Cave Time

“Well you’re awfully quiet this morning.”

Only at the security line of our departing city and I already wish I were doing this work trip alone. Phil – I mean he's a nice guy but sometimes I prefer to be free of the pressure of social interaction and revel in some Cave Time. Cave Time is an inwardly focused exercise – the chance to wade in the sewer of my thoughts and feeling for awhile. Headphones on and lips pursed shut, it's a time for self-reflection, self-preservation and, of course, let's not forget our favorite – self-loathing. Verbal communication can literally be too much for me to handle during such stretches and I have to be careful to avoid going in public or subjecting myself to a potential need to speak. Procuring food to eat can be difficult since I hate to cook and never prepare for these little bouts anyhow.

Oh god…as I approach the gate section of the airport terminal I get the first glimpse of that oh-so-lamentable airport landmark – the Coffee Kiosk.

Phil’s kind of strange, I realize as Cave Time continues on in a public-forum-compatible half form. Even that comment earlier about my quiet state – he always talks to me like I imagine a wife would speak to her husband of 12 years. More than the content is the delivery – these up-toned and exasperated, yet reserved, utterances that are usually accompanied by a raised eyebrow and somehow this insinuation of wishing he could crawl in my head and untangle just what I'm thinking because in regards to him there are likely some unflattering neurons firing. For instance:

After a tough meeting – “You looked distracted in there during my presentation”

At the company holiday party – “You didn’t like the sushi buffet, did you? It’s written all over your face.”

After turning down a post-work happy hour – “Well I’m sure we can find a time to get together soon. I just feel like we haven’t been connecting lately..”

Etc….

“Oh look, a Starbucks. Can you watch my stuff?”

“No, don't do that”, I shriek without being able to contain myself.

“What, what's wrong with you? Plenty of time before the flight.”

“That’s not it, you idiot. Don’t you see? You’re sinking to their level. I loathe airport coffee kiosks – they’re bastions of shamelessness. Ugh – just look at these people. I cannot for the life of me understand why one would subject himself to this.

“Why, what do you mean? They’re just ordering coffee.”

No, they're not just doing anything. They're hoarding and craving right before God and everyone. This is where America's newly found super-addiction to caffeine comes on clear display. Look at how long that line is! Who would subject himself to such an intolerable herding process besides a drug addict? With luggage no less! And the worst part is it's not even veiled in the usual justification of a workday, morning-time routine. These people aren't late for a 9am board meeting and in need of a well deserved pick me up. It's nearly one in the afternoon and they're about to sit in a confined seat for several hours with nothing to do but sleep or watch the in-flight movie. The last thing on their mind should be engaging in this depressing ritual all for the sake of a stimulant drug. But drug addicts don't think with ration - am I right?”

“I guess - but what about you? I saw you pop that 5 hour energy a few minutes ago.”

“Yes, but my addiction is not on display, at least…in this pathetic swarm of craving and impulse.

“But you hate five hour energies.”

“This is true…”

“And you love espresso.”

“Well no shit – it’s a delicious beverage."

“So you'd rather subject yourself to a drink you despise…”

“Well I mean what the fuck is a “two thirty feeling"?? Don't tell me how to feel and then try to fix it.”

“…then wait in line for a drink you enjoy thoroughly all to avoid succumbing to your arbitrary, elitist delusions that no one else cares about?”

“Yes – every time, Phil. The sooner you learn that about me and start conforming to it the easier this trip is going to be.”

I let out a deep sigh as he proceeds to the end of the Starbucks line – jonesing, for all the world to see, for his coffee fix. After an unexpected tirade on self-decency fails to affect another would-be-disciple of my world view doctrine, it’s back to the Cave for me. Oh well; sunglasses on, headphones inserted deep in my ear canals – time to think bad thoughts about myself.

The weeks between Ash Wednesday and Easter are unforunate ones for members of my firm as our misguided CEO who considers himself something of a devout Christian, despite the fact that I've caught him masturbating in his office twice now, insists on "giving things up" for Lent collectively, as a corporation. I think he secretly just enjoys watching us squirm a bit. Nevertheless, first class travel is one of the things being sacrificed this year (as if God cares whether our Travel & Entertainment budget goes toward a $2,000 first class plane ticket or a $2,000 Yankees ticket) and I must therefore endure the slow crawl procession toward the back of the plane along with the other plebs. People arrange their bags and settle into their seats unnecessarily slowly and I wonder why more violent outbursts don't happen back here in the pig pen.

I scan the vicinity of my seat area for good looking women. Maybe I'll have the good fortune to be seated next to one so I can make up an absurd alter-persona and by the time we touch down in Chicago have her wet in the knickers for Dietrich: Danish prince and professional downhill skier.

But alas – when I finally reach my row I'm greeted by the sight of a nerdy, skinny jeans-clad indie kid sitting in the seat next to mine. Shit – the sight of him makes me stir a bit. I'm not immediately aware of why I find him problematic but soon realize that it's just a matter of it being too close to home. I live downtown where a lot of these intelligentsias hang out and I can't help being acutely aware of my corporate cache while in their presence – as if they somehow see through every attempt I’ve made to seem cool and casual in this gritty, artsy environment. Today’s travel outfit doesn’t help; chosen totally on my own volition, it includes a blue blazer and Ferragamo loafers…Jesus.

He's a real piece of work though, a spokesman for hipsters everywhere – thick rimmed glasses, rugged facial hair, plaid shirt, and jeans the width of little test tubes. Ugh, here comes the iPad out of the carry on – no, wait, iPad 2!...what a fag.

As I settle into my seat, I glance over at Phil and notice he is sitting next to a gorgeous looking young woman and that he’s already started chatting away – not so much with her as at her – fueled by that stupid and unnecessary macchiato and surely blowing it with her due to some mixture of his palpable desperation and rotting breath. Ugh, I can’t watch this.

Seeing as we’re stuck back here in the crush-of-humanity that is Coach, I knew I had to come prepared. I pull out a container of Xanax, pop two tablets, and take a double shot of Polish sweet-liquor from a small plastic vile that I taped to my right calf several hours ago. A warm, drowsy buzz fills my brain as I recline my seatback and the plane pushes from the gate. If one of these flight attendants gets the bright idea to try to wake me from this impending coma just to insist that my seatback return to its “upright position” she’s going to need a half-pound of smelling salts and a fog horn. Safe travels.

"Half-a-mill' Blues"

Something has taken a hold of me this morning. It’s Friday and in a burned out, hung-over mania I’ve decided rather suddenly that I deserve more – simply more. No, wait. I quickly realize that the word “deserve” is misguided and by all accounts inaccurate. The issue is of “needs”, not of who deserves what. I need more.

“I'm going to march right in there”, I tell myself. I absolutely need a raise; $400,000 is simply insufficient. I need to have a talking to with Davies – a firm, no-nonsense exchange. I’ll storm in there – no hold it, Bark, you know how you get so don't barge in aimlessly. Be prepared – jot your reasoning down on a mental tablet in your brain and then set that mental tablet on fire in front of your unkempt superior. Subdue him and don’t back down until he sees eye-to-eye, until he feels the pain that you are left to endure as a result of your current compensation level.


Ugh, Davies – the head of my group and an all together unimpressive physical specimen. Complete with messy office adorned with tacky frames that house images of his repulsive family within, he can commonly be found sitting lazily at his desk wearing a department store suit, uninspired tie, a horrible listless haircuts, and on top of that a jarring complexion that makes me wish his secretary would pin him down and drown him with Lubriderm so as to, if not suitably moisturize, at least cover and obscure the cracked surface underneath. I won’t even get into how badly I’d like to get him on a treadmill and wear him down with mental abuse until his flabby exterior unhappily surrendered to a somewhat-healthful level of physical fitness. I also find it hard to tolerate his little sayings and manners of speaking. It’s a fine tuned workplace-bullshitting jargon designed to instill self-confidence and social aptitude in a man who lacks any and all of either trait. He repeats certain catch phrases in a sing-song manner (“How aBOUT that” to the tune of NBC”s signature three note theme when he discovers something interesting to him) and smothers words with a deep “ah” sound in conversations with underlings as a way of seeming chummy and informal (“Well hallah thah” instead of hello there”) and so on.

