap and enjoy my last few moments in peace. Just as I am about to fall asleep, the “sleeper” they have so cleverly inserted into my life as my spouse nudges me into consciousness and demands that I vacate the couch and go upstairs to sleep on the bed. There is no doubt that she is hell bent on de-stabilizing my stability. In an effort to thwart their plans I do not go upstairs for a well-deserved late afternoon nap, but go back down to the basement to work.

1081 THROUGH 1140

I find that my body responds to the mental stimulation of my work. The incredible manual dexterity I have with my two-finger typing gets my heart pumping thereby providing an amazing cardio-vascular workout. I knock off a short report and prepare two invoices. The additional income will come in handy if I escape my impending assassination and need to live on the run. I have $456 stashed away in the basement in small unmarked bills. (Note: The bills themselves are not small, they are normal sized currency. The denomination of bills is small - $1’s, $5’s, and $15’s.) Preparation is the key to survival.

1141 THROUGH 1200

I start another short report, but feel the drain of the day catching up to me so I shut down my operations. I drag myself upstairs, stumble slightly near the top, but maintain my balance. My wife (aka the “sleeper”) feigns concern and rushes to the stairs. I throw myself past her to avoid possibly being pushed back down the stairs. We stare at each other and I picture her telling the police, “He was very tired from riding his bike to excess and getting drunk at dinner. He must have fell down the stairs and shot himself in the forehead on the way down.” I don’t know how much more tension my mind can take before I start hallucinating.

I start upstairs backwards, but am foiled by a low beam. My head aches, but I am still alive. I prepare my clothes for tomorrow. I will be ready at the crack of dawn to escape my humble abode and travel to New York City to perform so consulting work for a client. I am sure that this particular client is a double-agent, but I dn’t know which side she works for.

1201 THROUGH 1260

I take a few minutes to lie down on the bed before getting ready. I quickly fall asleep.

1261 THROUGH 1320

The few minutes drags on to more than a few minutes. (Actually, I am awake, but cannot think of anything to write for this segment. I think the falling asleep premise is plausible given the events of the day, so I am not concerned about the believability of the story.)

1321 THROUGH 1380

I wake up and start channel surfing. I watch the news and start to seethe once again seeing that the Octo-Mom is again on television. I try to remember to request California if I join the Witness Protection program. This way I can wreak havoc on her soon-to-be filmed reality show that will be titled, “Tons of Baby Shit”. I remind myself that I am not a witness and this wonderful government-sponsored program is closed to me. Undoubtedly, the forces arrayed against me know this. I make mental notes to stay alert tomorrow so that I might witness something that will entitle me to this enter this marvelous program.

Suddenly, Spanish subtitles appear at the bottom of my television screen and I do not know how to get rid of them. This chore had been performed by my son, but he no longer resides at home. I am tempted to call him and plead for help, but my phones are almost assuredly tapped. The foreign words on the screen disorient me and I sob quietly.

1381 THROUGH 1440

At 1381 I started preparing myself for the next day. It would be a very busy day and I needed to get an early start. I set the alarm for 430 and cringed at the lack of sleep I would be getting. Damn, me for wasting time! I’ll pay for that in the morning.

At 1395 I had finished laying out my clothes and toiletries and decided to watch the last 15 minutes of “Seinfeld”. Even though I had seen this episode many times including earlier this evening, it still brought a smile to my face. Due to the adult-oriented theme of the show, I cannot discuss it here.

At 1411 I shut the television and went to bed. My wife was already fast asleep. I put on my sleep mask, hooded sweatshirt, thermal-lined jogging pants, and curled up under the covers. If they tried to find me with heat-sensitive equipment, they’d have no chance. They’d only get the outline of my wife’s body and they would think that I had escaped past their well-defended perimeter. I tossed and turned and struggled with sleep. I regret that second piece of cheese with the morning breakfast and know I’ll be battling constipation tomorrow. I don’t remember exactly when it was that I fell . . .

The Bachelor

I was ambushed this evening and for reasons that I chose not to discuss, I watched several snippets of the most horribly stupid, moronic, and asinine television show called, “The Bachelor”. I’m sure that you are all familiar with the premise. The current bachelor, a less-than-average, self-important, unemployed egoist named Jake, has to pick from four women who are all madly in love with him and want to spend the rest of their lives with him even though he may be, or actually is, currently in love with (or in lust with) three other women. I cannot begin to expound on my complete disgust with these four shameless celebrity whores because, believe it or not, words fail me. What I want to do is to inform you that if you were watching the show, you were shortchanged. There were not four sad, pride-less, princess wannabe’s, but five.

This two-hour, drama-filled episode involved Jake meeting the parents of these soul-less tarts. (I am on a hyphen tear tonight.) What you are about to read is the true (relatively speaking) account of why Jake’s encounter with the fifth woman’s family was cut from the show.

After having a phony meet-and-greet with “Bunny’s” family, sharing fake smiles with her father’s third wife (who Bunny affectionately refers to as “Mommy Three”, and faux bro’ hugs with her three brothers, two half-brothers, and step-brother, they sit down to dinner. Bunny’s father, Caleb, is stoic throughout his visit. After dinner, Jake asks Caleb if he could have a few words with him. Caleb claps his hands twice and the rest of the family scatters including the twin pit bulls – Vick and Vicki.

