Bubbie Has A Boyfriend

 

There was quite a furor in my house. The kids were upset, my wife was uncharacteristically quiet, and once again I found myself in the role of therapist for this band of brooding, yet quite lovable barbarians. As innocent as it appeared to me, there was much anxiety over the news that my 80 year old mother-in-law had a boyfriend.

“Who is this man?”, one of my daughters asked.

“What does Bubbie need a boyfriend for?”, another one shouted out.

“We need to check this guy out.”, a son chimed in. “What if he’s after her money or something?” I sat listening to this diatribe, wondering what he hell had happened to what I thought was a reasonably sensible family.

“I don’t know who he is.”, my wife said. “Except that he’s younger than her, and he’s French.”

“He’s a gigolo.”, another son entered the fray.

“Are they, like dating?”, a daughter asked.

“It appears that way.”, my wife responded. “He just moved into her building.”

“Oh my God!”, a daughter quipped. “Are they living together?”

“No.”, my wife said. “He has his own apartment. A few floors above hers.”

“Well, that’s convenient.”, I said. Its probably not even furnished..”

“What is that supposed to mean?”, my wife asked, with arms folded.

“It means they are probably living together.”, a son replied. “He just rented his own apartment to make it look good.”

“They are not living together.”, my wife stated. “And please”, she added as she looked directly at me, “If you’re not going to help, then just say nothing.”

“I just don’t think there’s anything to get so upset about.”, I said. “The woman has been a widow for almost 40 years. She spent all of that time alone. I think its good for her to meet someone and try to be happy.”

“Well, it’s not your mother, is it?”, my wife reminded me. And true enough, it wasn’t.

“We need to meet this guy.”, a son said. “We need to check him out and make sure he’s okay for Bubbie.”

“We should just put him in the trunk of his car and leave him in the parking lot at the Airport.”, someone said.

“This isn’t a Mafia hit.”, I interjected.

“What if they’re having sex?”, a daughter asked.

“They’re not having sex.”, my wife answered.

“How do you know?”, I asked.

“Because they’re not.”, she said. “You’re still not helping.”, she said to me.

“Well”, I offered.”Why don’t we ask your mother and her friend to join us for lunch. We’ll all go. We can meet him, and see what’s going on. Maybe then you can all stop talking about it.” There are times when I have wonderfully brilliant solutions to all of my families troubles, but not one of them will ever let me know. This was one of those times.

“Okay.”, my wife said. “I call my mother and make arrangements for this weekend.”

“I’m going to grill him.”, a daughter said. “No one messes with my Bubbie.”

“We could take him outside and threaten him.”, a son said. “You know, scare the crap out of him.”

“Who are you?”, I asked him. “We’re not the Sopranos!”

“We will all behave.”, my wife said. “It will be a nice getting to know you, and welcome to the family lunch.”

“He’s not in my family.”, a daughter said.

“Does he even speak English?”, a daughter asked.

“He speaks English.”, I assured her. “But like a Frenchman. Just mumble, close your eyes and move your head around a bit when you speak to him. He’ll understand perfectly.”

As the day of the luncheon rolled around, everyone was working on their own agendas. There were those who had plans to batter the man with incessant questioning, while others were planning on intimidating and threatening. My wife wasn’t sure how she would react. She hoped that she would like him, for her mother’s sake, but she already had issue with him. Me, well, it made no difference to me whatsoever. I was pretty far removed from the emotional turbulence that had overwhelmed my family. If he was alright, then I was alright. All of the kids and their significant others met at the restaurant about 20 minutes before we arranged for them to come. We were an intimidating site for a newcomer, all 10 of us, seated at the table, some with a scornful demeanor, and visible uneasiness. “Please make sure your children behave.”, my wife whispered to me.

“Why are they suddenly mine?”, I asked.

“Because you taught them to be rude and disrespectful.”, she said.

“Okay.”, I said to my kids. “You really need to tone it down, and behave yourselves. Be nice. Be polite. We’re hear for your grandmother. Let’s try to make her happy.”

When they arrived, we all sat there talking, introducing ourselves, and trying to get to know the Frenchman. I’m sure he knew the scrutiny he was under. I’m sure my mother-in-law warned him about our family. But he was alright. He held his own. One of my daughters kept giving him the ‘stink eye’, and I had to glare at her to get her to stop. It turned out that the Frenchman had a crap load of money, owned several properties across Canada, including a beach house in Nova Scotia, and a Condo in Vancouver. I could see my daughter’s eyes light up,  with dollar signs floating around her face. My mother-in-law seemed happy, the happiest I had seen her in many, many years. My wife, struggling a little to let go of the ghost of her father, also saw her mother’s happiness. We finished lunch, and said our goodbyes, as they had a long drive back to Windsor. As the rest of us walked towards our cars, there was much chatter about the Frenchman.

“He seems okay.”, a son said.

“I still don’t like him.”, a daughter said.

“Do you think I could get him to pay off my student loan?”, another daughter asked.

“I hate the French.”, someone stated.

In the car, heading home, my wife asked me what I thought of him. “I don’t know.”, I told her. “He seems nice enough, and your mother is very happy.”

“I don’t want her to get hurt.”, she said.

“Ah, honey.”, I said. “They’re 80 years old. He can’t get her money because we have signing authority. What’s left for him to take? Her virtue? That ship sailed a long, long time ago. Let her have fun. We will take care of her, but she needs to live.”

“I know.”, she said. “I just worry that he’ll leave or something, and then she’ll have nothing.”

“She’ll have us.”, I reminded her.

“Thank you for looking out for my mother.”, she told me.

“And besides”, I stated. “If he hurts her, we can always have him stuffed into the trunk of a car parked at the airport. Your gangster son would gladly do the job.”

“Oh, so now he’s my son.”, she exclaimed.

“Yes.”, I explained. “The crazy shit they get from you. The kids and I refer to it as ‘getting Moroccan’.”

“Well”, she said, “We have some time without any kids. Interested in some crazy Moroccan sex?”

“It so happens that’s my favorite kind.”, I told her. Man, I love this woman..