“Thank you for seeing me this morning, Davies. I won’t dance around the topic – I need a raise. I appreciate what a privilege it is to work here and I’m thankful and everything but I’m finding it hard to keep up regardless. You know, with the “Joneses”. I hate to admit that recent developments in my finances have forced me to sublet the maids quarters of my apartment to a young gentleman who, get this by the way, doesn't even seem to possess a stock portfolio of any kind. It’s quite off-putting. I’ll stride gingerly into the place after a particularly bullish trading day and, well short of sharing in on the revelry of fresh made money, he just stares at me blankly and fails to convey any sense that he is thrilled or even moved by the, say, late-afternoon spike in commodities. Just disgusting. I mean, why would you live here? Move to The Dakotas or something, right? And someone in his immediate family must be enjoying the fruits of an ongoing practical joke whereby he/she convinced my “roomie” that cold cut deli meat slices are a form of delicacy - he eats the awful looking processed sheets on bulging hero bread for breakfast lunch and dinner. Ha, the sight of me cutting into a reasonable portion of duck confit from Balthazar while close by my "friend" shucks down a giant-sized pile of processed cow entrails shmushed between two mounds of yeasted wheat while mayo shoots out the side like it's spring loaded is just too much for the mind to process. I'm thinking about having him killed.”

Uh oh, Bark, stay on course here – Davies is wearing a perplexed frown which is bordering on disturbed.

“Sorry sir, I’m rambling. What it comes down to is the importance for me to maintain a certain standard of living. I can’t do my job without exuding a consistent level of grace and sophistication – the clients feed off of it. It’s their money that feeds me and subsequently feeds this firm through further investment from them as a result of being impressed by interaction with me and so on – my way of life trickles down to the work place, there’s no doubt about it. And I’ve been dying, for instance, to join the Fox Trot Society.”

“The what?”

“The Fox Trot Society? I was pretty confident in it being universally known and revered. Members get helicopter charters from South Street Seaport to northern Connecticut and enjoy Saturdays fox hunting on horseback as an homage to the old English tradition dating back to –“

“But fox hunting? Isn’t that illegal? Even in Britain at this point?”

“…Well, sure – but it’s a very affluent core membership and, well, initiation fees run in the tens of thousands and I’m just finding it hard to legitimize unless some fortuitous change is made to my base salary.”

A long pause ensues.

“And I’m still feeling pinched/tapped from last summer’s draining share house debacle. Someone in the my group of friends insinuated early on in the year that the Hamptons were cliché and better suited, at this point, for six figure wannabes and before you knew it we were signing a lease on a “summer share” in Guyana – a, until recently, British colony on the northern coast of South America. Crazy, right? But so typical – Gretchen always gets us into trouble. The plane chartering costs each weekend, alone, were appalling. Although the setup was nice – $600,000 for a 3 month rental will sure get you a lot down there. We had a 10,000 sf villa on a 100 acre ranch for 12 of us with armed guards at four points on the property’s edges, a maid, a cook, and a little brown boy who spoke not a word of English but could sing, off-hand, any Carly Simon song you could think of (truly bizarre). I still get hard remembering his voice crying out “you prob’ly think this song is about you” (he usually broke out “You’re So Vain” during Act 3 of the weekly delirious-late-Saturday-night org – “

Damn it, Davies! I stop short and the rapid-firing train of thought is cut off as I catch a glimpse of a rude distraction that cannot go unaddressed.

“Davies – hate to pause here, we were covering some good ground, but your necktie is tucked slightly into your pants.”

“Hm? Oh, ha, so it is. Thank ya sah!”

Ugh – the sight of him remedying this unfortunately actuality is repulsive. His belly protrudes forward to such a laughable extent that you’d swear he was actually hiding something in there. If it came out later that he was stealing office supplies as part of some sort of strange, complex crime ring and using his preposterous fake build as a cover as a means to safely exit the premises it would not illicit anything approaching shock within me – I think I’d rather be relieved somehow.

“Where were we – oh, then there’s the gambling habit. I know, I know – it’s tough to gain much sympathy in this arena, what with all the societal stereotypes and nose-thumbing that this devilish habit endures but I implore you to at least come to terms with the sort of “Keeping up with the Jones” that I necessarily must participate in. It’s not me. Do you think I enjoy putting $20k on the Utah Jazz and following up that horror show of a loss with a “make up bet” 3-team teaser involving contests being waged in the Russian amateur hockey league because those are the only sporting events still on at that hour? Not to mention the drugs you have to do to stay focused and lucid while these uninspiring late night games play out – it absolutely eats me up inside. I’m an investor of money; I don’t particularly admonish tossing it into the sewer on these pathetically orchestrated wagers. But I have a reputation to up-keep and a social presence to carry on and so I smile through my teeth and delve with my friends down into the pits of despair and defeat and call my accountant on Monday to “shift some funds around” in order to avoid a liquidity crisis in my checking account when I go to pay for my morning egg scramble and latte.

“Don’t you see? Isn’t this making sense? Between the house, the women, the summer house, the drugs, the gambling, and the Fox Trot Club – I’m tapped! I’ve got nothing left to pay the bills/essentials: the groceries, the clothing, the bar tabs…”

There are no more words coming. I have exhausted myself spinning through this swirl of stressful financial liabilities. It’s time to get some feedback.

“Son – it’s hard to find the right starting point from which to react to that little tirade. You’re a smug bastard to come in here and start spewing that stuff. At only one point during the whole thing did you even remotely touch on how or why your work-output warrants the desired pay raise and instead you chose to focus on the ways in which your idiotic and highly irresponsible social life somehow drives this impetus. I’m stunned. Not to mention that I think you’re the most overpaid member of this firm. Yeah, that’s right, don’t look so surprised. You’re an underachieving little shit and you show up here half-loaded most of the time, failing to add value. The only reason I keep you around is your swank demeanor and inexplicable way with words does have an undeniable effect and impact on our clientele and their willingness to invest with us. But don’t for a minute think you are worth a dime more than what we currently pay you. That’s absurd. I think it’s an outright social injustice that you make what you make. There should be people studying it. Scientists in laboratories should be pooling data and trying to figure out why Bark Cranton, no-good-shit-for-brains, makes half a mill’ and the noble, hard-working people stretched out across this nation struggle to pay the gas bill. I don’t think you’re worth the brass shine on that door handle, personally, and I suggest you leave before I start to get really upset.”

Indeed, his face was starting to turn red at the end there and any further travel down this road of thought and discovery on his part would surely be to my disadvantage.

“Thank you, Mr. Davies! I will take what you said to heart and…have a good day, I suppose.”


Phew, well I guess it’s time to stop listening to a damn thing my manic, hung over brain suggests.

"Grandma"

Below is the first stanza of Allen Ginsberg’s famous poem “America” with all of the references to America swapped out with references to my Grandma and author’s notes in brackets to help put it all into perspective:

“Grandma”