Before I get into the details of their conversation, I’d like to give you a little background on Caleb. Caleb was always a large, surly individual prone to violence. He spent two years in Juvie for assault and armed robbery. As a young adult he was convicted for menace (probation), and assault with intent (convicted, but overturned on appeal after the disappearance of the complainant). He was a suspect in the death of his first wife (eaten by crocodiles after falling out of their kayak in the Everglades after hours of drinking in a rundown Tiki Bar), but not indicted. His second marriage only lasted three weeks for reasons best left unsaid. Caleb only eats what he can kill or grow himself, and is adept at hunting with a rifle, crossbow, and Bowie knife. Caleb rarely smiles, has poor personal hygiene, and does not suffer fools gladly. Caleb does have a soft spot in his heart for his only daughter – Bunny. Caleb was also unaware that his daughter had gotten mixed up in something as foolish as “The Bachelor”.

Jake feels slightly uneasy in the company of Caleb, but is not alarmed since the three-man film crew is still present. Caleb sits in a hand-made rocking chair he carved from a single block of wood during his stay in prison. He stares hard at Bunny’s potential suitor and Jake fumbles with his words and stutters. Before he can formulate a complete sentence, Caleb says, “If you got something to say, just say it. I get mighty ornery when some smart ass tries to turn me all around with a bunch of fancy metaphors and oily syntax.”

Taking his cue from Caleb, Jake tells him that he has strong feelings for Bunny and wanted to know that if, just if, he selected Bunny as his bride from the remaining five women, would Caleb give his blessing to their union. (In retrospect, one of the camera crew told Jake that union was probably not the best term to use.) Caleb rocked back and forth a few times, and interrupted Jake as he started to say something else. Caleb the propped his right foot, clad in a well-worn, size 12 work boot, on the small serving table in front of him and gave Jake his response.

“Boy, one second is not a lot of time, but that is all the time you have to leave my house before I shove my right boot up your ass. Now please don’t think that this is just a colorful expression or that I intend to kick you in the seat of your designer pants. I fully intend to take off this boot, coat it with that homemade corn oil from the jar over yonder, take this here freshly sharpened hunting knife, cut off those expense pants of yours including your underdrawers if you’re wearing any, and give you a hillbilly colonoscopy. The reason I’m going to use my right boot, if you may be wondering, is that one of the nails in the heel has come loose and that will just make things that much more uncomfortable for you. And don’t slam the door on your way out.”

Keep Christ in the Holiday Season

This essay is about religion and it is also not about religion. Please be patient and read on before rolling your eyes and moving on to something else that will certainly be less important and have less of a positive impact on your life and on society in general.

December 25^th is Christmas Day. This religious feast celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ and has, or should have, important significance to all Christians. Somewhere along the line, the celebration of Jesus’ birth turned into a gift-buying orgy on which a good portion of the country’s economy is now dependent. Additionally, and more recently, Christmas and the Christmas Season (or technically Advent Season) morphed into the “Holiday Season”. No problem with the latter, “A rose by any other name”, as they say.

There is a problem, however, with the former. I believe that my experience with the criminally excessive commercialization of Christmas and the Christmas/Holiday Season is probably typical – I don’t like it. Whenever I talk to another gift-laden and debt-ridden participant in this vulgarization of one of the most beautiful episodes in human history, they also express their unhappiness with this self-inflicted group insanity. So what do we do?

I suggest that we do very little. That’s right. We should do less than what we do now so that we can, collectively restore some semblance of “peace on Earth and good will toward all” to the Christmas/Holiday Season. This move away from crass commercialism and materialism toward civility and charity would be more in keeping with the reason for the season regardless of your religious or atheistic orientation. The suggestion that follows requires some self-sacrifice on your part, but provides a bit of relief to some of the people who would normally give you a Christmas/Holiday gift. I’ll try to make this simple, but pay attention just in case I don’t.

You select one person (or more than one if the mood strikes you) that normally buys you a Christmas/Holiday gift. Tell that person that in lieu of a Christmas/Holiday gift, they should make a donation to a specific charity of either your choosing or theirs. Then on the day that you would normally exchange gifts with this person, they hand you an envelope with your name on it. Inside the envelope is a check made out to the charity. You say “Thank you”, embrace (optional), and then promptly mail the check. Now let’s think about what we will accomplish with this.

First, you are responsible for having a donation made to help people who are less fortunate than yourself. That’s always a good thing. Second, you relieved your friend of having to shop for one less gift. Again, always a good thing. Third, you save your friend some money because the donation is tax deductible and your gift would not be. Another good thing. It looks like a win-win-win to me except you get one less Christmas/Holiday gift. Are you really going to miss it? I didn’t think so.

So before the Christmas/Holiday Season shopping frenzy begins (which unfortunately now appears to be right after Labor Day), think about getting off the train and having some of your future Christmas/Holiday gifts turned into charitable donations. All it takes is a quick phone call, an email, or text. My suggestion is to make the phone call. It’s much more personal and more in keeping with the spirit of the season.

Anyway, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, or whatever. You know what I mean.

Sincerely,

Connor Fleming III

WE’RE BRINGING “BRAINLESS” BACK

Good news – we’re bringing “brainless” back. “Brainless” is an old expression that somehow fell out of common use about two or three decades ago. That’s sad because “brainless” is a direct, succinct way to accurately describe any number of unintelligent, silly, or foolish people and/or their actions without having to elaborate or to rely on profanity. No other explanation is necessary. That one simple word – “brainless” – says it all.

This word could be used to describe your boss (unless you’re self-employed), your bosses boss, your co-workers, some of your relatives, most if not all of your in-laws, your friends, your spouse’s friends, the guy tailgating you, the coach of your child’s sports team, the coach or manager of your favorite professional sports team, referees and umpires, politicians, and anyone employed in a bureaucratic position. Think of the possibilities. “Hey brainless, what are you doing?” “Hey brainless, what were you thinking?” “Hey brainless, where do you think you’re going?” “Hey brainless, what game are you watching?”

