My Bad Date

My Dear Francis,
I cannot say how sorry I am for the othert night. You must believe me when I say that it was the Merlot talking and not me. I guess you were right, I should have stopped after the third bottle. But I do love a good Merlot, hell even a bad one. Its just that when I get around wine I hav no self control. Sometimes when I'm at work I sneek a couple of glasses. I know, I know, as an industrial crane operator this could be seen as dangerous, even irresponsible. But quite frankly I think I lift and haul three tons of building material better when I'm a little buzzed. But I'm getting off topic.
As I was saying, it was the wine and not me. I feel like I ruined what could have been a nice romantic moment. Oh hell, who am I kidding, I got the idea that the moment was ruined when we were driving home you threw me out of a moving car. As I lay there, bruised, scrapped and bleeding prety badly from a wound above my left temple, I realized that I shouldn't have said what I said. I guess I only have myself to blame. It was I who suggested, no forced you, to eat at that Indian/Mexiacn restaurant. But "Senior Apu's Jolly Tiger Bean Emporium" had such a nice ring to it. And lets not forget that it was you who ordered the Taco Vindalu. But that's not really the point. The real problem came later at make-out point, when lets face it, your meal choice started to get the better of you. I could have been a little more understanding, I know that now, but I really have never smelled anything like that before. I could have lied and said that I was crying tears of joy from being locked in your arms, but how was I going to explain the runny nose and dry heaves. And I really felt that I overstepped my bounds when I offerd you some Big Red to help "cover the smell of rotting garbage which was escaping from that hole under your nose". There are so many better ways I could have phrased that. My insensitivity got the best of me. My mother always used to say that there was nothing funny about painful gas. Never were truer word spoken. I hope that you can take it into your heart to forgive me. I also hope that you take two spoon fulls of Mylanta efore our nest date. Take care my funny smelling elf.
Mike

My Unfortunate Roll in History

It was fall of 1963 and I had recently returned from Las Vegas afer winning the "International How Many Poker Chips Can You Stuff Up Your Nose" competition. I had placed first by setting the world record at four chips. Anyway, my plane was routed through Dallas and I had four hours between flights. That's when I spotted this guy with a beard and polytails. It wasn't so much that, but rather the fact that we was wearing a green dress with a sash and a yellow beret. "Cookie, cookies. Get you somewhat freash in a box Sunshine girl cookies" he yelled in a voice that said I like cigarettes and vodka. Plus he smelled of motor oil. I approached him in order to acquire a cookie and ask for directions to the bathrooms. .."Never, mind that" he said. "How's about going into Dallas with me and helping to sell some cookies."..'Sure" I said. Afterall I had three hours. So we got into his black four door Lincoln Continental. "Jeez. The cookie buisiness sure must be treating you well. These cars cost a pretty penny" I mused. .."Pretty aint got nothin to do with it" barked Kevin, as he bit the head off of a Barbie doll and spit it at me. 'Now shut up and hum the Cuban national anthem". I didn't know the Cuban national anthem so I hummed 'I Feel Pretty'. Kevin didn't seem to notice. As we drove into town I was growing excited. I had never sold cookies before. We parked at the train yard and walked into what Kevin called Dealy Plaza. "Where are we gonna sell these cookies?" I asked. "On a street corner, in the mall, where?" Kevin looked around. "Up there, on that grassy knoll". It seemd like an odd place, but what did I know. Kevin opened the trunk and handed me a box of cookies and a high powered rifle with scope. "Why do we need a rifle?" I asked. "Its a promotional giveaway. Everyone who buys ten boxes gets a high powered rifle with scope" replied Kevin. "Sweet" I said and rubbed my hands together in that way that says 'I want that high powered rifle with scope'. We walked up the hill and stood behind a fence. I looked down into the plaza. I got the feeling that something important was going to happen, but I couldn't be sure. It was then that I heard what sounded like a motorcade approaching. Kevin picked up the rile and pointed it down into the plaza. 'Kevin, I don't think that's the best way to market our cookies. People may be put off by having a gun pointed at them. When people look to buy cookies they want to feel good and they want....".."Cram a sock in it Chatty Kathy!. I'm rying to blow the freakin' President's head off. Thank you!" screamed Kevin. And with that he fired the gun. I remember alot of screaming and Kevin running away and telling me to get lost. With that I went back to airport and took my plane home. Years later I was watching TV and saw that someone had shot President Kennedy. A thought crossed my mind. Could that bearded man in the dress have had anything to do with that? Well probably not as they seemd to have found some edgey drifter who liked stacking books and pinned it on him. But something still tells me that Kevin may not be the cookie salesman that he claimed to be.