 

 

 

 

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School Of Hard Rocks

 

For as long as I can remember, I have lived my life in a blaze of psychedelic pornography. I suspect that it began with Mr. Norton, an American draft evader who came to Canada and wound up teaching English at my High School. We would spend many a lunch time, discussing music and literature, as we smoked a joint, and occasionally dropped a hit of acid in his car.

I first laid eyes on Wendy Glass in Mr. Norton’s English class. She sat directly across from me. Long blonde hair, tight sweater, and short skirt, that gave me alternating views of her wonderfully contoured thighs and pink panties, every time she crossed and uncrossed her legs. I painfully sat through discussions of ‘Brave New World’ and  ‘Heart Of Darkness’, with my eyes fixed on what lay beneath her skirt, and an erection that never seemed to go away. My days were filled with thoughts of her, and my nights were a series of cinemascopic dreams that rivaled any masturbatory imagery I had ever experienced.

She was wonderfully coy every time I spoke to her, with a flip of her hair over her right shoulder, a tilt of her head, and a giggle, that made me want to take her right there in the school hallway. By the following school year, we would sit in a stairwell and smoke a joint,  and she would talk about the other girls in our grade who ignored or disliked her. I listened intently, my erection straining the fabric of my jeans, wondering if now was the  right time to kiss her. Not just any kiss, but a kiss to end all kisses, full on mouth to mouth, with tongues dancing in synchronized rhythm for what seemed like eternity. When she stopped talking, I convinced her to join my friends and I for a day of cutting school and wandering around Centre Island. There was already talk around the school, since we had been seen together, that I was a drugged out sex maniac, and she was nothing more than a common whore. Now, to set the record straight, I was indeed a drugged out, sex maniac, but Wendy was far from common.

While I was trying to gain access to the uncharted, wonderful world of Wendy, I had also been busy dipping into the warm womanhood of Ms. Sherman, the young French teacher. I seemed to have a knack for languages, and while she praised my oral skills, I must confess that her own particular oral technique was incredibly developed. We would meet in the French room after school, and with the doors locked, begin our pas de deux, which we would move to her car, parked in the back of the parking lot, and complete our horizontal tango. We followed this up with smoking a joint, and then parted ways until the next time. I was quite proud of this achievement, but more than Ms. Sherman, I wanted Wendy Glass.

I had imagined her naked many, many times. I had decided our trip to Centre Island was my opportunity for a rousing bout of carnal calisthenics. As we boarded the ferry, she hung on tightly to my shirt. She sat close beside me, so close that I could feel her skin touch mine. The blood was coursing through my veins,  and ended up, as it always did, south of my belt. What was it about this girl that keep me in a state of perpetual erection? As the boat docked, and the all clear was given, she stood up, waiting for me to stand as well. It took me a minute, as I thought about baseball, Leo Gorcey, and Huntz Hall before I was able to stand up without looking like Pinocchio was stuffed down the front of my pants.

While my friends decided to take paddle boats for a ride, Wendy and I simply walked the island, crossing pedestrian bridges that spanned the inlets that separated the islands from each other. We walked, talking about music, books, and things existential, and I felt her take my hand. I turned to look at her, and I was completely taken by her beauty. It was as if I was seeing her for the first time. Without hesitation, I kissed her, long and deep. I would have been content with just that, but Pinocchio had other ideas, and I laid her right there and then, on the grass. We stayed there for what seemed like forever afterward, eating some peyote, and watching the soft early summer clouds explode in purples and blues and greens. They danced across the sky smiling, expanding and contracting, taking on weird shapes as they came closer, as if trying to swallow us.

As the school year drew to a close, I lost touch with Wendy Glass. We had classes, developed different friendships, and drifted apart. I would often see her in the hallways of  Newton High School, and we would smile, and say hello, as we continued on our separate paths. Ms. Sherman remained at the school for one more semester, before accepting a position at a French Immersion school outside the city. Mr. Norton stayed on for my entire high school career, and we continued to visit his car, getting wasted, and discussing my emerging interests in Kafka, Vonnegut, and existential nihilism.  Following graduation, I never saw him again.

I ran into Wendy many, many years later.  She was working as a veterinarian nurse at an animal clinic where I had taken my dog for his annual shots. . She looked the same,  long blond hair, tight sweater, and short skirt. We talked for a while, and fondly reminisced about that day at the island. I told her how I was constantly getting hardons every time she crossed her legs. She said that she knew, and that was why she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs. We both laughed.   It was nice to be able to look back with the clarity of retrospection, and to realize that time doesn’t change us unless we want it to, I mean she was still an uncommon whore, and I was still a drugged out sex maniac.

Rules Of Engagement

 

“I can’t sleep.”, my wife informed me as I was finally drifting off. “The atmosphere has been weird for the past two weeks. Do you know what I mean?”

“I understand the words.”, I replied. “But I have no idea what you mean.”

“Its like things are out of whack.” she continued. “It just doesn’t feel right. And its making me very uneasy.  Does that make any sense?”

“Not really.”, I told her. “But I don’t share your Moroccan sensitivity.”

“Do you think that’s what it is?”, she asked.

“Well”, I answered, “Either that or you’ve lost your mind.”

“We’ll go with the Moroccan sensitivity.”, she said.

“Either way.”, I informed her, “Its okay with me.” Several minutes of silence passed, and I could feel myself drifting off to sleep, once again.

“So what do you want to do now?”, my wife asked.

“What?”, I inquired, both surprised and agitated.

“Well, we can’t sleep.”, she stated, “did you want to talk, or watch tv or something?”

“We could fool around.”, I said.

“No.” , she answered, “I’m not in the mood for that.”

“Well.”, I said, “I think I’ll just go to sleep.”

“That’s it?”, she asked angrily. “You’re only willing to stay awake for sex?”

“Pretty much.”, I told her.

“You’re an ass.”, she said.

“Look.”, I told her, as I turned to face her. “There are only two reasons I have ever been prepared to stay awake. If you need medical attention, or sex. If you don’t need either of those, I have to get some sleep. I’m exhausted”

“Well, I’m over exhausted.” she said. “But this feeling is freaking me out.”