As you can see, brainless is typically preceded with the ubiquitous “Hey” and proceeded with a comma and a rhetorical question. There are other variations of this such as, “Did you see Brainless walk into the ladies room?” “I went to lunch with Brainless today.” “We had to go to my wife’s cousin’s house because it was their brainless son’s birthday.” And so forth and so on.

I think if we all made a reasonable effort to include “brainless” in our everyday language, we can not only reduce the amount of profanity so commonly used today, but bring back an old standby and faithful friend.

Take care and I’ll talk to you soon.

Robert

P.S. – Other excellent terms that I hope will start making inroads into common usage

- “See you later, Sweet Potato”; compliments of my father.

- “See you in a while, Honey Chile”; that’s with a long “i” and not the country; compliments of my Cousin Marie.

- “Okey Dokey, Smokey”; compliments of Connor Fleming III.

Congratulations Eric and Mariel

I just wanted to take the time to congratulate the newlyweds on their recent nuptials and offer them my sincere best wishes for a long and happy life together. I hope that all of their hopes and dreams come true, and if not, at least that they come close. I was honored that Queen Anna and I were invited and, on a scale from one to ten, the wedding was a 10. See you later, Sweet Potato.

Manhattan Tutti Strada Postponed

I'm sorry to report that my proposed adventure, tentatively titled "Manhattan Tutti Strada" (All Manhattan Streets/Roads) is being indefinitely postponed. This adventure was going to consist of me riding my bicycle on all the streets in Manhattan. This was something I wanted to do in my younger days when I could still run. I thought that trading my running shoes in for my bicycle was a fair trade given the lack of cooperation by the intervening years.

Anyway, I spoke to my Cousin Louis and he wasn’t too keen on the idea and that got me to wondering exactly how long this would take me and how many miles I would have to cover. For those of you out there who are math-phobic, skip the next few paragraphs and go straight to the paragraph that begins with, “So it seems that this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

I did a little arithmetic and came to some startling conclusions. Manhattan is 22 miles long, but is truncated at the northern and southern ends. (When was the last time you came across the word “truncated”?) So I used a length of 20 miles in my calculations. The average width of Manhattan is 2 miles or 12 avenues. This means that there are about 240 north-south miles (20 miles x 12 avenues). That’s a lot, but pales in comparison to the east-west streets.

There are 20 short blocks (that run east-west) to the mile in Manhattan. Given that Manhattan is 20 miles long and two miles wide that means that there are 800 east-west miles of streets (20 miles x 20 blocks per mile x 2 miles wide). That’s a lot of miles. The whole total is about 1,040 miles. That’s even more than a lot of miles.

So it seems that this wasn’t such a good idea after all. This past Saturday I rode about 50 miles and was pretty tired. I would have to repeat that journey about 21 times. That means it would take me about two years if I went once a month or one year if I went twice per month. Given that I probably couldn’t do too much riding in the winter and probably couldn’t ride as fast on the crowded Manhattan streets as I did on the auto-less trails in New Jersey, I figure it would take anywhere from three to four years to complete this journey. Man, I don’t know if this is going to work.

I haven’t given up yet though. Maybe I just need to talk to a more optimistic relative and/or one with less-grounded mental facilities.

Take care and I'll talk to you soon.

WHERE THE HELL IS MARK JOHN WHEN YOU NEED HIM *

When we last spoke, I had been out with Cousin Marie participating in a Dutch documentary. (Thanks for the calls and cards. Your support is encouraging.) Since then, we went out again and spent the better part of an early summer evening enjoying “Monologue Madness” at the Cornelia Street Café in the West Village. This little missive, however, is not about that.

I am (was) in Manhattan tonight with my brother Richard helping him get a new restaurant ready for its Grand Opening. I actually didn’t help so much as tried not to get in the way. It is a union job so it was devoid of Mexicans and productivity although most of the work was being done correctly. Since I didn’t have a union card and had no skills that they could use at that particular time, I wasn’t allowed to do any work so I did the most productive thing I could think of – I went out and bought a six-pack of beer. I got four for myself and two for Massa Charlie (Richard’s boss). Normally this would be two beers over my limit, but since I hadn’t had anything to eat, it was three over my limit.

I was getting hungry and the entire food preparation staff was in the enormous below-grade kitchen making numerous tasty treats, but I wasn’t able to eat any of them. No one was allowed to eat anything until Massa Charlie inspected it for proper presentation. Unfortunately for me, Massa Charlie and I were never in the same place at the same time, and as soon as he blessed the presentation the food, the preparation staff threw it away and went back to the below-grade kitchen to make something else. I was reduced to nibbling on tiny bits of discarded food like a thinner and less frantic version of George Kostanza. But I’m getting ahead of the story.

(Just a little side note on the kitchen. The area of the kitchen is approximately 5,000 sf. For those of you who are dimensionally challenged, this is about the same area as two large suburban homes. This is a very large commercial kitchen by any standards, but quite Godzilla-like for Manhattan. Unfortunately, all of the kitchen equipment had to be special ordered due to the space constraints (?), and since the equipment was special ordered, it was about 50% more expensive than standard equipment. I tried to enter a small walk-in freezer, but I was told that the kitchen designer was in there for the past two days taking field dimensions and/or being slowly frozen to death. Tim (Massa Charlie’s lawyer) told me that if the kitchen designer died he couldn’t be buried, but would have to be cremated due to space constraints.)

It seems that the well-paid and highly-trained union electricians placed the speaker wires on the wrong side of a wall. Richard needed to drill a hole in one cabinet, through a wall, and then through a second cabinet, after which he would need to snake a vinyl-coated wire hanger through the series of openings, somehow grab the wrongfully placed wires, tape them to the vinyl-coated wire hanger, and then pull them through the many layers of wood and sheetrock to the correct side of the wall. (I got tired just writing this.) This miracle of modern technology and old fashion American ingenuity was satisfactorily completed. I’m not the type of person who tends toward self-praise, but let me just say that I was involved in the process.