Am I Charleton Heston?

It was 1943 and the battle for North Africa waged on. I was stationed with the 19th Flying Sunflowers under the command of General Percy M. GorillaBater and in love with a woman with a hair lip. But that's really not here nor there. Anywho, I was locked in a dogfight with Jerry somewhere over the desert when my plane started what could be only be called a rapid decent towards the earth. I couldn..t figure out if it was because I had run out of gas or because my plane had been riddled with bullets. Either way I was moving at a downward trajectory in an awfully big hurry. I pulled up on the stick, yet nothing happened. It looked bad. I did what I normally do in these situations. I cried like a big girly who just had her dolly taken away. However that didn't help either. Neither did the many heartfelt prayers that I cried out to that Jesus fellow the Chaplin was always going on and on about. What a crock. It was then that I remembered that I was wearing my parachute. I decided to jump. However due to my incessant crying and praying I decided too late. With only 100 feet between terra firma and me I leapt from the plane and pulled the cord. I smashed into the earth with what one local called a "dull thud that sounded like Allah dropping an egg". The chute opened. I laid on the sandy desert ground covered in silk and a lot of pain. "Damn" I yelled. I hated sand and I was pretty sure that some had gotten into my underpants. "Now I'll never get it out." Well sitting around wasn't going to do neither the Allies nor me any good. I figured I had better get walking and make my way back to the unit. Then I could get another plane and get my revenge on whichever German had decided to use my plane for target practice. I mean come on. Shooting at an American was simply uncalled for. Killing Germans was part of the game, but Americans? Please, this is war, have some dignity.
Well sitting around was going to get me anywhere, as I earlier stated, so I headed in a random direction hoping to find signs of civilization and a change of clothes. Now for reasons, which I failed to comprehend, there is no water in the desert. This came as quite a shock as I was sure that somewhere I had read that the desert flowed with an abundance of water and drinkable liquids. Well either read or dreamed, I couldn..t recall. What I could recall was that humans need water to live and I had better find some soon or I was going to be royally screwed. I pressed on. My stomach began to growl. Oh great, now I was thirsty and hungry. I reached down, grabbed some sand and stuffed and handful into my mouth. It was very dry and tasted like grainy dirt. It quelled my hunger but only went on to exasperate my thirst. Okay, that may not have been the best move. After taking four more steps I felt a growing pain in my stomach and began to cry. Jeez I don..t come off very manly in this story. Well anyway the pain was intense. It was as if I had eaten a large quantity of sand and it had....Oh crap! What had I done? The pain was so bad that I passed out. During that time I had visions of singing nymphs and chocolate bars that spoke and gave advice on which stocks I should buy. Must remember to invest in IBM when I get out of this. It was then that the spirit of Christmas came and said that if I didn..t change my ways I would die alone and be forced to carry a large chain though all of eternity. I..m not sure what that meant but if I ever get out of this I..m going to give money to the poor, increase Cratchet..s salary and find the best doctors for Tiny Tim. It was then that a voice called out and awakened me. ..Water, water, get your ice cold water here... I looked around and saw a girl with a pushcart, which did in fact have a sign on the side, which declared that she was indeed selling ice-cold water. I was saved. I ran over. ..Oh please, tell me what day this is.. I asked. ..It..s June 13th .. she declared. ..June 13th! I haven..t missed Christmas, the spirits did it all in one night with six months to spare. Thank you God, thank you Baby Jesus.., I shouted. The girl looked at me with a Dickensian scowl. ..Look I have no idea what the hell you..re talking about. But either buy some ice cold water or get lost.. Buy some water?! You bet I will. I reached into my wallet and pulled out my money. All I had was a fifty but I figured this not to be a problem. I handed over to money as my mouth watered at the mere thought of the water cascading down my thought. But was fantasy was short lived as she handed back the money. ..Hey pal do you have anything smaller, I just opened,.. she said. I replied that I didn"t but that she could keep the change. ..I don't need your pity tips.. she said. ..Twenty percent is all that I ask. Anything else makes me look cheap... I explained that I was really thirsty and went on to tell her about the war and my roll in it. She claimed not to know anything about a war and insisted that I had made the whole thing up. I assured her that it was in all of the papers and at that very moment John Wayne was preparing movies to be made shortly after it all ended, so that people could recall all the memories and good times that they had during the war. She laughed and told me to go and get the correct change, and that until I did she would sell me no water. I looked at her in disbelief. A disbelief, which soon changed into anger and then into confusion, that manifested itself into rage stopping off and wonderment circling around despondence and finally settling into disgust. ..What is your name oh preparer of refreshing life giving liquid?.. Andrea, Andrea Coronado. And I..m the most foul tempered, economically encoded, least informed on world events, seller of water in this or any other desert.., she replied. I had to take her word for it, seeing as how she was the only water seller in the desert that I had ever met. ..Fine.. I said, ..But we..ll meet again, either on this plane or in hell! And when we do, I will have my revenge... Later I made my way out of the desert, devised a plan to invade Normandy, conquered Germany and served eight uneventful years as President. But I have never forgotten that water seller. And now as I kneel her on a beach staring up at remains of the Statue of Liberty and finally realizing that I have in fact not landed on a planet where evolution has worked in reverse and that apes did not evolve from man. But am in fact home on earth, thousands of years in the future. That we did in fact blow it up and cause our own downfall. My thoughts turn to that water seller and I truly believe that she caused all of this. A tear rolls down my check.