Grandma I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing. [That’s not true, I actually can’t remember the last time I bothered to call you or visit]
Grandma two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956. [More like 2006, and that was the exact amount of birthday money I received that year. I turned 21 fucking years old, c’mon for fuck’s sake]
I can’t stand my own mind. [At least I can still count to 50 and do basic arithmetic though, I suppose]
Grandma when will we end the human war? [When answering that don’t just talk about World War II – we’ve heard all about the food rations and the collective sense of fear, blah blah blah]
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb. [You have an atom bomb? Why don’t you ever tell me cool stuff like that instead of seemingly only the boring drivel?]
I don’t feel good don’t bother me. [Don’t bother me when there’s a knecktie on my doorknob either]
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind. [I’m going to smoke a j – be back in 5]
Grandma when will you be angelic? [That doesn’t mean I’m waiting for you to die, stop furrowing your eyebrows at me]
When will you take off your clothes? [Oh god, please no]
When will you look at yourself through the grave? [Again, that’s a metaphor]
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites? [Yea right, you’ve never even been to the next county – you don’t have Trotskyites]
Grandma why are your libraries full of tears? [Because they are filled with stories that bore people to tears, most likely]
Grandma when will you send your eggs to India? [You’re not exactly Gisele Budachon, okay? Nobody wants your eggs, not even in India]
I’m sick of your insane demands. [No, I won’t reach your mid-back with the luffa]
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? [You’re always talking about these Ronald Reagan good looks I have, and I’ve got jack to show for it]
Grandma after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world. [That’s a lie]
Your machinery is too much for me. [I require a phone that doesn’t need to be cranked and a car with power steering]
You made me want to be a saint. [When I was 8 yrs old maybe, now I just want to be rich]
There must be some other way to settle this argument. [Take your pills, that will help]
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister. [Didn't you used to bang William Burroughs back in the day before you met Grandpa?]
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke? [How many times have I told you that it's not funny to play dead?]
I’m trying to come to the point. [We’re putting you in a home]
I refuse to give up my obsession. [robbing old people]
Grandma stop pushing I know what I’m doing. [Trust me, the cat doesn’t feel “safe” in the microwave]
Grandma the plum blossoms are falling. [as is your life expectancy]
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder. [But you tuned out after the OJ Simpson trial, didn't you?]
Grandma I feel sentimental about the Wobblies. [Similar to the way you feel about Andy Rooney]
Grandma I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry. [Even in communist China grandmas give better birthday money than this]
I smoke marijuana every chance I get. [Do you want a hit?]
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet. [Creepy]
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid. [Because you always told me that their women were not children of God]
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble. [Something smells – did you have an accident?]
You should have seen me reading Marx. [But you couldn’t because the font size was under 20 point]
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right. [I do deserve more money on my birthday]
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer. [I know it frightens you for some strange reason]
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations. [You will too after you hit this j]
Grandma I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia. [you called him a commi-fucker]
I’m addressing you. [So stop chatting with your invisible friend]
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine? [Better than Soap Opera Weekly]
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine. [I love their exposes]
I read it every week. [And the best part is I retain the information for more than 48 seconds, unlike someone I know]
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore. [No more taffy, you know what it does to your dentures]
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library. [You don't want to know what else I do down there]
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me. [And you as well, since no one who poops themselves with such regularity could possibly be accused of taking herself seriously]
It occurs to me that I am Grandma. [I’ve obviously had too many hits]
I am talking to myself again. [Yep, I was right]

Straight - No Chaser

I know, this is really hard meeting like this. So, by now I’m assuming you figured out what’s going on. When you came back to the hotel room in Mexico and I just wasn’t there and had already boarded a flight back to New York – that was my formal notice of us breaking up. But what we had was pretty special – the past 6 weeks have been, well, it was what it was I suppose and I don’t think a qualifying adjective is going to somehow further our understanding of the whole thing, right? I just thought we owed it to each other to have this face-to-face, just to clear the air and, how do they say, obtain clarity? It also might be beneficial to give each other input, perhaps. After all, if we perceived faults in one another, shouldn’t we give ourselves the benefits of sharing such information so that we might be wary of these faults going forward? I mean, God knows I’m not perfect. For example, my strong physical fitness can be intimidating and occasionally off-putting, plus I’m hardly ever on time (ha, remember your uncle’s funeral?). But enough about me – I do have a short list of things that I think you could “tighten up”.

This is so hard. It’s hard to utter these negative words to you in person like this. Would it help if I stated them in a positive tone and you could just interpret the meaning to be the exact opposite of what I say? Like – you have such a perfect body and in no way should you focus more on stair master-type exercises as there is a veritable absence of excess fat around your buttocks region. Do you think you can “read between the lines” on that one? No, forget it. I think I need to be direct here. It’s only fair to us both.

First of all, let’s talk about when you met my parents for the first time. It was arguably inappropriate (in Western culture, at least) to proceed so quickly to asking my mother longwinded questions about the physical and mental attributes of her siblings and extended family in an obvious attempt to size up the potential for our future offspring. That was a decidedly off-putting endeavor. Everyone knew what you were doing and I think my mother even went so far as to instruct me to make sure you were taking your birth control. Remember? That was about the time I convinced you that I found it “sexy” to watch you ingest the pill each day? Ha, I think I attributed the attraction to something about it symbolizing the fact that you were sacrificing for the sake of my enhanced sexual satisfaction due to there no longer being a need for a condom – or something. You bought it though, that was great. Sorry, I’m straying from the topic.

What else? Oh! This is a small one but don’t let guys watch you run – you obviously had a cross-eyed gym teacher as a child who sadly let your disregard for the fundamentals slip by in a way that was marginalizing to you.

This might just be me but I would wait more than 4 dates before telling potential suitors that your brother is in prison. You may arguably want to even put it off until you have a fucking ring on your finger to let that one slip. No, it does not make you sound mature or tried or battle-tested or something. It sounds trashy at best and generally just low…or base – ha, I guess those equate to the same thing though.

That move you do, with your leg, when you raise it up and lean back? That does not feel good. It’s actually quite dangerous, I imagine. Oftentimes I would lie there just waiting for the moment when my erection snapped in two and the night would quickly devolve into an outtake from a daring and badly produced B-level porno.

I think this is going well, don’t you? We’re making good headway and are giving these little critiques to each other straight – no chaser. I think that shows how much respect we have for one another.

Ha, another small one but if I had to listen to you say “for all intensive purposes” again I was going to find the dullest object within reach and start severing a limb. It’s “for all intents and purposes” and it really shouldn’t be used with such frequency or in the contexts in which you were able to somehow conjure it up. Also, irony is a literary form which deals with phenomena that are in seeming opposition to each other – not coincidental. But, hey – a lot of public-school educated Americans are in the dark about that one.

Lastly, try something out for me, will you? When you chew, attempt to sound less like a congested mule with an jaw-misalignment and more like a woman (or even a man) who was raised in an industrialized nation, in a decent household, and had the benefit of Western medicine and modern education her whole life.

What’s wrong? You look sad despite the fact that I specifically indicated the practical and beneficial aspects of this exercise. You know what? You disgust me. No wonder I broke up with you. You’re weak.

The Man Behind the Curtain

January 1, 2011
5:38 a.m.

I awake with my head in a pool of blood. Upon first taste my first inclination is to say that it's not mine (much less metallic). Sure enough, it's not, and it's also now below room temperature.

The warmth that the lamb carcass provided me last night has faded, and rigamortis has set in. This calf will no longer serve me as a body pillow on which to spoon. Time to rise I suppose.

As I stand up, I gather myself and attempt to speak. Pointless. My throat feels as though elves crept into my mouth and decided to rub sandpaper against my esophagus. "Highly unlikely that happens twice in one week's time" I say internally.

I have a bit of a routine for mornings like this:

1) Check pockets for edible items, especially pills
2) Remove used/unused condom from my member
3) Page my psychiatrist
4) Review photographs on my digital camera, fingers crossed for upskirt shots of celebrities I can sell to tabloids
5) Write a hand love note to my wife and children on a postcard I picked up the day before*

*Note: They've all been dead for years, but I generally don't remember that until I get home to find the note waiting on me.

By now I'm ready to start my day. I call the bellhop and tell him I'll take my morning coffee on the roofdeck.

Nobody welcomed me to New Orleans per-say, but the gap-toothed concierge winked at me when I checked in, saying, "also, there is a nice roof deck if you'd like to "burn one," hook-up, make a prank call, jump, or just see the city." I would say I've attempted all five, but truth be told, I haven't gotten around to seeing the city. Regardless, this is where I've spent most of my time, pondering life's meanings and wondering how I'm going to score more mescaline.

However, there was something in the way that hillbilly looked at me that took me back. It was the part about making a prank call. Now, I don't have any reason to suspect that he ACTUALLY knows I was an original member of the Jerky Boys, but it caught me off guard nonetheless.

Let me tell you, dear reader, that there is nothing more empowering than anonymity. Prank phone calls, fighting crime with a mask, glory holes - you name it! There is nothing quite like that rush!

