At some point when I was in tenth grade, I arbitrarily decided that I would no longer wear underwear. It wasn’t based on something sexual (I was a somewhat late bloomer who didn’t really do anything with a girl -or boy- until I was seventeen) nor was it a rebellion against huge money-mongering ... [continue]]]> Well, now I’ve done it.

At some point when I was in tenth grade, I arbitrarily decided that I would no longer wear underwear. It wasn’t based on something sexual (I was a somewhat late bloomer who didn’t really do anything with a girl -or boy- until I was seventeen) nor was it a rebellion against huge money-mongering underwear corporations (I’ve accepted that the Hanes Corporation will have total control over the Western Hemisphere by 2012; the Mayans knew it) nor was it a fashion statement (I have perpetual plumber’s crack regardless of underwear usage). I just stopped wearing tighty-whiteys, boxers, or anything between my exterior clothing and genitalia. But, in case of… well, I really don’t know what, I’ve had this pair of boxer shorts for like six years. As most of their usage was very infrequent, and typically by women who had just enjoyed the best thirty to forty five seconds of their lives, they were in good shape. Kinda like a garage-kept car.

But now I’ve done it. After a night of horrifying intoxication during which car-bombs, Jack Daniels, kamikazes, straight Guinness, gin, and fucking MEAD were consumed, I’ve done it.

There were two Ukrainian girls who were drinking with my two friends and I; I made out with one and then snorted Adderall with her in the bar; she was actually the source of the mead– she had a bottle of it that she had picked up for a friend, but decided to break it out in the bar after we were cut off, which got us thrown out. We left snorted more Adderall on the hood of someone’s car, killed the mead, exchanged numbers and parted. I vaguely recall going to a Wawa after that and shoplifting a bunch of stuff, and coming home. My chafed cock is a testament to the abortive attempt at masturbation, and then I passed out on my floor naked. When I awoke to some fucking assholes marching around and making a fucking ruckus about some fucking “Independence Day” (whatever the fuck that is, my mind was not comprehending that today is July 4^th) and fireworks going off in my head, my course was clear: bong hits. Lots of them. And a huge greasy breakfast to fortify my system for the terrible things it’s gonna endure tonight. Well, that just didn’t happen. All the back story about last night is a (most likely failed) attempt to justify what was about to happen.

I put on my one and only pair of boxers (they’re comforting, and I needed comfort; my hands were kinda shaky and there’s a sadistic midget on PCP with a hacksaw and a jackhammer running around in my head) took one enormous bong hit, coughed once and completely shit myself. Not like a little Hershey squirt, but a spattering, sputtering, runny-eggs avalanche that had cascaded down my inner thigh to my knee ON BOTH LEGS by the time I made it the seven feet to my bathroom. Five paper towels later, I was able to traverse downstairs to the bathroom with the shower and scald my rectum. But now my boxers were upstairs in the toilet (I just didn’t know what to do; I panicked) . I was uncertain; scared, too. I was thinking to myself that there was a good chance that the boxers would get up and rampage around the city, causing horrifying damage and killing hundreds, given the absolutely demonic nature of that shit. But, on the other hand, was thinking: should I try to save the life of the noble pair of boxer shorts that (unwillingly) interposed themselves between the most horrifying shotgun blast of green apple splatters the world has ever seen and my bed? (Because if I hadn’t put them on, seriously, my bed would be fucking ruined. I’d probably have to burn down my house just to purge them from the world.)

But, because of a selfless act by my orange and yellow undergarments (they have pictures of oranges and lemons on them), your home is not being shredded by a bizarre and terrifying bed-fecal matter hybrid demon that only wants to rape your soul and rend your flesh. So, do I and my washing machine attempt a… shitsercism? Do I need someone with a religious background? Even if I get a priest, will the Power of Christ compelling my feces, be a strong enough compulsion? If you put Jesus in the ring with that shit that just reverse-raped my rectum, my money wouldn’t be on the Son of God. Actually, I think I hear something moving around up there.