“You can’t be over exhausted.”, I informed her. “Exhausted is finite. There are degrees of tired, and exhausted is the ultimate. You can be over tired, but there is nothing beyond exhausted. You could use an adjective, like totally exhausted, but its redundant. Exhausted implies that you are the most tired you could be.”

“Shut up.”, she said, as she turned her back to me.

“You don’t have to be angry about it.”, I told her.

“Yes I do.”, she stated. “The rules are if I can’t sleep, you stay up with me.”

“Really?”, I inquired. “And if I can’t sleep, do you have to stay up with me?”

“No.”, she informed me. “Only if you’re very sick, or hurt.”

“Who made these rules.”, I asked.

“I did.”, she answered.

“It must be nice to just make up any rule you want.”, I stated sarcastically, sitting up in bed now, realizing that I was completely awake.

“It is.”, she said.

“Well, I’m awake now.”, I told her. “What do you want to do?”

“I’m feeling sleepy now.”, she said. “I think I’m going to go to sleep.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”, I stated with some indignance. “You’ve kept me awake, and now that I can’t sleep, you decide that you’re going to sleep?”

“Those are the rules.”, she said.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”, I asked.

“Well”, she said. “Medical attention or sex. You decide.”

“You know you make me crazy.”, I told her.

“I know.”, she replied. “That’s also one of the rules.”

 

 

Aristotle Never Went To Amsterdam

 

Sometime in the early to mid 1970s, I set off to find myself, although I wasn’t even certain that I had been missing. Armed with pen and paper, and with the words of Kerouac, Salinger, and Thompson reverberating in my head, I headed down the psychedelic super highway of hallucinogenics. Hurtling headfirst at record breaking speeds, I found myself in Amsterdam, careening through a maze of idioms & isms, made palatable by copious amounts of sex, and drugs, and rock and roll. I was determined to ingest and inhale everything this deliciously, sordid city offered, fueled by the hallucinations brought on by my drug addled mind.

I checked into the Hotel Cok, on Jan Luykenstraat, renting a single room on the top floor with a view of the canal. There was a bar in the hotel basement which was run by Julian, a drugged out, French ex-patriot who introduced me to lager & lime. I spent a great deal of time hanging out with Julian, and we shared a fascination with drugs, and a love of music. We spent some afternoons in the bar as Julian introduced me to Moving Gelatine Plates, Magma, & Art Zoyd, while I flooded his brain with The 13th Floor Elevators, Spirit, and The Blues Magoos. We listened intently, having sampled the newly arrived hallucinogenics, and took turns chasing away the pterodactyls who had congregated just outside the door. And in The Hotel Cok, one summer morning, during a bout of existential ennui, I met Tessa.

She was insanely beautiful, with long blonde hair, green eyes, and legs that never seemed to stop, and worked as a maid in the hotel. We became inseparable after she walked in to my room to clean as I was standing there, naked, having just emerged from the shower. While I was uncertain what I was supposed to do next, Tessa was quite willing, and more than able to perform on her knees. We spent all of our time together from that moment on. She referred to it as dating, and who was I to argue with the older woman who was consistently offering herself to me. In the mornings we would head over to the Amstel Brewery tour, sampling several types of beer, and at night, we hung out at The Melkweg, a club located in the Leidseplein, the hub of Amsterdam’s night life, lingering in the hazy fog of the drugs that were readily available.

In the afternoons, as both Tessa & Julian worked, I was free to roam the city, seeking inspiration and motivation to continue my quest. One particular afternoon, I went to The  Museum where, after having dropped yellow submarines, I stood in front of a painting of penises. There were hundreds of them. Some were riding bicycles, while others were eating carnival foods. There were some in top hats, and little ones, running with balloons. I have no idea if what I saw was really there, but it was an enjoyable piece, whatever it was.

When I returned to the Hotel Cok bar, Tessa informed me that there was a free concert in Vondel Park that night, with Golden Earring set to perform. By the time we arrived at the site, thousands of people had filled the park, setting the stage for what I hoped would become the Dutch Woodstock. We found a spot on the grass, and sat back, drinking mushroom tea, and drifting in and out of places I had never been before, or after. There were Police on foot and horseback, patrolling the grounds, presumably to keep the paranoid schizophrenics, and, I hoped, the dragons at bay. The atmosphere was wonderfully psychedelic,  with people dancing to music that had not even begun to play. There was a roar from the enormous crowd when the band took the stage, and I sat in awe, as they opened with a 45 minute cover of The Byrds’ “Eight Miles High”. Sometime during an intense solo, in a foolish attempt to reach the heights being sung about, Tessa & I ate peyote buttons, that Julian was able to obtain through a smarmy, South American Art Dealer who appeared to look like a goldfish. I have no recollection of how many we ate, or for that matter, any thing else that happened that night. I awoke the next morning in Vondel Park with Tessa in my arms, and my pants nowhere to be found.

On the days when Julian had to work, Tessa & I would borrow Julian’s Vespa and head out to wherever the road took us. Inevitably,we found ourselves at some point in the day, hanging out at Dam Square. the meeting place for all of those who had no idea what they wanted, and really didn’t care to find out. It was filled with hippies, musicians, and artists, all banding together to protest against war, or taxes, or some plan to stifle their freedom of creativity. They were peaceful protests, the kind of protest one would expect from a crowd who had heavily ingested hits of acid that were being passed around in small wicker baskets. There was chanting, and singing, and the occasional panic stricken scream from someone in the midst of a bad trip. Tessa and I would occasionally wander off to the Damrak and contemplate threesomes with some of the hotter girls that she would pick out, sitting in their windows, dressed in leather, or lace, or both.