Take these writings for instance. You don't honestly believe that my name is Apollo Creed, do you? HA HA!! Of course you don't - that would be ridiculous! It's A. Paulo Creed. Apollo Creed is but a character from the Rocky movies!

But do you see what I've done there? Like the man from Oz, I am behind the curtain.... acting like a puppetmaster to orchestrate your emotions in a incomprehensibly complex maze of strings that I call "words." But you, dear reader, YOU have no idea just how powerless you are.

But fear not! For my intentions are not drawn out of malice. I am here to heal the world, and starting today, January 1, 2011, I am going to bring this world together under one banner of peace, understanding, and good will towards ALL of mankind from behind these words. It is time to start over, and make this planet a better place through the written word! This is the moment you will all remember, where Apollo Creed took back the banner of literary responsibility, emerged from the shadows of apathy, drew back the curtain of his own lethargic existence to heal every Caucasian man, woman and child alive!

Now.... where'd I put that mescaline?

Cutting The Fat

Oh, the post-holiday slump. It happens to everyone – December 1st thru 31st you’re on top of the world, a veritable giddy child, painting the town red, enjoying beverage after spiked beverage, eating lamp chops as a simple afternoon snack leading up to some entrée of endangered species that evening (I prefer leg of bald eagle), and receiving more casual mid-party hand jobs than you honestly know what to do with. Well that high-flying fanciful existence has now taken a backseat now, hasn’t it? Monday, January 3rd brings bloodshot eyes, less teeth than you remember having pre-holiday-romp, and the dreaded sensation of being stuck alone with your own putrid, reeking self – the stench of which you notice, after some period of reflection, resembles nothing short of an abandoned vomitorium. Well, perfect.

But now it’s time to put yourself back together – cease the nightly excessive drinking and experimentation with every aerosol canister that happens to roll your way and focus on leading that productive life that you’re always putting on the backburner. The first step, in my mind, is to get a hold of the expenses – “cut the fat” as I say. You must conquer the money-squandering gremlin inside of you that sees a pretty toy (bag of drugs) and must have it at once. He’s a drain on your existence and you must reign him in as a result. Here is my list of steadfast resolutions that I’ve promised to follow through on whose aim is to make me a more robust citizen and family member. Forgive yourself if your list is more humble than mine – it’s simply that in all likelihood I make more money than you.

Step one – stop giving to charity if you do at all. Start donating to your own worthy cause – the cause of saving up for that dream vacation (or even dream lap dance) just a little bit faster. The world will always have problems – it’s not your job to play Superman (unless you’re actually playing Superman in the sense that you’re wearing a cape and are in the company of a friend who’s amenable to taking kicks to the face, in which case, proceed as you were).

My immediate priority beyond that is to get rid of all money grabbers from my life – more specifically women who look at me and see just dollar signs. They are fun to be around of course, but admittedly a drain. You take them out and they offer to pay for nothing and before you know it you’re $300 deep into the night and sitting at a cocktail lounge you never much relished to begin with. My only goal is to see what lies beneath those admittedly tacky pants and even that starts to lose its luster after hour three of boring story after shameless selfie – now my night has been reduced to a unrecognizable puddle of mediocrity and sexual frustration).

Next I intend to drastically decrease the price it takes to get to work everyday. I hear the minions on the sidewalk complain about subway fares going up – try filling up a power boat with diesel in these oil markets! I live close enough to the East River where it really is the most time efficient way, though. And I love watching George (the bulter) fumble around with the slip in the crisp morning air. I laugh and sit there eating my cereal out of the box and throwing bits at him as he sloppily grapples with the ropes and engine and it’s just too much fun. But cost efficient is what it is not and therefore I will have George sell it, resign myself to black car taxis, and then promptly, well, fire George once he has procured a buyer as a further cost cutting measure (unless he’s able to beat out some elaborate and arbitrary hoax that I concoct, like successfully ingesting 36 marshmallows in under 36 seconds – then he can stay). Last year, ha, I made him call his mother and convince her in a slow, sensual voice that he was suffering from a bad bout of Oedipus complex and needed her bodice next to his right then and there, in order to receive his Christmas bonus. Very funny and a fairly good sport about it, too.

Lastly, no more truffle soaked condoms. They cost a small fortune and are messy to put together, plus women don’t even seem to be turned on by the pungent aroma and instead generally look around perplexed before asking who on earth is making risotto.

So that’s it – a gentleman’s guide to sound living and sustainable spending in the new year. God bless us all.

Date Night - The Sacred Ritual

Ah, date night, the sacred ritual. I sure am nervous – that I cannot deny. Although I think I prepared for everything, but one never knows these days. Dating women has become such a spectacle – you have to have the right restaurant, the right post-restaurant lounge, the right hair, the right clothes – it’s exhausting. What happened to the days of pick-a-girl-out-in-the-crowd-and-make-her-submit-to-your-love-forcefully? I suppose it was never that easy – the past is always glamorized by those in the future!

So let’s see, inventory check – I got a haircut, that’s good, that’s a start. Got my shirt back from the dry cleaners, excellent. Assuming I get her back to my apt, should I have the sketch pads and charcoal pens already laid out on the living room table or do I bring the concept of drawing one another up casually in conversation and then just “happen to have” said pads? That’s a dicey call but I think I’ll put them out on the table. Oh! I’ll have the book open to a half-finished sketch of the female vagina for her to stumble upon so that she’ll know how “in touch” with my feminine side I can be. If that goes well, we move right past the awkward phase and into naked acoustic guitar performance. Women find it jarring, sure, but also exhilarating and since my erect penis is hidden by the guitar it makes it a pretty tolerable and manageable experience on both ends. Next: the bedroom…

I picked up a large bottle of lube and an economy pack of those new Trojan condoms (they supposedly smell like a cave and are said to unleash the “animal” in your woman, but who knows, right?). I have a mixtape that’s chock full of 80’s Tears for Fears and Pet Shop Boys hits [can’t decide whether to use poppy or slow cover version of “Mad World”, will ponder this throughout the day]. Do I break out the bedroom disco ball on the first date? Might seem tacky to someone who doesn’t know me well yet. The trickiest subject will be that of the 70’s porn tapes. Jesus as my witness, I got ‘em – question is do I use them? Will the caveman condom smell get confused with the 70’s free-love visual stimuli and throw my date into a veritable mental tailspin? Lord knows, but I’ll keep them close by in case I have trouble becoming aroused.

Gee, I really hope it goes well tonight –she’s a sweet one and I just hope my routine is elaborate and dynamic enough to maintain the attention-span of a 21st century gal!

A New Year, New Resolutions

Time to start getting serious about your New Year's resolutions. I know you are thinking that you are a miserable fat loser and there's really no hope of trying to change yourself for the better. Very true, but why not make a half-hearted effort just to say you did? (I have a motivational-speaker background.)

New Year's resolutions should be about lowering expectations, not raising them. Like my father told me, "Son, people like you don't amount to much, so aim low and exceed expectations." He was right. My life goal was to turn 25 outside of prison. I missed that goal by only a couple months, but Dad was still happy. He hung a "Mission Accomplished" banner outside my efficiency and briefly addressed family members, using several f-bombs for emphasis and clarity.

So lower your expectations. Instead of aiming to "read classic literature each week," resolve to merely acknowledge the literature's existence. That's much easier, and you don't have to worry about reading. Listen, let's be honest, books are gay, and by that I mean that books tend to like other books from their own genre. Don't ask me how I know this.

To really be successful, you should make resolutions about simple things, like "drink drinks" or "respond to external stimuli." Then you are guaranteed to succeed just like me. I once padded my resolution list with things like "go downstairs with the help of gravity" and "respirate," and you would not believe the success rate I had that year. It was like 20 percent.

Please do yourself and Santa's America a favor and avoid complicated resolutions. Don't resolve to "wake up every morning by 7 a.m. and work out." This is way too bold – too many moving parts. How about merely "awaken most days?" (Keep the question mark at the end for extra wiggle room.) People who make difficult, compound resolutions are not your friends. They are your parole officers.