I’ll part with this, because I owe it to my boxers to do what I can to save them/stop them: if you hear an enormous flapping sound accompanied by the worst smell you’ve ever smelt, duck and cover. Or shoot yourself. Because you don’t want to look up and see an orange and brown version of Mothra that smells like a dead skunk stuffed with rotten eggs and marinated in a ninety year-old wolf pussy for about four days. Wish me luck. I go forth to do battle for all our souls. If things go badly, tell everyone I’m really, really, really sorry.

Christ, as in Jesus Christ, referred to by some as “our Lord and Savior” got off easy.

I apologize if you are offended for either religious or some weird sadomasochistic envy reasons, but it’s true. Lets skip the quibbling over whether he was ... [continue]]]> Ok, so I’m just gonna get this out of the way up front.

Christ, as in Jesus Christ, referred to by some as “our Lord and Savior” got off easy.

I apologize if you are offended for either religious or some weird sadomasochistic envy reasons, but it’s true. Lets skip the quibbling over whether he was an actual historical figure or not, and get to the heart of the matter: the dude gets to live 33 years (it’s downhill after that, kids. Or so I’ve heard. I’m actually not yet thirty). He believes he’s the son of god or actually is the Son of God, either way, super sweet. He gets to seem like he performs miracles (or actually does). Also super sweet. And then he gets scourged, beaten, burned, probably had some of his teeth chiseled out, maybe a little aperitif of finger and/or toenail removal, then drags a heavy ass hunk of wood through town while having rocks and rotten food and probably animal (and maybe human) feces flung at him, denied by his supposed BFF, then nailed to a cross and stabbed by some asshole with a spear (that dude has got to be the biggest dick in the Bible. Except, of course, God),

and then he dies.

So you’re probably saying “Lucky? What kind of sick degenerate pederast calls that lucky?”

Me. While I’m not actually a pederast (though my initial thought about Taylor Hansen was sexual, I’m sorry, it was a mistake, and not a horribly uncommon one, I think. Quagmire, you aren’t alone). Jesus Christ, whether the son of god or not, got to suffer for what he believed was the good of all humanity. And that kind of suffering (Shit, I probably left out some stuff– he got to go through all of that and die thinking that his agony was going to redeem the souls of all of humanity) sounds like a pretty good deal to me. I may be more altruistic than most, but still. You get to be THAT guy. Not the naked-at-the-party-guy, or the pissed-his-bed-until-his-late-teens guy, or the drove-his-car-into-a-wall-at-forty-miles-an-hour-and-cracked-the-windshield-with-his-head-and- never-lost-consciousness guy. I’ve been those guys. You get to be the be the dude who, for the meager price of a couple days (maybe weeks, torture was an art form back then) saves all of humanity for all of time.

I can’t think of a smooth (or any) segue here, so fuck it. Franz Kafka wrote this short story a while back (in 1922, I think, I hate fact checking) called “The Hunger Artist”. I always dug that story, which I read when I was eleven or twelve, because I thought that it was so cool that someone would put themselves through the very special Hell that is starvation just for the entertainment of the masses. I realized, of course, the Kafka was saying something very different (and more insightful about humanity) with his point, but he’s dead and I’m not, so fuck him.

My point about Jesus and the Hunger Artist is this: I’m better than you.

I’m simply more capable of being entertaining than anyone. I’ve done stuff that you couldn’t or wouldn’t do. I’ve seen shit you wouldn’t want to. And I’ll tell you about it. At great length. Because, frankly, I’m more interested in myself too. It isn’t narcissism, it’s just being realistic.

There are people who are smarter, better looking (they’ll get theirs, though) or more driven. They’re on TV or stage or somewhere that you see them more, and that’s fine. For now. But the end of this little…ramble…is to say that I’m gonna tell you stories about things I’ve done, and I promise you, they’re more interesting than what you have to talk about at your dinner table. Fuck, you’re probably watching TV. That’s fine though. The beautiful thing about being as interesting as I am is that, despite occasionally (maybe more than occasionally) shedding my own blood (or someone else’s), destroying property, having to run semi-clothed through yards to avoid the parents of someone who wasn’t as old as they said they were, and having heavy metal playing persistently in your head, I’m NEVER boring.