Trush, a Danish tourist from Copenhagen, had recently left her husband, and was trying to start a new life. She had been sitting alone at the bar most of the morning, Julian informed me. Tessa went over to speak to her, and before long, Trush had joined our little group of misfits. Julian said that he was attracted to her mind, that she gave him a mental hard on. It didn’t matter to Tessa or I what he said, we both knew it was her enormous tits. Julian made Mushroom tea, and we all sat around for what seemed like hours, drinking tea, listening to music, and watching the giant iguanas crawl across the walls. Bad Company was playing on the bar’s stereo. We drank lager & lime, and ate  Bitterballen, a weird, deep fried meatball, which surprisingly tasted better than it looked. We ate, and talked, and drank more magic mushroom tea. As the title track of the album began playing, Trush started dancing, swaying back and forth to the music, and removing her clothes. Julian felt the need to stop her, although I suggested that we let her dance. I must have drifted off into some far away place where Trush was completely naked, brought back only by Julian insisting that Tessa and I take her to her room.  As high as we were,  we scaled the 4 flights of stairs, and managed to get Trush into her room still partially dressed, and safe. Once inside, Trush continued to remove her clothes. She was beautiful naked. Tessa and I were both staring at her incredible body. Tessa and I looked at each other. It was decided. This was the dream.  I had heard that Danish women had no inhibitions, and it turned out that Dutch girls don’t have many either. When we left her, we returned to the bar, but quite exhausted. I was certain that Julian knew exactly what we had done.

There was a boat that toured the city through its myriad of canals. Julian & I had ingested Peyote buttons, that he had secured from his South American Art Dealing goldfish. As we cruised through canal after canal, the buildings that lined the streets seemed to melt, falling backwards, and dissolving in the blue and white hues of the late afternoon sky. The sun was hot, incredibly hot, creating a haze over the city, and I felt like I was looking through a cellophane filter of assorted colors. As the boat passed The West Church, the hands of the clock which sat on on the less than impressive tower, which protruded into the air like an enormous erect penis, began to spin erratically, changing time, and changing faces. It would smile, and scowl, and then grimace. I took out my notebook and wrote ‘time is quite emotional’ in large letters. It sounded wonderfully brilliant and poetic at the time, and I was certain that I could use that line somewhere in my work.

One weekend, Trush suggested that we go to Copenhagen with her, and visit Tivoli. Julian and Tessa had to work at The Hotel Cock, so Trush and I boarded a train, and ferried to Copenhagen. Tivoli is an insanely wonderful place. If you have never been there, I suggest you go on LSD. Or peyote. The movement, the colors, and the sounds are excruciatingly mind blowing. There were clowns floating on stilts, eight miles high, with crazy smiles and red noses, laughing manically, as they leaned down to pat you on the head. I have been told that there were in fact no clowns when I was there,  but I saw clowns. They had a magical wheel, that spun around high over our heads, with lights pulsating faster with every spin, and there were screaming people who seemed to be trapped on it, begging to get off,  until finally it slowed to a stop, and they went scurrying off in all directions. The entire weekend was filled with drugs and sex, and I can say with certainty that Trush was as incredible in Denmark, as she was in The Netherlands.

We returned to The Hotel Cok. As my money began to run out , and I had no desire or intent to leave Amsterdam,  Julian arranged a job for me at the bar. He taught me how to pull beer from the taps. It was a wonderful gig. We were high all of the time. I was making enough to cover my expenses and keep me on the far side of the moon. Things with Tessa and I had changed, at least that’s what she told me. She was upset over my jaunt to Copenhagen with Trush, and felt that she just couldn’t trust me. It didn’t matter, really, we were still sleeping together, and so were Tessa and Trush.  The three of us  continued to share my single room on the top floor of the Hotel Cok. There was an endless supply of psilocybin, peyote, and acid, and I somehow became quite a fan of Van Gogh. When Tessa worked, Trush & I spent hours at the Van Gogh Museum, not far from the hotel, lost in the madness I saw in the paintings. When we returned to our room, Tessa would be waiting with mushroom tea, and peyote buttons. It is interesting, I think, that I don’t remember eating much during this time.

That night we all went out to catch a screening of Rosemary’s Baby at the Cinecenter. While waiting in line, we met 2 American soldiers. They were stationed in Germany, and were on leave. They asked for directions to the Red Light District, and inquired if we had any drugs. Julian provided both directions and a couple of hits to the men in uniform. In the theatre, Tessa had a difficult time dealing with the movie. It was freaking her out. She had been raised a Protestant, and the references to the devil were unbearably frightening.  I was sure the the grab bag of hallucinogenics we had taken, did little to calm her down. She was experiencing a bad trip, so I took her outside, and we sat on a bench outside of the theatre, where we waited for Trush and Julian. I held her tightly, while I watched the flying monkeys circle the Melkweg, which was just down the road. “Good thing we didn’t go there tonight.” I thought. She was getting cold, so I took her back to our room, put her into bed, and lay down beside her. Trush returned a short time later, and informed us that she saw those 2 American GI Joes whom we had met earlier get arrested for refusing to pay one of the prostitutes for services rendered. It seems that they objected to the fact that she made them cum too fast. In her defense, which she shared with the Police, how is that her problem? As she was hired to provide a service, and not contracted for any specific length of time, she met her obligation and they were obligated to meet theirs. Days later, Julian told us that they had involved the American Consulate, who arranged for all charges to be dropped, and the 2 men were returned to their base in Germany for disciplinary hearings. Furlough cancelled.

I began to wonder about my reason for coming to Amsterdam. I had set out on a journey of discovery, and while I did learn much about myself, I was now thinking that I may really need to find a place for recovery, It felt like it was time to move on. It had been one hell of a party, with an insanely wonderful guest list. I doubted that I would ever be as close to anyone as I was to Julian, Tessa, and Trush.

Julian stayed on at The Hotel Cok, acting as bartender, drug dealer, and companion to many tourists for many years to follow. I stayed in touch with him for several years, but then, as it inevitably happens, we lost contact with each other. Trush left Amsterdam before I did. She went fully clothed, and rumor had it that she had returned to her husband in Odesne, long enough to relieve him of some of his money, and headed out to The United States to  begin a career as an actress.  I suspect that she would have wound up in porn, as that seemed to play directly into her skill set. And Tessa, well I guess I realized that I was never really in love with her.  I cared for her, but it was just about the sex. She must have realized it too, and she moved on, finding employment at an upscale, 5 star hotel as a hostess. We wrote letters back and forth for a while, but I suppose neither one of us really gave a damn anymore.

And me, well, my own memory, which I was pretty sure I would have lost in the course of my journeys through time and space was not to be trusted, and I was forever glad that I had written it all down in the notebook I carried, recording it for posterity.  I left Amsterdam, content, tired, and totally wasted, still searching for whatever I would find.