In conclusion, resolutions are like newborn babies. They are easy to make, but hard to keep if you encounter an aggressive Child Protective Service.

I'll leave you with my resolutions list for 2010.

• Put things on countertops.

• Walk in the direction I'm facing.

• Make my eyes move in concert.

• Avoid mythical creatures in novelty shirts.

• Give up.

Faguinox Shmaguinox

Fuck Equinox.

All I hear from my friends is about their precious, upscale gym and how fulfilled they feel after that latest workout. Oh really? Which one of the effeminate trainers pulled on your dickey while you pressed the bar for 3 mind-bending reps this time?

Hogwash to all of this pomp! Who has $150 a month to spare at this mid-20’s stage of life? Side note: I love saying stuff like that, by the way. One of the best parts about being young and unmarried is you get to allocate your capital however you damn well please. So I can respond to mentions of Equinox with angry, who-can-afford-it type rants and then turn around and hypocritically spend $300 on a pair of shoes, Jonas Bros ticket, or a dry hand job. Just goes with the territory.

But honestly - this is 2009, the Great Recession is in mid stride, and it's shameful to devote so much money to a gym just because it makes you feel all warm inside. Oh great, what an improvement from the old school, gritty establishments like NY Sports Club and Sport Time - the towels are washed after almost every use, there's no barf on the squat machine, patrons have more than an average of 6.5 teeth, and the trainers actually try to help you build muscle mass instead of insulting your physique. Well I liked the way gyms used to be!

Furthermore, I say "fuck it" to gyms generally. I've got better things to do with my hard earned coin – adding to my pog collection, buying lavish breakfasts, etc.

The question is how to respond to the "Equinox phenomenon", which is built on 90's/post 9-11 materialistic, go-go values and has no grounding in the down-home, weather-beaten, beard sporting, flannel wearing spirit of the day - of this year 2009. Well I've got my own, home-grown, Bark-approved workout that won't only yield better result than Faguinox, but will leave you feeling refreshingly masculine on a daily basis and may even lead to spontaneous neck hair growth (the kind that only emotionally solid, stoic men know how to generate). It's a combination of hearty physical exertion combined with a hearty lifestyle:

- Find a 150 lb log and roll it up 40 foot hill 5 times. Play in traffic for 2 minutes (oh stop sighing, it’s character building) then repeat until eyes acquire cartoonish level of bulging (think Ren and Stimpy).

- Speak using limited vowels (they are gay) and omit definite and even indefinite articles.

- Go to local zoo and stare at alpha male in cheetah exhibit 2x per week. Eventually attempt to enter exhibit once you have gained upper hand and copulate with dominate female cheetah while alpha male hopefully weeps in corner of cage and drinks a mike's hard to drown sorrows. (Easier than it sounds).

- Perform crunches using medicine ball (throw to partner as you rise) except replace ball with human baby. Best way to savor your own mortality while pumping weights.

- Add 3 raw ginger roots to your morning cereal. Keep girlish shrieking to an absolute minimum.

- Punch thru immaculate pane of glass at least once a week (preferable your next door neighbor’s). Your knuckles will bleed like the dickens but will eventually (in 3 years) build a callous enough to not need emergency care and if you do it before you go out you will score hot threesomes like you're churning butter (never understood that simile).

- Lastly, churn butter (min 40 minutes) until appreciation for our fore fathers' sacrifice for your sorry ass is obtained and noted. Repeat for your poor mother.

Let Me Tell You About A Sexual Perversion

Let me tell you about a sexual perversion that I struggle with. Sex is fine, I think, I can handle it, but my real passion is masturbation. Problem is - I'm not exactly a "Naughty America" kind of guy. I find porn uninspired and frankly just way off the mark for me. I become more flaccid while watching a typical, choreographed money shot than I am while getting chewed out by my drunk father for being weak.

So where does that leave me? Well for some reason I'm very turned on by the simple things in life - laughter, people enjoying themselves, especially loved ones, friendly scenes of comraderous behavior, etc. These are the kind of things that make me want to pull my pants down and annihilate my genitalia with my own clenched palm. When I start going to town on myself I am usually maintained and propelled forward by imagining pleasant vistas of daily life - an old woman savoring an ice cream cone on a hot day (good for her and good for my throbbing member it seems as well), a plain gentleman watering the lawn, and for some reason most of all, dare I say it, imagining my friends sitting around watching football and enjoying casual beers. Now, a disclaimer, I am completely straight - my heterosexually is both sound and well documented. I thought The Birdcage was a bullshit movie and I don't even step inside hair salons - a guy named Gino who lives in the big slide at the local playground comes to my apartment to cut my hair (he's terrible, by the way, but the conversation is pure gold). Point is - I'm straighter than Burt Reynolds on his way to happy hour. But I'm also somewhat deranged, or how do I say it, at odds with the "norm". So I'm not attracted to my friends in the slightest, or the guy watering his lawn for that matter, but the thought of them enjoying a casual and agreeable afternoon together shooting the shit makes my shaft rip straight thru my gym shorts. It's strange, I know, but if I'm sitting around, talking shop with my comrades and so much as catch a glimpse, god help me, of one laughing at another's well-timed joke while the first one kindly offers the joke teller another beer - well then my face will turn some uncanny shade of lust-red, my crotch will swell up like a balloon at a magic show and I have to bee-line it for the bathroom, light a few candles, put on an old Hall & Oats cassette tape and begin a grueling 30 second session of grunting and relentless self-love.

See, it's the beauty of the friendly exchange that makes my dick sing, not any sexual urge directed toward my fellow gentlemen. Add to that the fact that they're pretty much all successful, super guys, good looking, caring, gentle, good smelling, stoic, muscular, and single, and now you can't really blame me. From bro to reader, what I'm trying to convince you of is that it's both satisfying and sustainably heterosexual to think about your parents' neighbor Steve with the great abs having a phenomenal time on his new ride on mower while tickling your blossoming cock. Cut that grass, Steve. Just know, however, that if your father gets wind of your little habit, and especially if he's had more than 7 Schlitzs’ today (very likely) then you are going to get your ass beaten and you'll probably have to stand in the backyard on one foot all night again singing "The Night They Drove Ole Dixie Down" til you puke out all your sin. Fair warning.

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy (Slightly abridged by Clubber Lang)

This is the time of year when many families are experiencing that ritualistic beating of The Family Road Trip. Coolers are being packed, favorite blankets are being clutched and hip flasks are being concealed. And, as usual, tempers will flare before the tailpipe scrapes the pavement in front of the house.

So why do we do it?

Ever since Eisenhower improved our highways, American families have felt the call of the open road. But in 2009, why do we keep answering?

When I was a kid, the family summer road trip was basically a hostage situation. My father's overly ambitious scheduling would have us seeing the lower 48 in six and a half days. We would be in the car for 15 hours a day, using a milk jug as a chamber pot and eating white bread from the bag.

Like most fathers, he was obsessed with numbers. What kind of time are we making? How many states are we seeing? What kind of gas mileage are we getting?

The end result is that I don't actually remember SEEING anything. I just remember sitting in the backseat of an Oldsmobile with my feet up on a cooler, trying to stave off atrophy and paralysis, and fiercely protecting my 2 square feet of the world from two siblings.

My mother, God rest her still-living soul, was a classic over-packer who rarely approached efficiency. Dad would make her nervous with our strict departure time, so she would throw anything and everything into the trunk at the last minute, just to be sure.

I swear, opening the trunk after she had been back there was like setting off an IED. We once hit a bump in Tennessee that sent the contents of a double wide onto the highway. It was like cleaning out an attic as we picked our stuff off the road.

"Mom, did we really need to bring stilts?"

"Just watch for trucks, dear."

Our car was also hotter than Satan's crotch. My Dad refused to run the AC because of the "drag on the engine." Never mind the 2,000 pounds of landscaping stone my mother had packed – the AC was the thing that put a "drag on the engine." Our sedan was basically a traveling convection oven that baked Southern children and poor attitudes. Fights were common and violent. In fact, I remember one time, someone threw a stilt at me.