Monkey Lunch

I was working the late shift at the plant and sweating to beat the band. Nothing says heat wave like a factory full of monkeys. As I was loading the last of a batch of prime monkeys unto a truck for delivery, I noticed someone sitting behind a crate. I walked over and there sitting on the ground, knitting a camel hair coat was Claudia. Of course I didn't know her name at the time but I assure you I shant never forget it. After a series of introductions I asked what she was doing. She told me that she was on her break and liked to spend that time knitting winter coats. She also told me that if I didn't mind my own business she would introduce me to the working end of a crochet needle. I just got out of there. Later on that day I was busy polishing a new order of monkey that had just come off the line. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see that it was Claudia. She asked if I was hungry. I said that I was but that it was only ten minutes till lunch so I would just wait until then. Claudia looked both ways before telling me that she couldn't wait. She was hungry now and that only one thing would satisfy her, a hot monkey sandwich. No way I said. Sure, hot monkey sandwiches are a true treat. But we could get in real trouble for eating monkey at work. She put her hands on her hips and laughed maniacally. No one was going to know. She extended her arms and there on a plate were two halves of a hot monkey sandwich. Man, I can still smell the monkey. I gave in to the urge. No sooner had I swallowed my first bite than old Mr. Jenkins came around the corner. He was furious. He yelled and yelled about how it was company policy never to eat monkey at work. Then he fired me. I would never polish a monkey again. I'm not sure what happened to Claudia. I heard that she finally went mad and tried to kill the Czar. A real shame that. Since I believe somebody had already done that in 1919.

The Haunting of Julio

Julio had started a Las Vegas show entitled "Guess What Animal I am now". After initial reviews claimed that merely watching it caused nausea, diarrhea and life-long depression, Julio was asked to leave the state of Nevada and not return until he had perfected how " a pig goes". Depressed and alone, Julio wandered around the Sierra Nevada looking for inspiration. Inspiration and an answer to the question which had plagued him for days, "What is that smell?" After tracking down the smell, an egg salad sandwich that he left in his sneaker, Julio wandered into my house. He then wandered into my cabinets and ate all my food. Julio then told me the whole sordid story about his smell, the wandering and his failed Las Vegas show. Which all left me with one question, "Who the hell are you?" He explained that his name was Julio and that he would now become a leech on my entire existence. After making me give him fifty bucks he insisted that I take him to the circus where he would show me "how a real man eats cotton candy'. To this day I still don't know what that means. Julio would sit on my couch all day and revel me with stories of lost cities of gold and his many sexual conquests. I began to have my doubts about these since many of the people he was reported to have "banged" included those long since dead. Including Queen Isabella of Spain and Jules Verne. One day I awoke to find Julio had moved out. He left a note, which said, "Thanks for everything, including the kidney. I am off now to fulfill my life long dream of 'smelling the inside of Port Authority Bus Station. '" He then signed it "You smell, I won't tell and if I see you again, we'll both burn in hell. Julio". And for reasons I am not quite sure of, he stole all of my shoes.