 

 

Sex, And Drugs, And Rock ‘N’ Roll

 

“Did you do a lot of drugs when you were younger, daddy?”, one of my daughters asked me.

“Why would you ask me that?”, I responded.

“Well, mommy said that back in your old hippie days, you were on drugs most of the time.”, she informed me.

“Really?”, I inquired. “And why would you need to know about that?”

“We have to do a project in school.”, she answered. “I have to gather information about what my parents were like when they were younger, and present it to the class.”

“I don’t think they’re looking for that kind of information.”, I advised. “I think they want to know where we lived, how many brothers and sisters we have, where we went to school. That sort of stuff.”

“No, Mrs. Kennedy said to gather as much information about your parents as you can.”, she told me. I was pretty sure my wife was not aware of the purpose of my daughter’s thirst for knowledge about my past, but now I had to figure out how to stop the flow of that particular information.

“Why did you tell Melinda about shit I did when we were kids?” I asked. “What were you thinking?”

“Relax.”, she said. “Its no big deal. She doesn’t even know what I was talking about.”

“Oh, she does.”, I quipped. “And interestingly enough, its for a class project. She is going to present her findings to the class.”

“You’re kidding.”, my wife barked.

“No.”, I continued. “That’s what she told me.”

“Well.”, she said, as she chuckled. “Its not that bad, is it?”

“Well, I hope you can keep laughing about it. It gets worse.”, I responded. “I told her that you were a stripper.”

“You’re kidding?”, she snapped.

“In my defense, it was before I knew it was for a school project.”, I replied. “And, if its any consolation, I told her you were very, very good.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do about this, now?”, she asked.

“Well, I could get high, we could put some music on, and you could start taking your clothes off.”, I suggested.

“Really?”, she asked. “That’s your solution? Sex and drugs can’t fix everything!”

“And rock and roll.”, I corrected her. “Sex and drugs and rock and roll. And yes, I’m pretty sure it can make everything better.”

“Not this.”, she said.

“Well”, I stated, “I don’t think it could make it worse.”

“Be serious.”, she pleased. “We need to figure out how to stop her from announcing those things at school.”

“Its really not that bad.”, I said trying to ease her anxiety.

“Maybe not for you.”, she responded. “You were only a druggie. Big deal. Everyone was doing all kinds of shit back then. But I’m going to have to face our neighbors and the parents of every kid in her class, with everyone thinking I was a cheap stripper.”

“First of all,”, I explained. “They’re now referred to as exotic dancers, which sounds pretty sweet, and secondly, I never said you were cheap.”

“I’m glad you find this funny.”, she said, as her Spanish-Moroccan eyes started burning holes in my cranium.

“I’ll take care of it.”, I told her.  I found my daughter sitting at the kitchen table working on her school project.

“Listen”, I said. “I made that stuff up about mommy. I was just angry that she told you about me using drugs. She never was a stripper. You would be lying if you put that in your project.”

“I wouldn’t put that in my project.”, she told me. “It would hurt mommy’s feelings.”

“I see.”, I said. “But your okay telling everyone that I used all kinds of drugs when I was younger?”

“Ya.”, she said. “You don’t get upset like mommy. Her feelings get hurt very easy.”

“Really?”, I replied.

“Don’t you know that?”, she asked me in response.

“I guess that I never really thought about it.”, I said.

“Well, you should.”, she advised me. I thanked her for listening, and headed off to the family room.

“I think I’ve just been scolded by your daughter.”, I informed my wife.

“Well, you deserved it.”, she said.

“No doubt.”, I replied. “When did she get so smart?”

” You know, she’s my daughter too.”, she told me.

“I hear you.”, I stated. “I’m going to go to bed.”

“I’ll join you.”, she said as she turned off the television. “Maybe, if you’re lucky, we’ll see just how good of a stripper I really am.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Move Your Face Away From My Daughter

 

 

I had been informed, inadvertently, that all 3 of my daughters were sexually active. Its not that I didn’t think it would happen, I mean, they are all adults now, but I really didn’t want to know. Not ever.

My entire life as a father was spent preventing this from happening. I spent countless nights sitting at the kitchen table pretending to review case notes, while pubescent, little pukes sat on the couch in the family room beside one of my daughters pretending to be watching ‘Shrek’, or ‘Matilda”, or some other piece of cinematic dribble. If he got too close, I would slide the chair back across the ceramic kitchen floor, and he would jump back into his own space. At what he thought was an opportune moment, he leaned closer and attempted to swallow my daughter. “Hey.”, I shouted at him from the kitchen. “Move your face away from my daughter.”

“I don’t know what the problem is.”, my wife stated. “Its all perfectly normal.”

“Its far from perfect.”, I replied.

“We did the same thing.”, she reminded me.

“I know exactly what things we did.”, I said. “But your father liked me And that doesn’t really help at all.”

“I’m not so sure he would liked you if he knew what you were doing to me.”, she stated. “And you said you like Margeaux’s boyfriend, didn’t you?”

“Not enough to sleep with my daughter.”, I answered.

“I know.”, she said. “But she’s an adult now. What did you think they were doing?”, she inquired. “They’re living together! And girls will find themselves involved with men who are very much like their fathers.”

“Ah, hell no! It doesn’t matter.”, I told her. “What I never thought about was what he was doing to her. Now,I’m just going to have to make the little peckerhead disappear.”

“Why is this so hard for you to deal with?”, she asked. “Did you want them to be alone for the rest of their lives?”

“No.”, I answered somewhat dejectedly. “But they could have joined a nunnery.”

“We’re not Catholic.”, my wife felt the need to remind me.

“We could be.”, I replied. “What the hell is going on with my girls?”, I asked, although I had no idea why. I really had no desire to know anything anymore, but it was the only thing I could think of to say.

“Do you really want to know?”, my wife asked me.

“Not at all.”, I replied. “Not ever.”

“It’s alright.”, she said, trying to console me as I attempted to put the pieces of my shattered universe back together. “Now you don’t say anything to the girls about this. Okay?”