My first bit of involvement was, after Beer No. 1, to ask one of the art-hangers (more to come on these guys later) if I could borrow a tape measure. I could have sworn he said, “Sure”, but Tim (Massa Charlie’s lawyer) insisted that he said, “That’s not mine.” Next, we (read that as Richard) needed a 12”-long drill bit to be able to drill thru the two cabinets and one wall. Chip didn’t have such a bit so he went to Home Depot to buy one. First, I have no idea where the closest Home Depot is to the Times Square area, but we never saw Chip again. Second, after he left to get the bit, it seemed that no one knew who Chip was. Bastard! Good thing we gave him Tim’s credit card instead of cash.

Well, Richard appropriated a 6” bit and in order to complete the required task, we used a version of the Italian method of tunnel boring – start a hole at each end and drill until you meet in the middle. We carefully measured the distances from the first hole (conveniently drilled by others) to the side wall and then measured back to mark the approximate location of the second hole. The two holes were only about 12” apart as the crow flies, but you needed to walk halfway through the restaurant to get from one cabinet to the other. The fact that we both had cell phones could have made this whole process much easier, but we elected not to use them. I was starting to think that the Blue-Tooth in Richard’s ear was just a prop he used when he got tired on my drunken ramblings. (I was finished with Beer No. 2 at this point and, sad to say, was way past inebriation.)

Once we marched over to the other side of the wall, Richard asked me for the carefully measured dimension. I had a series of numbers written on a pad that I added and subtracted at random. Remarkably, my final total was completely different than his, so he traipsed back to the other side of the wall and measured again. I let him measure the second time by himself because I know what a control freak he is and also because I saw some tasty treats go by looking to be blessed. Richard came back just as the food disappeared around a corner. Since my brother was going to ignore my geometric aid, I told him that I was going to write a story to which he replied that would be very helpful.

While all this impromptu carpentry was taking place, there were many other interesting and mildly entertaining events occurring in and around the soon-to-be-opened restaurant. I’ll share some of these little vignettes with you now before you become completely bored with the “Tale of Two Holes”.

The modern dining experience does not just encompass the human senses of taste and smell and the sin of Gluttony. It also includes the sense of sight with regards to the visually pleasant presentation of the food. The technical culinary term for this is “Pretty Food”. An additional aspect of the modern dining experience also involves the sense of sight with a little help from the sin of Lust thrown in. It seems that the construction budget included several hundred thousand dollars for “art” work. I used the quotation marks because as a layman and general all-around Philistine, I don’t know where art ends and “art” begins.

What I’m talking about are the two or three dozen black and white photographs, handsomely-framed and covered with museum-quality plexi-glass. (Does the fact that they’re black and white make them art? Can someone help me out here?) The scenes depicted are rather plain and non-descript. Some are actually photographs of paintings. (Does this little ploy make them “art”?) What all of these photographs have in common, aside from their lack of color, was that they had computer-generated images of naked women and/or parts of naked women superimposed on them. These weren’t just regular women or even full-busted Russ Meyer-esque vixens. These women were transparent and resembled women made from blown glass or ice sculptures that have melted slightly. They also reminded me of mannequins since none of them appeared to have nipples. Oh, I forgot to add that all of these computer-generated, transparent, robotic, mannequin women were holding equally transparent wine glasses. (Are we now completely in the realm of “art” or is this just clever product placement?)

Some of the photographs had just one or two of these fanciful creatures and others had many. One of the more interesting (bizarre) photos showed a picture of three Renaissance-era women picking up pieces of a broken vase with a very futuristic transparent female foot escaping from the upper right-hand corner. The women in the painting were apparently unaware of the presence of the fleeing foot. I thought that was odd.

The designer in charge of the location and placement of these photos was a very short, dark-haired female who was undoubtedly spawned from a line of gypsies or carni-folk. She resembled a tall forest elf. Although this attractive, impish woman did not have the features normally associated with a midget, she is almost height-deficient enough to be considered for the role of Mrs. Tom Thumb should the cinematic need for that particular character ever arise. She was accompanied by a tall, muscular, head-shaved, thug/assistant who appeared to be of Eastern European descent. (This tends to confirm my gypsy theory.) What he lacked in charm, he made up for in malevolence.

I watched this unlikely duo for a while and after polishing off Beer No. 3, I summoned the courage to confront the would-be Mrs. Thumb about the lack of color in the photographs and alluded to my concern that Massa Charlie was being gypped. (No pun intended or achieved.) She gave me that superior, confident, over-educated, sober smirk that short people are so good at, and walked away. Her assistant, the thuggish Junior (short for Telly Savalas, Jr.) gave me a death stare. As God is my witness, I would have kicked his ass if he was 6 inches shorter, 50 years older, and had MS. He better count his lucky stars.

I continued wandering around making small talk with the hired help. During my somewhat limited travels, I spied the Project Manager working at a computer. As he finished doing his Project Manager work, he pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and cleansed his hands. I felt like the cameraman in a National Geographic special watching a rare mammal in his natural habitat. I pondered this strange ritual and realized that this was what was wrong with this country. We’re getting soft. Anyway, I made my way back to Richard who had, by this time, drilled two holes in either side of the wall. The next step was to find a vinyl-coated wire hanger and snake it though the holes. Richard went to look for such an object and since I had nothing to do, I crawled inside one of the cabinets and examined the hole. I poked at it with my pencil and started to feel like Tim Roberts in “The Shawshank Redemption”.