If others have similar experiences, why do Americans still engage in family road trips?

Because reason does not dictate our decision-making in such matters. Nostalgia does.

If Looks Could Kill

How is it that a girl who normally won't wear anything more revealing than a beekeeper's suit will freely prance around in skintight clothing just because it can be worn in chlorinated water? Does she not consider the Marty Feldman eyes appraising her from a hole in the common fence that separates our yards? (Please omit before publication.)

I know from experience that if I walk in on a girl in a bra and panties, she will shriek and throw a hairbrush at me with enough force to demolish a hollow-core door. Why I am wearing a bra and panties in this example is beyond me, but I do know that the same girl who won't be seen in HER bra and panties will frolic in a bikini that reveals the gentle contours of heaven and not think twice about it. I love that, but last week it almost got me killed.

"Hey, Clubber. Wanna come over? We're out by the pool," she said. SHE is a friend from work who is hotter than pawn shop power tools. She always wears modest clothes, so I was dying to see her in a bikini.

"Sure." I said, hoping the "we" meant her and her ovulating girlfriend who drinks too much.

I arrived at her pool wearing trunks with plenty of expansion room in the front, ready to show off my golden, well-toned chest, and rub down her and her friend with magic fingers until low moans escaped their pink lips. Instead, she was with a DUDE.

He had the handsome looks of a Southern politician but was as annoying as an enduring nose whistle, always wanting to talk about his boat or hunting lease while I just wanted to stare at his girlfriend.

"Dude, so you work with Clairice, huh? Her job's a joke, dude. I make four times what she makes."

"Yeah, hey, could you move out of the way and let Clairice sit here? I want to catch up on some work stuff."

"No prob, bro. I'm gonna go get another Stella. Want one?"

"Sure."

"I'll get them," Clairice said. I sighed as I watched her hips swaying through the door.

"Dude, you're totally looking at my girlfriend's ass!"

"No. No. Never!"

It escalated and I ran. As the fence door closed, a glass of beer shattered on it.

I smiled and was thankful that fence gates are more substantial than hollow-core doors.

Ask and ye shall receive

"Since I can't reply to everyone personally through e-mail, I reply personally through column."  

–        Clubber Lang, 2009 

Clubber, I'm nervous. What will bankruptcy mean for General Motors? 

–        GM worker in Arlington 

Thank you for your courage. Having been through the heartbreak of bankruptcy myself, I can reveal what GM should expect. 

The first thing that happens when you file for bankruptcy is your girlfriend breaks up with you and starts dating your brother. Then your car gets repo'd, or, in this case, about 20 million of 'em. Then you'll be hit with a paternity suit from some girl with a lazy eye you met at a club, whose optical wandering makes it impossible to tell if she's addressing you, and whose breath smells like partially digested soup. 

Then you'll be arrested, nude, wearing a homemade cape within 20 feet of a nursing home. 

Note: I am not saying your experience will be exactly the same as mine, but it will be about 90 percent similar.

 

Clubber, whom should I watch now? Letterman or Conan? 

–        A. Quandary 

The crowning achievement of my short besotted life is ... well, probably frantically making out with twin sherpas under the disapproving shadow of Everest. But I also interviewed Letterman once. 

I don't have a copy of the interview. I do remember I made him laugh. Something about protein pellets for farm animals. It was like having your hero fly down from heaven and laugh at one of your jokes while your cat was stuck in a tree (needs massive rewrite).

However, I won't actually watch either of these guys, because every night as I wait for the barbiturates to overtake me, and Judge Judy's voice to slur into a baritone, I always forget to set my TiVo.

 

Clubber, is it better to use fluorescent or LED lighting? 

–        Jack in Vienna 

I'm 80 percent making this up, Jack, but I feel pretty certain that if 20 million people turned off their lights one hour earlier every night, we would create a stat about it. As I've mentioned before, I'm not the most environmentally responsible. I use pesticides (sometimes directly on my food) and I'll dump anything that glows down a storm drain.

However, I have researched this lighting matter. Jack, let's say you buy six fluorescent light bulbs and six LED bulbs. The fluorescents contain mercury, which is highly dangerous, and LED sounds like lead, which is also poisonous. So it's basically six of one, half dozen of the other. 

Write me.

Pandemic Pandemonium

I fear many things – death, burglars in Scream masks and now swine flu.

I didn't fear swine flu at first, because it sounded like an illness that only affected pigs. You know, just something that happens to pigs that don't wash their hooves after using the computers at the public library, or maybe lay up javelinas that use communal hot tubs for immoral purposes.
But the more television coverage I consumed this week, the more I spiraled into a full-blown, build-my- own-bubble-and-take-John-Travolta- as-a-roommate panic.

From television, I learned that swine flu was not only about to kill me and everyone I've ever loved, but it was also going to assume control of Congress and post negative things about me on the Internet. Pure evil. I knew I must avoid the swine flu at all costs.

But shortly after I turned off the telly, an odd thing happened – a slight bit of confidence returned to my fiber. I mean, wasn't I the same guy who survived the promised epidemics of AIDS, bird flu, SARS and mad cow disease? I not only survived them, but I got a raise at work and caught up on all old episodes of The Wire during that period. My life got better, none of them killed me and the worst thing that happened was that I couldn't find my keys one morning.

As far as animal-related communicable diseases go, I have really only contracted rhinovirus, and I am not even sure that is related. I did grow a tusk of compressed hair on my nose, but it fell off in the shower.

Still, we should be cautious, so I offer you my list of 10 things you can do to avoid swine flu.

1. Avoid pigs that are coughing and apologizing.

2. Don't shake hands with farmers. Dap instead.

3. Be suspicious of a pig that has neglected to wipe down his weight bench.

4. Although you can't get swine flu from eating pork, don't eat pork if a guy with swine flu has just sneezed on it.

5. Don't have unprotected sex with a pig.

6. Use alcohol-based hand sanitizers on bacon strips before eating.

7. Don't have sex with a pig at all.

8. Drink plenty of fluids, but not bodily fluids.

9. Avoid spiders that write words in their webs. Pigs are nearby.

10. Turn off the television.

New Media

Twitter has reached the tipping point. Newscasts are now updating uson which celebrity is the latest to begin "Twittering."

Baritone announcer:

"And now back to Action Eight News with Johnny Hairpiece and Nancy Whatsherthits."
"Before we leave you tonight, you won't believe who is nowTwittering," Johnny says while mentally locating that bottle of vodkain his Beemer.

"The President of the United States!" says Nancy as a nipple pops out."His latest tweet was sent out just minutes ago. It reads 'OMFG, N.Korea missile is so full of FAIL'."

Johnny straightens his papers and his erection. "I don't understand, Nancy."

"Well, that's all our time tonight. Join us tomorrow night as we talkto Taylor Swift!" The long shot fades into a copyright graphic as Johnny says, "Make love to me one last time, Nancy" when he thinks hismic is off.

OK. So even your grandmother is Twittering and it is annoying, andyou're unsuccessfully resisting the urge to tell everyone about howyou signed up for Twitter two years ago to follow so-and-so and youhaven't touched it since. Blah, blah, blah. I hate this merry-go-roundof knee-jerkiness every time something explodes culturally likeTwitter. Everyone is falling all over themselves to take a stand.

Curmudgeons, who pride themselves on their latest contrarian opinions,have beaten us down for years with "What do I need e-mail for?" and"Why text when you can just jog over to their house?" and "I'msticking with vinyl for its warmth."

Then, after they take a break from bold pronouncements, they jump onboard and start texting and e-mailing you at all hours with "25Things" about themselves, funny cat pictures and an album they rippedfrom BitTorrent.

I know it is human nature, but it doesn't make it any less annoying.

Half of my friends swore they would not get on Facebook. Now all of myfriends are on Facebook, and I have the same set of friends. Gofigure. The thing we don't take into account is that Twitter,Facebook, MySpace, e-mail, the Internet, are all just tools, and youshould never confuse tools with the tools who use them. Just becausepeople send me stupid animal pictures through e-mail doesn't meane-mail is stupid.