“What the hell could I possibly say to them?”, I asked. “Its the little peckerhead I want a few minutes alone with.”

“Don’t even think about it.”, she advised me. Just let it go. Relax, and let it go. You can’t remember anything, anymore, so this will be forgotten too. Right?”

“Do I have a choice?”, I asked.

“Not if you plan on sleeping in the bed tonight.”, she replied.

“I wasn’t planning on sleeping in there.”, I said.

“Oh”, she responded, ” well then for sure you have no choice.” She stood up, and took my hand. “In fact,” she added, “I’m not sure why we have to wait for tonight.”

“Are the kids still coming over tomorrow?”, I asked as we headed to the bedroom.

“As far as I know.”, she said.

“Well, let’s hope we’re done by then.”, I suggested.

“Alright.”, she said, chuckling. “I’ll do my best.”, as we jumped on the bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You’re Doing It Wrong!

“You’re doing it wrong!”, my wife said.

“I’m used to hearing that in the bedroom.”, I told her, “But I’m only making a peanut butter and jam sandwich in the kitchen.”

“But you’re doing that wrong, too.”, she continued.

“Really?”, I asked, with just the right amount of sarcasm to piss her off.

“Yes, you are.”, she continued. “You’re supposed to put the jam on top of the peanut butter, not on the other piece of bread. If you do it your way, jam winds up dropping all over the counter when you flip the slice.”

“Well”, I told her, “I have been making it this way for 55 years. Its how I want to do it.”

“But its wrong!”, she repeated. Wrong or not, I proceeded to complete the sandwich making festivities, and enjoyed building my PB & J, as I have always done.

It wasn’t the first time I have been been told that I am wrong in the kitchen. In actuality, I think the only room I do not do anything wrong in, is the bathroom. NO. Not true. I have, according to my wife, been wrong in the bathroom as well, but that will be a whole other story.

So, back to the kitchen. I have been informed that I do not make over easy eggs correctly, either. I do not know how to flip them properly, to ensure even cooking without any breaks or ruptures of the yolk. Sometimes, she says that she even finds shell in it! There have been many times when she has given me directions as I am holding a spatula and a frying pan, and it is with great restraint that 1 or both of these items has not been formally introduced to the back of her head.  “Do you want to do it for me?”, I ask.

“No.”, she answered.

“Then go away.”, I tell her.

“You don’t have to be so nasty.”, she says.

“Um, yes I do.”, I advise her, “If you don’t like how I do it, then do it for me, or be quiet.”

“I’m just trying to help you.”, she answered.

“What would be really helpful would be if you just made it for me.”, I said.

“You’ll never learn that way.”, she told me.

There are also huge issues with grilled cheese, as I apparently have the burner set too high, and this makes the bread too dark and crispy for her. And coffee, well that’s entirely an issue that will never go away. She will ask me to make her coffee, and insist that the milk must go into the cup before the coffee. “I don’t like the milk in first.”, I tell her.

“But it tastes so much better.”, she replies.

“I don’t think so.”, I respond.

“No. It does.”, she says. “. It tastes better that way.”

So, I make coffee wrong, as well. And pasta, well, it seems that I don’t make it ‘mushy’ enough for her. I follow the directions, and wind up with wonderfully al dente pasta. She hates it. She says that its too hard. “Why can’t I hear that in the bedroom?”, I ask.

We agree to a compromise. I agree that she is, as usual absolutely right. In exchange, I get to practice pleasing her in the bedroom. I am not sure if she plans on joining me there or not, but either way, one of us is going to be happy.

 

 

 