While curled up in the cabinet, I continued playing make-believe and grabbed the drill and pulled the trigger a couple of times. Before I could make my mind up between “Star Wars” and the “Magnificent Seven”, Richard came back and asked me to put the drill down before I either hurt myself, damaged something, or hurt myself and damaged something. He used a few $%^&$#@!’s, but I won’t repeat them here. I guess he felt bad for yelling at me, so he put some Bob Dylan into the sound system for me. This worked for a short while, but after a few songs, the speakers shut down. It seemed that Sol (Richard’s soon-to-be former assistant) purchased the wrong speakers. Richard told me that he gave Sol the exact specifications and model numbers for very expensive and high-end speakers, but for some reason the soon-to-be-unemployed Sol bought a Hasbro Surround Sound model that was on sale at Toys-R-Us. I thought it was an honest mistake, but what do I know. (Can we get a one-way ticket to Afghanistan, please.)

Richard convinced me to get out of the cabinet and I did. My exit coincided perfectly with the temporary placement of a small tray of partially eaten food on a nearby table. Finally, something to eat. The fates must have been smiling on me because just as I was getting ready to pull off the cap of Beer No. 4 with a pair of needle-nose pliers, Tim came by and brought me a bottle opener. I told Tim that was very helpful, and unlike my sarcastic brother, I really meant it. Tim told me not to lose it because it wasn’t his. I wish he wouldn’t have told that because it made me feel particularly bad when I was in the Port Authority getting ready to return to the mainland and I realized I still had the bottle opener and threw it away. My bad.

The time of reckoning had finally arrived. Richard had the vinyl-coated wire hanger all straightened out and he went around to the other side of the wall. My assignment was to get back in the cabinet and try and grab the end of the vinyl-coated wire hanger when he snaked it through. I was looking forward to getting back into the cabinet, but a little disappointed when Richard took the drill with him. After a few minutes and the requirement for a second drilled hole, the end of the vinyl-coated wire hanger magically appeared. As instructed, I pulled it through and started calling Richard on the phone letting him know that I had it. By them time I dialed his number correctly, he was standing next to me asking me to get out of the cabinet so he could tape the wires to the hanger. (By now we all know it’s vinyl-coated.)

He taped the erroneously placed wires to the hanger, went back to the other side of the wall and pulled them through. Our work was not over yet because Richard in his impatience, had wrapped the wires around a support bar of the cabinet. The wires had to be re-pulled through the hole, unwrapped from the support bar, and re-taped and re-snaked. We took our respective places on either side of the wall and as Richard was pulling from his end, I was pulling from my end. I must have forgotten who was supposed to be doing what because Richard came around from the other side and asked me what the $%^&$#@! I was doing. I replied that I didn’t know so he explained the process again. Well, to make a long story even longer, the wires were pulled and exited from my little clubhouse, and mosey’d around the restaurant.

By sheer accident, I happened to be passing by the thuggish Junior and heard him explain to one of the restaurant employees that the plexi-glass covering the pictures should only be cleaned with a shammy cloth. I was pretty sure that the Sham-Wow would work, but given my previous almost-altercation with the too tall, too young, and disease-free Junior, I kept that valuable little nugget to myself.

A little later Chip came back, smiling and bit-less. He asked to borrow my pencil, but then failed to return it. Not being one to take real or imagined insults or slights lightly, I went over to the construction drawings (also known as blueprints to some people) and started drawing “smiley” faces inside the larger O’s and circles. These really stood out because since Chip clipped my pencil I was forced to use my red pen.

Nothing much else happened worth repeating (assuming that all of the above had been worth repeating) except that when Richard and I were walking toward the Port Authority, we saw two guys break-dancing. This is something I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was almost like watching a lost civilization come back to life. We watched them strut and spin and jump for a short while and then we left, but not before leaving a very generous tip to the two would-be drug dealers. We hoped that our two dollars would keep them on the straight and narrow. Richard and I said good-bye at the corner of Seventh Avenue and he stood there watching me until I turned the corner at Eighth Avenue. I couldn’t figure out if he wanted to make sure I was safe or wanted to make sure I didn’t turn around and come back. Who knows. (The computer’s automatic grammar check feature is telling me that I need a question mark here, but I think we all know that this is a rhetorical statement and not a question.)

Anyway, it was a very nice few hours and since I work in the basement by myself, have litle human contact for most of the day, and have developed a whole series of different voices that I use to converse with myself, I’d thought I’d share this little slice of my life with you. If you enjoyed this, great. If not, well, I know where you live.

Take care and I’ll talk to you later.

Cousin Robert

Aka Robert Femenella

Aka Bob Femenella

Aka Coach Bob

Aka Connor Fleming III

Aka Oz the Great and Powerful

Aka Bert Allene

* The title of this little story was taken from something Richard said when he was complaining about the quality of the work or something like that. I kind of liked the way it flowed, but can’t for the life of me remember the context of the conversation. Sorry about that.

ME, COUSIN MARIE, and SEX WORKER LITERATI

This all started when my wife wanted our daughter to get a free Frisbee in college. To make a long story, short, well, even the short version is really long, so just take my word for it that this all started with my wife. And Mark Twain. He had something to do with it, too. I was a victim of circumstances (if such a thing exists), a small, innocent piece of inebriated flotsam buffeted about by the stormy seas of fate. That is, in a metaphorical nutshell, how Cousin Marie and I wound up at the KGB Bar in the East Village on a cold Friday night in February to be part of a Dutch documentary titled, “Sex Worker Literati”. (The Dutch translation is slightly different and impossible to pronounce.)

We were supposed to be at the KGB Bar on that particular night to hear three Columbia professors read segments of their fiction. (Yeah, well I thought it would be pretty cool.) They were, as it happens, scheduled for Thursday night. For want of a nail . . . I don’t know how interesting the aforementioned Ivy League intelligentsia were or weren’t, but if we would have sat in the audience for them instead of for David, Tracy, and Elizabeth (conventional spellings for all three), I would never have known about the intricate workings of the peep-show industry in Seattle, among other things.