Same with Twitter. Yes, some people tweet like a monkey on crack aboutstuff that even God wishes was left out of his omniscience, but toassume that everyone approaches Twitter or Blogger or Facebook withthe same sort of time-wasting vanity is a mistake.

Now I will STFU.

Death by Sexy

I'm a car nut. I love all kinds of cars, and wish I were rich enough to own one of every model ever made.

Let's see. It's Wednesday and sunny? I think I should like to have my driver carry me to work in the 1978 Subaru Brat. I'll be strapped in the outdoor, rear-facing seat, like a tail-gunner on the lookout for tie fighters while he plugs in an 8-track of Neil Diamond.

Life whoring (verb): spending money on impractical things and pretending to live in ages other than your own.

There is one vehicle that receives more than its fair share of derision- the well-appointed minivan. I don't understand it. Why would we single out one of the most practical and kick-ass types of vehicles ever invented for the kind of hatred we normally reserve for boy bands?

I swear, I would do better to defend the Taliban at a cocktail party than the minivan. Stay-at-home mothers will convince their trophy husbands to buy them a $50,000 SUV just to avoid what they really need, which is a $30,000 minivan, because the American female sees the minivan as the death of sexiness. Never mind that expanding sweatpants are much more of an erection killer than what kind of a vehicle she slides her fat ass into. She just hates the van.

The Sybilizing of American automotive females began with the station wagon. In the day, every family who loved its crotch-fruit had a station wagon in the garage. It was a great kid hauler and capable of carrying massive quantities of family paraphernalia. Moms loved its practicality almost as much as dating teenagers despised its hearse styling. I never understood why teenagers with hair-trigger genitals wouldn't want to take a rolling bed on a date, but they preferred dad's Mercury for dry-humping.

Finally, when the wagon became a symbol of domestic, unsexy bliss, women hated them. Then, in 1984, the death of the station wagon came in the breadbox form of the minivan. Station wagon sales plummeted and minivans began their evolution into the greatest highway vehicle that didn't have "conversion" in its title.

But did the MILF celebrate the sexy warrior that killed her station wagon? No, she merely transferred her hatred to it. Why?

I don't pretend to understand women, I just pretend to sleep with a lot of them. Preferably in roomy minivans.

Springtime Cometh

The other day I found myself frolicking in a meadow. I guess I don't mean "found" as in "I had no idea where I was or what I was doing before I looked down to spot myself doing grands jetés in a poppy field." Actually, I do mean that.

The poppy field was more like a pocked yard of rye grass by a drainage ditch of a river that smelled like my grandfather's bedpan, and the grands jetés were more like joints I bummed from my friend. But I was frolicking. Hard.

I was picking flowers, chasing ducks, throwing Frisbees, wetting borrowed pants, all in the bright sunshine of a field that had apparently been used by every dog who could hunch himself into a comma and drop Baby Ruth since World War II. Once you got past the piles of canine Lincoln Logs and the Katrina-force winds, it really was a good time.

Well, I can't say I enjoyed the kite flying so much. The wind was so strong that I Dorothy Gale'd into Louisiana several times before finally remembering that, to me, kite flying is about as fun as a home-invasion robbery. So I switched to the Frisbee, which is a marginally fun one-person activity.

Thirty-five seconds later, I watched the Frisbee float downstream on an egret turd, and decided to pick flowers. With flowers scarce, I picked at a three-leaf vine growing on the creek bank that turned my arms red and blistered my hands with happiness. Oh, the beauty of God's creation!
Then, I squinted into the golden light and spotted a lovely girl in the field walking toward me. I rubbed my oily hands on my eyes to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Nope. There she was – wearing a sundress that clung to her legs like a scared child, and her hair flowing like the mane of a champion. I walked up to her and asked if she would toss the ball with me, and maybe let me take her on as a lover for the spring.

She punched me and I cried, not from the ambiguous rejection, but because of the pure beauty of spring. In fairness, I would have seen the punch coming, but my eyes were swollen shut by this time.

I walked aimlessly and sightlessly downhill and fell into the water. As the smell of untreated sewage and antifreeze overtook me, I thanked God for springtime in the urban beauty of our current Rock Creek Park.

Death & Taxes

It is said -- by who I am not sure -- that the only certain things in life are death & taxes. I find this a bit misleading since I routinely cheat death, and I am certain that strong-headed women and black eyes go hand-in-hand. In any event, I do give a good faith effort yearly to pay my taxes. I say good faith because some jackoff CPA always tells me my deductions are "red-flaggy". It's at this point that I am positive that I am being hit on so I do the appropriate thing and drop my pants. To illustrate my case I give you a correspondence from last year between my accountant and me.

Dear Mr. Lang,

I cannot in good conscience submit these deductions to the IRS. I am enclosing a list of your suspect deductions. If you can satisfactorily explain them to me, then I will process your documents with dispatch.

Jeff Goodman, CPA

Dear CPA,

I understand your concerns about my tax records, but I assure you I am in full compliance with the law. Just going down the list, they all seem self-explanatory to me. But here goes:

1) $2,000 for lingerie is NOT extravagant for a top blogger. The Barking Aristocrat claimed $14,000 last year. Sometimes we need certain things to get us in the mood to write. Sometimes we make our editors dress up. No matter. It's legit.

2) The trip to the Caribbean was TOTAL research. It was part of an aborted series of first-person narratives on what it was like to have unprotected sex with a Haitian. The trips to Vegas, LA, Vail and Panama? Same deal. (It's awesome, by the way.)

3) Clinic visits: See above.

4) Let me explain. Liquor in our business is a necessity. It is both story lubrication and a way to forget a childhood. If you don't drink a lot, you can't do good work. Looks like I did about $17,000 worth of good work last year! Note: Strip bars pushed this figure higher than planned.

5) Pleeaase. The Porsche is used for commuting only, therefore deductible. The Civic is my weekend car.

6) I know you are curious about the $153,000 donation to Goodwill. I'll admit that is a little red-flaggy, but I sent you the blank receipt they gave me. Do me a favor and fill in "ORIGINAL PICASSO PAINTING" and "SOLID GOLD BAR COLLECTION." I ran out of room in my apartment and wanted another family to enjoy them.

7) It was my understanding that you could deduct organ donations at the time of donation card signing. I estimated the value of my organs at $30,000, which might be on the low side for American organs, come to think of it.

8) I have enclosed nude pictures of myself to show you just how rad those "irrelevant" tattoos really are. (Ignore the other guy.) Tell the IRS that half of blogging is image, and my image sells papers.

9) You win on this one. Everyone I asked says "crack rock ice cocaine" isn't deductible.

Mr. Lang,

You are a dumb man. I resign.

Mr. Goodman

Mr. Goodman,

Are you still going to do my taxes?

Clubber

How not to hate the first date

My love life is more checkered than an Italian tablecloth.

When you have been on earth as long as I have (76 years) you learn a thing or two about women. You learn what they like (kissing, spanking) and what they don't like (Star Trek role playing, sex toys made of cheese).

Outside of bathroom stuff, dating has to be the most awkward thing that humans do. There will be lots of first dates this Valentine's Day. I predict most of them will be failed and all of them will be awkward.

My strangest and worst Valentine's date ever was when a woman abruptly excused herself to go outside in the middle of our first course. In her absence, I used my time wisely, copying down her credit card numbers and popping her prescription pills. (What is Valtrex?)

Finally, my curiosity got the better of me and I went out to the parking lot to check on her. Apparently, her sister brought my date's previously undisclosed infant to the restaurant so my date could breastfeed it.

This is a clear breach of trust. I had begun this date under the pretense that if things got serious, I would be allowed to score with that most female of areas. But this woman was not only nursing a 2-week-old infant, but also an episiotomy wound that would be no match for my virility.

Note to the ladies: If you are in the six-week period of recovery after producing a small human, then tip us off. Nothing too overt. Just point south and whisper, "My vagina is destroyed right now." We won't judge you, or even buy you dinner, but we will thank you for the information and immediately run off to text our buddies.

If you are going on a first or second date this weekend, remember Clubber's Simple Rules for Successful Dating.