So fuck your TV. (Suggestion)

Fuck going to the Gym. (Suggestion)

Fuck your friends. (Command)

Open a beer, pack a bong, rail some blow, do what you gotta do, but read my shit or your life will continue to be the boring waste of time that it has been for however many years you’ve been doing whatever meaningless shit it is that you do.

Reflections on driving a cab. Waking up early, like 4 am, the city of Philadelphia and its surrounding environs have a quiet beauty, particularly some of the worst sections. The kind of surreal stillness that the city has between breaths, where just the bones are alive, all the human and automotive muscle stripped away, exposing just what’s left: the ... [continue]]]>

Reflections on driving a cab. Waking up early, like 4 am, the city of Philadelphia and its surrounding environs have a quiet beauty, particularly some of the worst sections. The kind of surreal stillness that the city has between breaths, where just the bones are alive, all the human and automotive muscle stripped away, exposing just what’s left: the kind of feeling, when as a kid, I got when I was up way past my bedtime; seeing things that you aren’t privy to normally, during normal people hours; as a kid, this was usually softcore porn. These days, I’d compare it to watching a good friend sleep, though without the creepy stalker connotation: seeing someone you care about at rest after a hard day, the lines and crease of their face relaxed.

I don’t generally relate to morning people. My thought processes just tend to be different. They’re fairly often traveling somewhere work-related, pursuing whatever it is that normal people pursue: mortgage payment, car payment, credit card payment, some kind of payment. With them, I try to listen more, occasionally prodding with a mildly contrary remark; to learn why they pursue the things they pursue. I say “they” because morning people are, for the most part, largely dissimilar to me. Their basic needs of food, shelter, comfort and affection are usually similar, but guess the real difference is how they define the latter two: What is comfort? What is affection?

Is comfort sitting in an uncomfortable car seat all day, punctuated by burst of jarring motion to assist someone with their luggage or groceries, having to keep your eyes always fixated on the road, and keep your mind focused on the psychological needs of your passenger, both of which change at irregular intervals? This is what being a good cab driver is, and yes, actually, it’s quite comfortable. Constant instability, I feel, doesn’t sit well with most people. They need some sense of routine. Others thrive on a lack of routine, and I think that there are more of them at night.

One of the most untrue statements one can say is “There are two types of people.” That said, there are two types of people: day people and night people, for lack of a better defining line. I use this distinction because the latter type seems to be more prevalent during the night, though as with any generalization, there are of course plenty of exceptions.

Night people I think look for more fleeting affection, the grope at the bar, the anonymous fuck, the jacking off while watching two dogs hump. Day people have probably stopped reading after that little gem.

Day people do the husband/wife or girlfriend/boyfriend thing, the stable thing, the thing where you put up with the occasional emotional discomfort for the greater pleasantness of waking up next to someone who cares about you. Night people go for this to, of course, but I think it lasts longer during with day people.

Night people and day people might agree on politics, or religion, or abortion, or necrophilia, or any number of things, but the why is where the distinction lies: is it because of the mind or the gut that dictates your feelings on the subject? Do you like a politician because of their politics or their face and body language? Do you believe in God because it’s what makes sense to you, it’s what you were taught or because deep down in the cockles of your heart, you know that there is a fundamental plan to the universe, directed but an unseen hand? Do you thing that having sex with a corpse is gross, fucked up and weird because it’s gross, fucked up and weird, or are you gross, fucked up and weird? Because really, dude, if having sex with dead people is your idea of a good time, I don’t know, use protection or something. And shower. Ug. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Anyway, there’s this guy in my cab who I figured for the boring accountant, the nine to fiver, the grunt in the constant battle against insurmountable mounds of paperwork. Well, he’s an accountant. The guy has ridden with me several times, and has given me fleeting feelings that he carrying some heavy weight. Not so much a guilty weight, more of an empty weight. Empty weights, while sounding like a self contradicting phrase, are often the heaviest. It’s the weight of having an unfulfilled need in your life; an itch that you can’t bring yourself to scratch, or would feel guilty about scratching.