After a delicious and artery-hardening meal at my favorite 150-year old ale house where we shared a scarred wooden table with two young men from Russian (who I mistook as two young men from Poland), we slowly ambled over to the KGB Bar and spent the better part of half an hour climbing the endless stairs. After arriving at the proper altitude, we found the door locked. We were too early. We waved to the people inside through the small square window in the door, but they pointed at their watches letting us know that we had to wait. We each used the poorly appointed facilities and stood in the hall and waited a while longer. Then David arrived.

David was the extremely funny (dare I say witty), gray-haired, middle-aged moderator for the evening. He stuck his head through the small, square, glass-deficient opening in the door and asked them to open up because he had to set up the microphone and camera. Realizing that the glass-less window scam only fooled the well educated (go ahead, say it – book smart), they unlocked the door. Since David was not only the moderator, but a speaker as well, Cousin Marie and I were officially the first two patrons to enter the poorly appointed bar/lounge/saloon/bistro. This entitled us to be the first two patrons of the night. Additionally, I was (as we found out later) the only person in the house with a hard hat. We were on a roll.

Being typical New Yorkers, we elbowed our way through the non-existent crowd to the best table in the house (of the six available), and planted ourselves down for a continuation of what was already a very lovely and interesting evening. We both agreed on Bloody Mary’s, but to our dismay, the fully stocked bar, did not have Bloody Mary mix. So beer it was.

The relatively small bar started filling up rather quickly and about 20 minutes after we sat down, there wasn’t a seat to be had. Early on, a young girl with some trade magazines asked if we could move to another table so she could place her wares close to the podium. (Yeah, right.) We offered to share the table with her and, having no reasonable alternative, she happily agreed. She put down about a dozen copies of $pread (no typo) magazine and walked away to get some other items. I mentioned to Cousin Marie that she had a fair resemblance to Cousin Louis’ daughter, Sarah. Upon her return, we introduced ourselves to the young promising writer and asked her name. “Sarah”, was the response. Not only that, but she was going for her Master’s degree in creative writing at Sarah Lawrence. I didn’t say anything at the time, but I was starting to get suspicious of her intentions. As I finished my beer (the third over my normal limit for sobriety), I was fairly certain that she was going to try and flabbergast us with coincidences and then have her friends take our seats in the confusion. Or something like that.

We thumbed through the pages of $pread and I was quickly bored seeing as how it was all articles and no good panoramic shots of landscapes and such. As the already crowded saloon got even more crowded, another young girl asked if she could have my chair. I asked her if her name was Sarah, and she said, “No”, sounding somewhat perplexed. Given her apparent honesty, I surrendered the chair and sat on the bench next to Cousin Marie. Then David stood at the podium and tapped the microphone to begin the readings and discussions.

Ms. Elizabeth was up first. She had been a dancer in a peep show in Seattle. She appeared to be in her late-twenties or early-thirties and now wrote financial articles for a financial magazine. Her stage name was Layla and I hoped her current writing style was somewhat more creative. She explained the inner workings of the peep show industry including the very elaborate and intricate behind-the-scenes procedures. It is not just about walking, scantily clad, into a glass-enclosed booth and shaking your money-maker. No my friends. She first had to change her clothes and put her civilian belongings into a locker. Then she had to clock in and make sure that the operator of the money boxes had cleared the proceeds from the previous performer. Then she had to enter some sort of an air lock before entering the booth itself. Once inside the booth, she had to arrange her props, check her headset, perform some preliminary stretching, and use the hand sanitizer and window cleaner as needed. (It seems scabies is a constant industry problem.) Once all this was satisfactorily completed, the shutters went up and the show was on.

The patrons could talk to the dancer via phones in their little compartments through her headset. This way they could instruct her on the most current or desired dance moves, or other less cultured displays. There were also some devices within the dancer’s portion of the booth that the patrons could control via the remote controls in their little compartment. It sounded very high-tech. Some of the low-tech aspects of the establishment were the cartoon drawings on the doors of the patron’s compartments giving them a visual clue of what they could expect. There was also a small display case that contained Polaroid pictures of the dancer currently on duty. I guess there are some patrons of peep shows that have standards.

Once her shift was over, she had to pick up her props, use the hand sanitizer and window cleaner as needed, re-enter the air lock, and check the schedule on the way out to make sure that she was aware of her upcoming shifts so that her fans would not miss her. The whole process sounds very business-like and somewhat complicated.

In addition to the dancing girls in the booths, the establishment had an erotic artwork display. That sounds like such an elegant touch.

Although she said that she never developed personal relationships with the patrons outside of the booth, she did confess to developing a fondness for some of her regulars. One in particular was a poet (or so he said) going by the name of “Excalibur”. I would love to read some of his poetry. I mean, “Excalibur”. Jeez Louise. She also said that the worst customers were the good-looking guys who felt that their presence in the little compartment was tip enough. Thank you Elizabeth.

David was up next, but before I get into his portion of the night, I want to talk about this Dutch documentary a little bit. It seems that Cousin Marie and I, by pure happenstance, positioned ourselves in a direct line between the podium and the camera used by the Dutch documentary workers. Our geography alone would probably give us a fair amount of face-time in the documentary, but I don’t like to rely on my memory so I always take notes when I want to remember something. There were more than a few somethings that I wanted to remember so I was taking a lot of notes. I’m not sure if I remember this part correctly because I didn’t take any notes about it, but I distinctly remember the lights from the camera hitting the left side of my face whenever I went into a scribbling frenzy. So if you ever watch a Dutch documentary on sex workers, please keep a sharp eye out for us. I was the one in the denim shirt taking notes.