Squirrels Just Wanna Have Fun

Jacques Pilon had been a tree cutter for as long as he could remember. His job, was to cut blue, Centaurus Pine trees, and pile the lumber for pick up once a month. He was, in fact, the only tree cutter in the outpost. It was easy to lose track of time out here, so he could really only estimate just how long he had been here. Every morning he climbed to the top of Mt. Gordoz, and watched the green glow of 83jg000aCentaurus Alpha 1’s sun rise. And every night, he returned to this summit to watch the sun strip it’s green hue from his world. In this way, he calculated, that he had been here for 15,300 sun rises and sunsets, about 42 years in Earth time.
He often thought about Earth, his life there, and what became of the family he left behind; a wife, 3 children, and Marisa. Marisa. He thought of her most of all. How different his life would have been, if only he had never met her. As he climbed down from his perch atop the mountain, he thought he could hear her calling him. How he missed her sweet, melodious voice. He could hear her at the trial, informing the panel of justices of her relationship with Jacques. In detail. He could hear the observers in the Great Hall, sigh, and the gavel pounding on the table, demanding silence. He could hear the chief justice’s words ring out through the hall. “Based on the evidence presented here, we find you guilty of a most heinous crime. Guilty of sabotaging the continued existence of our way of life. As such, you are hereby sentenced to spend the rest of your natural life on an isolated outpost, keeping civilization safe from your perversion for all time”.
He had met Marisa at a bar one night, in a less than upscale part of town. He was astounded by her beauty. She was built. He told himself that he loved his wife, but this, well, this comes along once in a lifetime. He began frequenting the bar, just to see her, and on the chance she would notice him. He sat on the same bar stool every time. The one seat that would allow him to view her no matter in the bar she went. He shuddered when he saw her bend over to clean a table. When she finally struck up a conversation with him, her words were like music to his ears. And sex with her, well, he was pretty certain his brain had achieved orgasm. As time went on, she began to open up to him. She told him that she was in trouble with criminals who had wanted her to transport several pounds of oysters beyond city limits. oysters“But oysters are outlawed.”, he said. “If they catch you, its life in prison”
Oysters had been banned several years ago. It was thought that they were an aphrodisiac, being used to turn innocent girls into sex slaves, creating a climate of indiscriminate and uncontrollable sexual activity. The Grey Suits made them illegal. “I know.”, she replied. “But what choice do I have?”
In an attempt to gain regular access to all that was inside this beauty’s pants, Jacques agreed to help her transport the contraband. He was caught with 3 1/2 pounds of shucked oysters in ice filled cases, as he tried to cross the border from The Portlands to Leslieville. The trial lasted only 2 hours. He was found guilty as charged, sentenced to spend the rest of his life, without human contact, on Centaurus Alpha 1.
Every morning, after watching the sunrise over Mt. Gordoz, he headed back to the wooden dome he had made by hand, that served as his bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. He sat on the wooden slats that he used as his bed, and looked at some of the trinkets he had brought from home; a family photo, as faded now as the memories of those in the picture; a book of sayings by an Earth writer named Hunter S. Thompson, a baseball glove and ball, a videopod containing tens of thousands of pornographic films, and a checker board.
Upon his arrival here, he scouted every square inch of this rock. There were rivers and streams everywhere, providing plenty of water. There were leafy green plants that were edible, and seemed to have a wonderfully hallucinogenic effect. He called these mindfucks. There were insects that looked like large roaches, that were surprising tasty, a sea urchin, that resembled an oyster, which he called erectoids, as he found them both delicious, and, after eating them, usually resulted in a hard on that required about 30 minutes of videopod use. There was also a population of animals that looked like squirrels, although they stood over 5 feet tall. They could be seen all across Centaurus Alpha 1, running here and there, always seeming so busy. At times Jacques envied them. He envied their drive, their sense of purpose.
Once a month, a supply ship would arrive, and jettison needed supplies such as first aid, medical needs, and food staples like flour, coffee, and sugar. He never saw or heard anyone. He just found the pod, with the month’s supplies, exactly where the stack of lumber had been: nestled in the brush about 300 metres from his dome.
It was shortly after a delivery, as he went to retrieve his supplies, that Jacques noticed a solitary squirrel, laying motionless in the brush. “Meat for a month.”, He thought to himself as he drew his home made bow and loaded an arrow. Jacques took aim, and drew back the arrow.
“What do you think you’re going to do with that?”, the squirrel asked, with a thick Spanish accent, as it rose to his feet, looking Jacques up and down. “You are very small. Who are you?”
Jacques wasn’t sure if he really head what he had heard. Perhaps it was merely the effects of his morning dose of mindfuck. The hallucinations were sometimes bizarre as hell. He sat down on the edge of a rock, and gazed at this animal, not certain of anything. “I must be so messed up.”, he thought.
“Do you speak?”, the beast asked.
“I, I, I do.”, Jacques stuttered.
“Well, that’s surprising”, the squirrel responded, “considering your inconsequential weapon.”
“You speak?”, Jacques asked, although it sounded more like a statement of fact.
“Obviously”.
“What are you?”, Jacques queried. “Where I come from, Animals don’t speak”.
“Oh I’m sure they do”., the beast replied. “Your may just not be able to understand them”.
Jacques and the animal spoke for hours. He learned that the animal was a preador. Preadors had the ability to shape shift and take on the appearance or characteristics, or both, of any other creature they had seen. Jacques learned that preadors had no names, and decide to call this particular preador Numero Uno.
From that point on, Jacques and Numero Uno would meet at the drop site and talk about all things in the Universe. Jacques regaled his friend with tales from Earth, and stories about his family. Numero Uno informed Jacques that there were over 3 million preadors, and much like humans, no 2 are alike.
Plans were made for Jacques to visit his friend’s burrow, and meet the local scurry. Jacques set off, his satchel laden with erectoids and mindfuck, and his videopod, just in case the preadors were into porn. The burrows were actually massive caves, connected by an intricate array of tunnels that spread out across Centaurus Alpha 1. There were communal rooms, and individual areas. It was set up like an apartment complex, and it was all interconnected. The preadors had created and organized an entire civilization down among the caves. There were libraries, sleeping quarters, and storage areas filled with the fruit of the blue, Centaurus pine that resembled acorn nuts.
Numero Uno led him through the maze to what appeared to be an arena. At the centre of the great hall was a statue that looked exactly rockylike Rocket J. Squirrel, of cartoon fame. Numero Uno explained that long ago, there had been another human who came to Centaurus Alpha 1. When he died, the preadors found his videopod among his belongings. When they viewed it, they saw visions of a great and noble flying squirrel. They were so awe struck, that they erected a statue in his glory, and in his honor.
There were hundreds, if not thousands of preadors as far as he could see. Row upon row, they chattered, and chirped. Numero Uno raised his paw and there was silence. “This is the human I told you about.”, he prayed. “And this”, he turned to Jacques and placed a paw on his shoulder, “this is my scurry. And tonight, we celebrate”.
It had been a long time since Jacques had been to a party. Probably sometime during his college days. And then there was the rally he attended with his wife, protesting the 3rd Great Depression which, he had told his wife, was the most depressing part of the depression. He never really liked parties, or any large gathering. He disliked the inane small talk, and never really knew what to say to people he barely knew, and most often, didn’t like. In fact, he had no friends. He used to say that he liked it that way, but deep down, he was lonely.
The preadors erupted into joyous mayhem. “I brought some gifts for you and your friends.”, he said to Numero Uno. “With these, it will be a real celebration”. He reached into his bag and produced copious amounts of erectoids and mindfuck. “You eat these”, he said, as he gobbled up a handful of the hallucinagen.
Huge vats of blue Centaurus pine fruit was brought out, and the preadors came down from their places to partake in the fruit, and the gifts Jacques had brought. Before long, most of the preadors had begun to experience their effects. Jacques starred in amazement, as an orgy of epic proportions broke out. Some of the younger females, giggled like the school girls Jacques remembered being with behind the bleachers in high school, and then ran away as fast as they could. Soon the animals began humping anything and everything within reach. As the mindfuck began to take effect, they were out of control. Jacques watched in amazement, while a little fearful. “I hope they don’t come over here.”, he said to Numero Uno.
“Relax, my friend.”, he replied. “You really aren’t that attractive.”
The preadors took the party outside. Engaging in sex acts as perverse as the stuff he had kept locked up in his head for years. Males began having intercourse with knots in the Blue Centaurus pines, while the females began their ritual mating rite, which involved opening their vaginas and masturbating, in the hopes of attracting a male. It worked. The frenzy hightened, an despite the reassurance from his friend, Jacques now found himself on the receiving end of a preador’s amorous fantasies. “Do you think you could change your appearance first?”, he asked her.
“To what?”, she replied.
8c253d28015dfd81ddbb44518c160054“Human female.”, Jacques informed her. Brunette, hazel eyes, long legs. That would be perfect.” The transformation was as close to what he remembered Marissa looked like. And she was just as perfect.
Numero Uno exited the cave dressed in leathers usually reserved for mortorcycle gang members, or The Village People. He straddled a female, and grabbing her ears, attempted to ride off into the sunset. “Vrmmm. Vrrrmmmm.”, he squealed. “Faster, bitch. Faster.”
When it was over, when the erectoids and mindfuck had worn off, when the preadors returned to a state of calm, Jacques surveyed the aftermath. There were almost a hundred preadors dead, and many were missing. There were males hanging upside down , with their erections stuck in tree knots. Numero Uno himself had passed out atop his female motorcycle, with his pump still in her gas tank. The carnage was beyond description, and Jacques felt sick with guilt, humiliation and shame. He left the burrows, and returned to his dome. “What have I done?”, he asked himself.
He climbed up to the top of Mt. Gordoz. The glow of the setting Centaurus Alpha 1 sun seemed to calm him, as the sky shimmered in multiple shades of green. “Hey, human.”, he heard his friend’s voice calling out to him. “That was one hell of a celebration, no”?
“It was.”, Jacques replied. “It was”.
“Then why so down?”, Numero Uno asked.
“I feel like I’m responsible for everything that happened last night.”, Jacques stated, apologetically.
“You are.”, his friend replied.
“Well, I feel terrible about it.”, Jacques added. “I turned your celebration into an orgy of debauchery and perversion.”
“Also true.”, Numero Uno said. “And we want to thank you”.
“Thank me?”, Jacques queried. “Thank me?”
“Of course”, the giant squirrel informed him. “We haven’t had that much fun since we discovered that nuts don’t just grow on trees.” The two of them laughed. “We want to make this a regular event.”, he continued. “Once a month. At the new moons. And on special occassions”.
“I thought you guys would hate me after last night.”, Jacques stated.
“Hate you?”, Numero Uno asked. “Not likely.”
As the sun set, Jacques and Numero Uno retired to his dome, and spoke of working together. The preadors would help with the cutting and 2016preview_nutjob2stacking of lumber for the monthly visit from the supply ship, and Jacques would provide them with party supplies, once a month, and on special occasions.
On the 3rd Sunday of the following month, when the 2 moons of Centaurus Alpha 1 were full, Jacques arrived at the burrows with bags and bags filled with erectoid and mindfuck. “Ready to go wild?”, he asked Numero Uno.
“Ready and willing”, the giant squirrel replied. “And listen, if you are up to it, I can arrange for you to take the motorcycle for a ride tonight.” Jacques looked at his friend, and the two of them laughed like they had never laughed before.

