Eyeballing It

Took a trip back to Central Pee-Yay, the Place to Be, earlier this week to help out my dad, who at the ripe old age of 58 just had his first cataract surgery. I hear 58 is a little young for cataracts, but in any event, all went well, and having a cataract removed is apparently less of a bother than having a tooth extracted, especially when your doctor is at once deft and decent and doesn't load you up with antibiotics that trigger the dreaded C. Diff bacteria. The only mishap was of my dumbass making when, on the way out of the clinic, I backed up into a Jaguar (!) and cracked the turn signal light. Fortunately, the Jaguar was at least ten years old, it was "just" a turn signal light, and the guy driving it was, like, the nicest guy in the world. So hopefully not too much harm done there, unless the nicest guy in the world does a complete 180 and decides to sue me for triggering some long-buried neurosis or hairline fracture. Which I kind of doubt, but then again, I once believed that if a thief stole money from your account, the bank would give it back to you, no questions asked.

As you may recall, my train trip home necessitates a close shave past Three Mile Island, which is always a source of mirth for a black-hearted, anti-nuke wretch like me. (My friend Marcia's dad likes to tell me that "Three Mile Island is good!" in his Transylvanian accent, another source of bleak mirth, especially since the Marcia family was living in Bucharest at the time of the Chernobyl disaster. I also fondly recall the time my friend DJP called me up at work and helped me waste some time MapQuesting the ol' radioactive holiday camp, not to mention all the "Simpsons" jokes you care to eat.) This trip found me unintentionally, I swear, cueing my portable CD player to Nena's "99 Luftballons"* just as the reactors appeared on the horizon--in both directions. Freaky! I may have to get a copy of Timbuk 3's "The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades" and stage a mini-tableau.

Other than that, not much else to say about the 'Burg except the obvious. Hasn't changed much, will never change much, still feel a strong pull to move back there and live a socially sanctioned lifestyle instead of fucking around in NYC, especially when visiting the grandparents who genuinely mean well but get all up in arms about my fucking around in NYC, except I'm forbidden to use the word "fuck" and all its conjugations in their presence. Which is okay, really.

*As in the German version, thank you, not the English remake. The next time some teeny-bopper calls up WPLJ's "'80s at 8" and requests "Ninety-Nine Red Balloons", I am going to rip my eyeballs out and fax them to the request line, I swear.

Men Are From Mars, Women Suck Their Penis(es)

Thanks to the Summer 2001 issue of BUST magazine for the title. The parentheses-ES at the end is my anal copy editor persona sneaking in, since if we are talking about multiple men, who are by definition multiple since "men" is plural, we must assume that we are dealing with more than one penis. Unless, of course, we are dwelling in a parallel universe in which all men share one penis in sort of a rapid timesharing scenario vis-a-vis the Internet, and who's to say we are not?

I think I just used vis-a-vis wrong there. Meh. Yes? No? Perhaps I am confusing it with the German "wie", which means "like." Because heaven forfend I just say "like." Meh again. Sorry. Up late, lost an hour of sleep (bastard Congress--criminal waste of tax dollars), tad too much beer.

Anyway. It has occurred to me lately that I have not done any pimping of the comedy improv troupe where I've been hoofing it nearly every Saturday night for the past two months. So here we go: The Grown-Ups Playground (which really needs a MySpace page, not least because MySpace is my new BFF) is a multiracial, multigenerational comedy improv troupe led by Joy Newman, whom you may know as Cousin Ruthie from Radio Days. We are not the Upright Citizens Brigade, nor are we Second City, but we have been known to make people laugh, sometimes even a real whole lot. So if you're in the New York metro area, we'd all be very happy if you'd come and join us at the New York Comedy Club, 214 East 24th Street, just off of 2nd Avenue. Even if we happen to have an off night, we'll still be happy. Or at least we'll pretend to be.

Don't you hate when you take that last swig of beer and you find out a bug has crawled into it? I know I do. Viva la vie Boheme!

Entomological matters and shameless plugs aside for now, the other night found me in the company of a friend-of-a-friend who, well, was a bit of a total douchebag. Said douchebaggery included, but was not limited to, gibbering ad nauseam about how fucking awesome he was, referring to women as "they" even though half the party possessed ovaries and were sitting right next to his ass, and bragging that he had no use for those who refused to wax "their" pussies. He would also like to know why "they" insist on kissing him after performing fellatio on him, and by the way, he will not engage in cunnilingus unless he really likes a chick, because that's like fucking gross, dude. But vice-versa...? Oh, do I even have to trot that hoary old double standard out of the crypt?

Look. I really have no problem at all with people going into minute detail about their sexual proclivities. Depending on who it is, I take a certain perverse pleasure in it, in fact. But man, it just brings me way, way the hell down (har) when guys start going ON and ON and ON about how chixx should fuckin' go Brazilian on themselves because lotsa hair is gross. Yhee gads. For the love of humanity, gentlemen, please absorb the following tenets: 1) Learn to tell the difference between the Playmate centerfold and the girl in your bed and 2) It ain't all about you and yer dicks. And yes, two thousand years of phallocentric religious dogma CAN BE and IS total bullshit, so let's please all consign this "men can't control themselves" bile to the medical waste incinerator where it belongs. (Enh, maybe that's not such a good idea, because them at the top have a certain fondness for slapping medical waste incinerators in inner-city neighborhoods so poor Black and Latino children can get asthma. Perhaps we should just shoot it directly at the sun and watch it burn up.)

Here's the thing: This guy is a prick. Strip away the prickery, and he's not even my damned type. But fuck me if I wasn't sitting there like a big old douchebag myself, pissed off at myself that I'm not this dude's type, because all men want to have sex with all women at all times, because they just can't control themselves. Like how cute is that? :-) [sarcasm/]

All right, so I'm (still) a total douchebag myself. But I will give myself a wee bit of credit and say that I'm not nearly the same dumbass I was in grad school, sitting across the table from a guy like this at a bar and hanging on every pig word that came out of his maw and believing that all men were like this. So, young man, I will leave you with this: Absorb those tenets! I genuinely believe your life will improve.