1. Use protection. I find that a .357 Magnum is a fine deterrent for old boyfriends.

2. Don't assume she's a girl. This happened to me once. Fortunately, I figured it out before it got too far. He/she was halfway up the wedding aisle when I noticed she had an erection.

To Have Opulence Enter My Being...Literally

Readers! I have secretly recovered the narrative below from an entry in my friend Chloe's journal and, I must admit, it has furnished my attraction toward her most effectively. What a racy mind she has! Please enjoy:


Chandeliers, stained red teeth, fake laughter, and a joyous time all around – another night and another high society party gone by. I just love them, I have to say. So decadent and such a boost to the ego that one sometimes requires after a long week at the office.

I wasn’t born rich but I have greatly relished the upper-crust social connections that I made through my attendance of boarding school for my secondary education. My parents had to work scrubbing floors at the local jail during the midnight shift to afford the lofty tuition, but I just absolutely insisted on attending! I remember being 8 years old and telling them very sternly one day, after viewing the film Dead Poets’ Society that, “Unless you want me to be reduced to the middle-class humdrum that you call a life, then you will promptly send me away to boarding school of my choosing so that I can leave this vile nest and seek an existence where the word “silverware” doesn’t equate to bargained down steel, miniature pitchforks from JC Penney”. Ah, I’ll never forget that day. They were so pitiful and shaken up by the whole experience, it was absolutely dreadful. I’ve never been a picky girl, but I was resolute on that one point and prodded and lightly tortured my parents until they gave in. And so, I was able to pursue my life of privilege and finer education and now reside in Manhattan where I make a very lucrative salary in finance.

Tonight’s party was thrown by Sam Butterworth in his penthouse apartment on Central Park West that his daddy gave him and what a fabulous affair it was. Cocaine was smattered about the hor’dourves table, topless women wearing masks with phallic noses served absinthe cocktails imported from Brazil, rare Salvador Dali sketches of nuns fornicating lined the walls, and I flirted with Brad Penderpand and let him caress the outside of my dress after betting him a hand job that he couldn’t put his finger, on the first try, exactly where my nipples were located on my breasts (they are situated unusually, and to some unnervingly, high on the sphere).
As I walk home and reflect on this wonderful night that has passed and the wonderful existence, in general, that I have afforded myself through hard work, blackmail, and the occasional intimidation tactics, I realize that only one thing is missing from this perfect universe:

Ever since I was young girl, 12 or so, I have always wanted a solid gold dildo for my very own.

Silly to you I’m sure it seems, yes. Maybe even a bit immature. Sure, some young ladies yearn for ponies or life-size doll houses or even bigger tits if they’re very brash – but I’ve only wanted two things in life: to live some version of a smug, intoxicated, pornographic high life of luxury…and a solid gold dildo. But alas, dear Journal, the cost to obtain this dream is quite prohibitive. I’ve found several alchemists who would be willing to make the device at a reasonable rate, but obtaining the amount of gold necessary to start the work is unfortunately far out of my price range. I’ll either have to wait a few years until I’m married (or my pay increases dramatically) or count on the long-horse plan B that I’ve also set in motion. I called my parents several years ago and told them I had gotten diagnosed with a rare form of terminal cancer, the treatment of which is not covered by insurance, and that it would cost several hundred thousand dollars to remove it through procedures. They’ve resumed scrubbing floors at the jail but I just don’t think the hours are going to add up fast enough in the end.

But oh to feel that heavy, leaden metal rush between my legs would be to accomplish what no man has or ever will be able to for me – the sense of raw, complete sexual opulence. Even if I’m having relations with a man whose net worth exceeds the value of a gold dildo, I just fail to poignantly feel that prominence and sheer ostentatiousness emanating through his member. I need to know what it feels like to be penetrated by solid gold. I’d like nothing more than to dress up in a custom Vira Wang dress, with diamond earrings, a pearl necklace, and fitted lingerie underneath and insert that gold shaft inside of me. I can imagine the thoughts rushing through my head at that very moment, that moment of truth: “I am consumed in flilthy materialism!; gross, unabashed, unapologetic grandiosity!” Then, and only then, even after the life I’ve spun together, even after the parties, and the upper-class sex and the expensive drugs, only then will I have the sensation that pure opulence has figuratively and literally entered my very being.

A Christmas Story

The sleigh was dripping water in the garage next to the Buick, and most of the reindeer were already back in the barn. The snow was thick, and it made the ground look like it had white breasts, but only where two hills were close together and of roughly the same size.

"Rudolph, I want to thank you for another job well done," Santa said, pulling off his boots.
"Thanks, big guy," Rudolph said, lighting a cigarette. "My back is killing me."

"Hey, your back, my anus!" Santa offered.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the North Pole for about 20 minutes as everyone looked at each other.

"Anyway," Rudolph continued, "I think I am going to head out to the barn. You cool?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna pour me a tall glass of sin and catch up on some 30 Rock," Santa said. "Will you call up the elves and tell them they can come up to the house through the dark Christmas Forest?"

"Sure thing, Santa." Rudolph grabbed a hoof full of cash from the counter before taking off to see his dealer. Santa settled back into his recliner, as the werewolf lurked in the shadows, waiting for his moment.

I love classic old Christmas stories like this. My family has passed them down for ages. There is no finer family tradition than the Langs gathering around the Christmas trash barrel as we burn financial records, warming our hands and exchanging inspirational stories.

How about this one?

Tommy was the smallest elf in the North Pole, and Tommy hated Christmas. Every year, the other elves would make fun of kind Tommy's slow toy production and crazy attention to detail. But that's not why Tommy hated Christmas. Tommy hated Christmas because it killed his father. In cold blood. Over a woman.

You see? These stories are timeless and relatable. Here's another to warm your heart.

Mrs. Claus was sad. She had forgotten to make all the little dollies that the girls of the world had requested. Plus, she'd just found some panties in the glove box of the sleigh that weren't hers. A quick check of the browser history enlarged her eyes, and showed Santa was doing more than e-mailing his cousin in Boca Raton. She called her sister. "What is elf-on-elf action?" she asked.

Ah, yes. These stories can now be yours during my special year-end blowout sale. Get your copy of Clubber Lang’s Big Book of Disturbing and Scarring Christmas Tales for only $5.95 from 101 Stories Publishing.

You'll be sorry you did.

The Wonderful World of Drunks

You know what is worse than being a sloppy drunk on New Year's Eve? Being sober and surrounded by sloppy drunks on New Year's Eve. I know I risk sounding like your grandmother when I say, "Your grandfather does it like a sex-crazed stallion should ... and also, don't drink," but I must say it anyway.

Here is a sampling of the drunks I ran into on New Year's Eve. Recognize any of them?
The Hollering "Vegas!" Guy: This guy wants everyone within a bullet's range to hear his witty genius. The problem is that his genius is quoting movie lines and getting them wrong.

The Close Talker: This person, when drunk, gets way up in your grill. He or she spits consonants all over your face while you try to ignore the fire breath and inane remarks. Reflexively, you consider kissing them, but then realize they are the wrong sex. Or are they ...

The Sick Drunk: Two hours into the night and she's sitting out on the curb with her forehead on her knees while one of her fat friends rubs her back. An hour and a half of doing her hair, and now her friend is using bar napkins to wipe out the chunks.

The Point Repeater: This is the guy who issues the same point over and over, with very little change in wording or information, trying to convince you of something nobody cares about. "Dude, you don't even understand. Grape jelly is soooo totally good. It's effing badass!"

The Sexual Girl: This girl is naturally demure, but after a few drinks, she's trying to make out with the parking lot attendant. She will show her mammaries to strangers and will stick her tongue down the throat of a short guy before throwing up in a urinal.

The Smiling Mute With No Balance: This is the only one of the lot that I like. He is usually propped up against a wall while his friends are arguing with The Point Repeater. He walks as if downhill is every which way, and he is always smiling like a foreigner holding in a funny joke he doesn't fully understand.

However, there is one drunk who is charming, clever and as cute as a movie star:

You.