Onto David who had been a male hustler in his teens. He referred to himself as an Industrial Sex Technician (IST). The next time somebody refers to themselves or someone else as a “Techie”, it will make you pause and wonder. He informed us that he had only been involved in that business for six months, but that it left him with, until recently, unresolved emotional issues. He knew he needed help when he woke up one morning and realized that, after being recently divorced, he was engaged to a woman he really couldn’t stand. Therapy led him to write about his past and that turned into a book titled, “Chicken”. The book in turn is turning into a Showtime series of the same name.

I don’t know how good a writer David is, but he is an excellent performer. He had the whole packed room in stitches. He related the father-son sex talk given to him by his very British dad. I was laughing so much that I didn’t take many notes. The few readable notations I have from this story are “engorged with blood” and “thrusting”. You can draw your own conclusions.

The other story he told was about his employment as the tuxedo-wearing, roller-skating emcee at a Chippendales show. He had some very colorful and eye-opening insights about the previously unknown aspects and desires of soccer moms. We heard about one dancer (performing under the moniker of “Prince Charming”) who had teeth marks on his buttocks. My favorite memory of this bit was the story about a very intense and excited patron who he described as a “large, mule-toothed bleached blonde”. What a colorful choice of adjectives.

Before closing his portion of the evening, he gave out a DVD that contained a short movie about a humorous, Chippendale-related, murder mystery. I haven’t watched it yet, but I will follow-up with a review once I have.

There was a break before the next reader so I got up and made my way to the beer recycling center. Upon my return, I started talking to a guy with a beard who had sat down near us. I introduced him to Cousin Marie as “Ben from Alaska”. I was partially correct in that his name was Ben, but imagine my surprise when he told us that he was not from Alaska, but from northern Virginia. I was shocked. I wasn’t even close. After a few minutes of blah, blah, blah, the next and last speaker went up to the podium. This was Tracy.

Tracy was a short, thin, Asian woman who appeared to be in her early thirties. Like David, she was a former IST, although she spent more time in the industry than David and only recently retired (or so I understood). Also like David, she has since become an author with three published books under her belt – “Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl”, Diary of a Married Call Girl”, and “Diary of a Jet-Setting Call Girl”. (Sense the trend here?) Also like David, her story will also become a series on cable television, but on HBO instead of Showtime. I’d tell you the name of the series, but I guess you can figure that out for yourselves.

Tracy told us that she is currently involved with P.O.N.Y. (Prostitutes of New York) working with them to help make business and life in general, better and safer for IST’s. She also told us that the sex industry works on the “trickle down” theory of economics and that IST’s are being hard hit by the recession. Given that the career life of an IST is measured in something akin to dog-years, one year of a slow economy could spell financial ruin. Due to the slowing economy and increase in indicted politicians, Tracy told us that many IST’s are now starting to “chase work”. Man, tell me about that.

(SIDE NOTE: I am trying to write this while sitting in an upscale coffee shop that I’ll call Starbucks. Ordinarily, the shop is quiet and the patrons are typically respectful of each other. Today is different, however. Sitting next to me is one of those ubiquitous “loud talkers” who insist on sharing their side of a cell phone conversation with anyone within 100 feet. I really want to tell her that I, for one, have no interest in the pelvic pain that she experienced after the same medical procedure that her unseen friend has just had. That’s not really true, though. What I really want to do is shoot her, cut off her head, and place it on a spike outside the door of the upscale coffee shop as a warning to other “loud talkers”, but I don’t have a gun, an axe, or the balls. I’m also not keen on that whole prison thing. Plus, most “loud talkers” are so self-absorbed that they probably wouldn’t notice the spiked-head warning anyway. So I’ll just let my anger simmer inside until my intestines tie themselves into a Gordian knot of pelvic pain. Sometimes I think I overreact.)

Unbeknownst to me, it seems that Craig’s List contains many solicitation sites that IST’s, and/or their manager’s (read that as pimps), and their customers (read that as John’s) use to arrange mutually beneficial service and financial transactions. Contrary to popular belief, all cash income to IST’s is not profit. Typically, they have to rent a well-appointed room in a hotel (or a Motel 6 as the case may be) where the services are provided and the financial transaction is transacted. Imagine how many transactions it takes to cover a nut like that.

Tracy’s lecture continued to be interesting and informative. It seems the preferred hourly rate of an IST is $300/hour. Given the difficult economic times, many IST’s are willing to break that down into 30-minute or 15-minute segments. One down-on-her-luck entrepreneur (whose professional name I believe is “Mocha Love”; no doubt a reference to her favorite beverage) was even advertising 5-minute increments. And you thought I was kidding about the difficulty in making that Motel 6 nut.

According to Tracy, IST’s directly involved in intimate contact with their clients (as opposed to peep-show dancers) are not only the highest paid of the various types of IST’s, but also the most conservative, relatively speaking. (It is doubtful that John McCain garnered any of the IST vote despite his industry-friendly first name.) Dancers, exotic and otherwise, are at the lower end of the economic scale and are, assumedly, the most liberal, relatively speaking. Regardless of their position in the sex worker’s universe, IST’s have to fend for themselves. There will be no government bailout for IST’s even though politicians, in general, are not only their biggest clients, but are considered by a large majority of the population (including yours truly) to be IST’s themselves.

(ANOTHER SIDE NOTE: “Loud Talker” is now telling her unforeseen friend that she went to the gym early this morning. It is beyond my comprehension that this corpulent sow has expended a single calorie in a gym in the past decade. Then she starts doing a terrible rendition of James Brown’s classic, “I Feel Good”, into the phone. And before I can even finish this rant, another “loud talker” comes in talking about consumer fraud like she’s the female version of Arnold Diaz. Unbelievably, they then greet each other and burst into loud, extremely phony laughing that can only mean that they hate each other. My God! Does the madness ever end?)