 

 

 

Sheer Heart Attack

It is ironic that I first met my wife at a Queen concert during their ‘Sheer Heart Attack’ tour. We didn’t connect on that day just a cursory hello, as we stood in line waiting for the gates to open. 25 years later we were once again involved in a heart attack.

It was an ordinary day, as ordinary as any day of my life has been. We took the kids out. I think we had been to Pioneer Village with them. We made dinner, watched some children’s show with them, and then put them to bed. It wasn’t often that we had alone time back then, what with so many kids running around all of the time. So, we took advantage of this rare opportunity, and went off to our bed.

Sometime during what followed, I began to have chest pains. I ignored it at first, but they quickly worsened. I got up, drank some water, and clutched at my chest. “What are you doing?”, she asked ha1me.

“Call 911.”, I said, “I don’t feel good.”

“What’s wrong?”, she asked.

“Call 911!” I said, as I began pacing the floor. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“Are you sure?”, she said. “You always think something’s wrong, and then it turns out to be nothing.”

“Pretty fucking sure.”, I informed her. “Now is not the time for this discussion. Call fucking 911!”

She made the call, and within minutes, EMS was at the door, inserting IV, dispensing chewable ha4aspirins, and placing me on a stretcher. Before I knew it I was being whisked out of the house, as my wife shouted “Don’t worry. It’s probably nothing, You’ll be back in a few hours.”

I arrived at the hospital in record time. I was placed in a bed, with doctors and nurses as far as my eyes could see. I was hooked up to IV, monitors, given some wonder drug for heart attacks, and seemed to stabalize quickly. I was scared. So very scared. I thought about my wife, and my kids. A nurse came over to check some reading, I grabbed her arm, and whispered “Let my wife know she was wrong”.

They gave me something to make me sleep, and in the morning, a Cardiologist arrived to talk to me. I had indeed suffered myocardial infarction. Luckily, there was no damage to the heart muscle, but it seemed that one of my arteries was significantly blocked. I was transferred to another nearby hospital where they would perform an angioplasty. I had heard about this, but I wasn’t sure what to expect.

I found myself at hospital 2, and met the cardiac surgeon who was to perform the procedure. While ha2awake, a tube is inserted through an artery in my thigh, and fed up to my heart, where they can get into the artery and see just how blocked it is. “It will feel almost like your heart attack”, the surgeon informed me, “but don’t worry, you are completely safe”. The cardiac team gathered around my bed, and the decision was made to insert a stent into the blocked artery. I spent the next few hours, wondering about my mortality, thinking about who I would be leaving behind, and what I had to do to prepare for them to be ok.

The next day, my wife came to visit. She sat on the edge of the bed and cried. ‘It’s ok, I told her. It will be ok”.

“I have to tell you something”, she said, “Please don’t get  upset”.

“What?”

ha3“2 days ago, I asked my father to send me some kind of sign that he was watching over me.”

“Yes”, I answered.

“Well, I think your heart attack was the sign”.

“Really? He couldn’t just kick me in the nuts or something?”

“No, no.”, she exclaimed. “The sign is that you survived. Don’t you understand. He kept you alive!”

What an amazing woman. She almost kills me during sex, and then wants me to thank her father for saving me.

“Well, thank him for me”, I told her.

“Already did”, she said.

“Honey”, I said, “Do me a favor and please don’t ask for any more signs. I don’t think I can take it”.