So, when I drove by a drove of cross-country running girls in shorts, and remarked on the beauty of birds flying in formation, I received a taste of what this dude’s weight/itch was: lack of sexual fulfillment. As soon as I pointed out the group of cuties, I got a tirade about all the little pieces of ass trotting around center city, and how he loved spring for the return, after a winter slumber, of skirts and how he had an asian girlfriend in college who gave him a blumpkin once (blumpkin: noun, the act of performing fellatio on one whilst they defecate in a toilet) and how his wife is so boring in bed. Ah, there’s the weight. My response was along the lines of “Oh?”

People will tell cab drivers things that they would never normally tell their co-worker, or spouse, or therapist. It’s the anonymity. And, in my case, the seeming utter lack of judgment. If the guy, while he’s “making love” to his wife, might perhaps be thinking about dropping a deuce on her chest, or maybe dressing in her clothes and having her beat him with an eggplant, who am I to say that that’s wrong? I’m just a cab driver. So he proceeds to tell me that when he’s with his wife, and his son is in bed, he’s had a harder and harder time getting hard. He’s considering looking into Viagra or Cialis or some weird hormone treatment (I counseled against this last; he could end up bald with bitch-tits). I got the strong feeling by his lackluster talk about drug or hormone therapy that he didn’t think that his problem was physical (he’s in his late thirties and seems in decent health). I considered the wisdom of this for a moment, but then, banking on the anonymity factor, I inquired as to what he thought about when he was plowing the field. He told me usually other women. Ok, who doesn’t do that every so often? He said that he likes them a little older. Oh shit, here we go. I inquired as to what older was. He blushed and grew visibly uncomfortable. No prodding here, I thought, he’ll talk or he won’t, and it really doesn’t matter to me if he does. Though I am sort of car-wreck curious. And he begins talking about his mother and how she’s in a nursing home (wow, this is going downhill in a hurry) and her roommate is in her seventies (I’ve seen some not unattractive seventy year olds. I guess.) and how the roommate has to have her bedpan changed like three times a day (oops, right back on the downhill). It was right about then that we pulled up to his house, and embarrassed but relieved, he got out. He rode with me again a couple of weeks later. He completed his thought.

The woman, his mother’s roommate, had gotten his attention while his mother was riding the morphine train, and informed in that, since she had taken a fall and broken her wrist, she had been unable to masturbate, which had, until then, been the only thing she looked forward to.

I’m sure you see where this leads.

So, with his mother unconscious next to him, he proceeds to finger this bedridden elderly woman to an intense, squirting orgasm. He told me (his face turning a shade of red that a beet would envy) that he had an intense erection the entire time. I, actually taken aback for the first time in several years, could only think to laud him for helping out someone who was disabled. As I said, I’m really not judgmental. He did this a couple more times, though, he said that he and the roommate never got close on any emotional level, that it was purely physical. But he began to look forward to going to the nursing home, and his mother, whose health was in steady decline, was not the source of his eagerness, needless to say. So he and the roommate continued like this for the better part of a year, until she died of pneumonia. This had apparently been roughly three years prior, and, right around then, his libido took a nose dive. Correction, not his libido; he was as horny as ever. His ability to fulfill himself took the dive. I asked him if he saw any correlation. He said of course he did, he was just unsure how to act on it. I took a mental deep breath, rolled the dice and asked him if he felt like he satisfied his wife in bed.

He actually managed to turn more red, drifting towards purple.

Ah. The meat of the matter, as it were.

He replied that no, he didn’t. I inquired as to whether or not he had had other extramarital trysts. He said that while he hadn’t, he would be open to the idea. And then the bomb.

He asked me for my number. I asked him to what end. He said that he was wondering if I would perhaps come over and fuck his wife while he watched.

I guess the point of that whole anecdote is to say that, occasionally, for whatever reason, night people walk around during the day. People with those more… complicated…. Tastes, needs, wants and desires sometimes manage to look a surprising amount like you. Or me.

I asked him what his wife looked like, and I might just give them a call.