Aside from these very technical, financial, and social discussions, Tracy also told some very humorous stories that made you realize that IST’s can be just regular folks who, like the rest of us, can act like jerks every now and then. One particular tale was about a friend of hers who attended an international IST convention in Europe. (Please note that I think Tracy said that this was a true story, but it could be a piece of fiction. I’m not positive. I was really drunk at this point. It doesn’t matter though; it was still a good story.) A statement of some sort was being prepared regarding the rights of IST’s. The statement was to be issued under the semi-original name of “Bad Girls Without Borders”. As catchy a name as this was, it neglected the minority of IST’s at the convention – namely males. They couldn’t come up with an equally catchy name, so a stalemate ensued. (“Bad People Without Borders” was bandied about, but this didn’t have the same panache and, quite frankly, sounded stupid.)

That evening a theft occurred in the friend’s hotel room. It seems that a moderately valuable work-related instrument to which her friend had become somewhat attached, was snatched. The friend was convinced that this was not an ordinary run-of-the-mill burglary, but a political statement. Sounds like every Little League meeting I’ve ever attended.

That wrapped up the organized portion of the evening and what ensued was a general free-for-all to talk to and kibitz with the three star attractions. I wanted to talk to Tracy to get her opinion on an idea that an unnamed relative floated past me regarding retirement programs for IST’s. As usual, my timing was impeccable. I approached Tracy just as a young and way too enthusiastic fan was trying to convert his stalking into a relationship. She jumped at the chance to converse with a serious, slightly balding (when you write something you can use your own adjectives), middle-aged, bon vivant, wearing a denim shirt emblazoned with his company logo. She sat down with me and Cousin Marie, listened patiently, and then politely and respectfully told me that it was not a very good idea.

In return for her honesty, graciousness, and time, I bought one of her books, “Diary of a Married Call Girl”. I started reading it and found it is almost devoid of gratuitous sex and very funny. Unfortunately, due to the subject matter, I won’t be able to pass off some of her stories as my own. Well, that was $16 down the tubes.

It was finally time for us to end what turned out to be a very interesting and enjoyable evening. With my little goody-bag in hand (don’t ask), I made one last stop at the poorly appointed men’s room and while I was completing a transaction with the porcelain depository, I vaguely heard a woman screaming, “Die! Die! Die!” (Exclamation points courtesy of my wife.) The poorly appointed ladies room was right next door and I hoped that Cousin Marie was not on the receiving end of these murderous threats for a breach of toilet room etiquette or some other innocent faux pas. As it turned out, she wasn’t. The screams undoubtedly emanated from the theater on the ground floor either as part of the show or from one of the actresses upset with her agent. Whatever.

We descended the endless stairs, went past a sixty-ish woman holding birthday balloons, past the theater, out the door, down more steps, and finally onto the sidewalk. We walked back to Cousin Marie’s car, just two wild and crazy guys enjoying some of the stuff that life has to offer. Before she drove away, we promised to do this again, and this will be a promise that will be kept.

In closing, I hope you enjoyed this little tale. Everything you read was true, or at least true to the best of my recollection. If anyone wants to join us in our next foray into the literary world, get back to me and I’ll check to see if your name is on the “A” list.

See you later, Sweet Potato.

Cousin Robert

Aka Robert Femenella

Aka Bob Femenella

Aka Coach Bob

Aka Connor Fleming III

Aka Oz The Great and Powerful

Aka Bert Allene

A DAY IN THE LIFE

Just another bad night

Had a fight with my Michelle

She says we never talk

I say there’s wars to quell

I tell her I’m the President

She tells me go to hell

I wake up really early

Fox News is on the tube

The things they say about me

Make me look like such a boob

That goddamn Oval Office

Is like a prison cube

Gotta wait till later

To do important work

First there are the Boy Scouts

And then some Right-Wing jerk

Every time there’s trouble

He looks at me and smirks

Can’t laugh or smile no more

Can’t even hear some jokes

It might offend a friend or foe

Or just some plain ol’ folks

I swear I’d give my right nut now

To just take one small toke

I need to be a Leader so

That my image does reflect

I’ve got to watch my P’s and Q’s

And don’t show disrespect

Even all my meals should be

Politically correct

I got an urgent phone call

Biden’s opened up his trap

Explaining that there is no place

Called Heaven on the map

The Pope was not impressed

With this atheistic crap

Is it really possible

To have chosen as a mate

Such a fumbling imbecile

And I guy I really hate

That can’t go 20 minutes

Without taking Fox’s bait

There’s trouble in the Middle East

So tell me something new

Everybody there is nuts

I just don’t have a clue

I’d like to take them all

And beat them black and blue

Then there’s global warming

According to St. Gore

Big deal he has a Nobel Prize

Does that make him so pure

Try selling that tobacco farm

You overbearing bore

It’s dinner time already

And the baby wants a bra

She tells me that she hates me

And the big one wants a car

Michelle suggests I tell them

Exactly who you are

I’m back in bed already

I haven’t done a thing

Health care is just another song

For someone else to sing

On TV I see Biden’s face

And then the phone goes “Ring”

Author’s Note:

My cousin Johanna inspired this poem with her keen, probing insight and love of the abstract. The satirical element was based on Cicero’s clever descriptions of the early Roman period. The tri-modular rhythmic cadence was borrowed from the pre-Napoleonic Florentine poets. The typeface is a 12-point Times New Roman font. This is fast becoming the preferred typeface of Supreme Court Justices.