Bummin' Around

I hate bums. I don't even care for the expression "bum". We've all used it at one time or another. When I smoked I was often heard to quip, "Can I bum a cigarette", or at times," can I bum a couple of bucks so I can buy my own cigarettes and in turn allow others to bum smokes off of me". It was in some ways the circle of life...the life of the bummer. Not that I was a bum, but just that I liked to borrow from their lifestyle choice in order to obtain free cigarettes or unearned income. But at some point i grew up and decided not to depend on others to support my addiction or in turn, my laziness. I got out and did for myself. The same cannot be said for the bum, or hobo, in our current society.
Basically bums come in different varieties. But unlike the standard Baskin and Robbin's variety, they are limited to four.

The first is the depressed bum. This is the bum who you usually see on the street sitting Indian style with a poorly written sign resting on their lap and his head down. The sign usually has the same message. That they are A. Hungry and B. a veteran of a recent American waged war. When I was a kid the bum was always a Vietnam veteran who had seen to much in the bush and could no longer grasp life in these United States. I began to believe that most of these guys had not even been in the Army, let alone Vietnam. My guess was that they had simply seen "The Deer Hunter" and had figured that they would simply rely on American guilt for their earning potential. In recent years bums have been bread by much more recent wars such as Desert Storm and Operation Iraqi Freedom. I for one hope that America's foray into armed combat is drawing to a close. I can no longer financially afford these people.

The second type of bum is the angry bum. I always thought that if life decided to way lay me in the groin, I would be this type of bum. The kind that is so mad at life and how I wound up in it, that all social graces would just be left by the side of the road. This is the bum that doesn't bother with the sign, but rather just hits you up for some money. A real get in your face type of bum. I have to believe that if they were this aggressive in the job market they'd be the freakin' head of General Motors by now. Its not the lack of sign or the "in my face attitude" that one normally associates with pro basketball players or hip hop artists, that bothers me. No, its the yelling that comes when I decide that I would rather spend my hard earned money on myself then on them. Or the factor that I am not a walking ATM machine that just dolls out cash to whomever has the secret code that comes in the form of "hey man give me a dollar". They ask, I ignore and then I get, "Well fuck you" or "Just Give me some money" or "thanks for ruining my day". Its the last one that hurts the most. I'm pretty sure that their day, week, month and for that matter year, where well ruined before I unfortunately crossed their path.. Now thanks to them, I have to carry that guilt all day, or for at least five minutes. That is until something else draws my attention, like a squirrel or a blue car. These bums sometimes have a story to go along with their bumming. Something along the likes of "my car ran out of gas", or "I need money for a bus ticket so that I can get out of town before the mob, and or CIA, get me" or "my wife was abducted by UFO's and I need money for a plane ticket so that I can fly to Florida and complain to NASA personally for not keeping the skies safe and to help make an attempt to get my baby back". For those of you familiar with New York City these bums usually come in the form of twenty somethings who choose to bum instead of finding a job. I figure that they are doing well with this line of work since they seem to be able to afford rent in the city, just not a sandwich. I am a little envious though. In my current line of work I am in no position to pay city rent. But the joke is on them since they are probably unaware that the bum retirement plan is pretty weak and their health benefit package leaves a lot to be desired.

Clocking in at number three is my least favorite bum; entertaining bum. This is the bum who before he hits you up for the money attempts to entertain you in some way, usually with a type of word play. This bum is truly most annoying since he is so hard to ignore. Unlike sad or angry bum, which one can just walk by, this bum walks with you, and like a vacuum salesman, he simply will not take no for an answer. Now I come from a long line of ignorers. My people ignore like they were born to do it. My Great Uncle Philippe lived through the London Blitz unaware that it was even happening. He simply tuned it out. Aunt Hortence was present at President Kennedy's assassination, but simply turned a blind eye to it. My own father was unaware he had a son until my graduation from college. So ignoring is in my blood. But neither I, nor great Aunt Hortence, could pay little heed to these bums. They run towards you like wolves onto a steak. They begin by making small talk and ask how you are doing. Then they propose a small wager. They'll do something that will so shock and amaze me that I'll have no choice but to depart unto them some of my money. The exchange usually goes like this:

(Sun shinning as I walk down Third Ave. on my way to meet a friend)
Me: Ahhhh, what a beautiful day
Bum: Hey buddy what's going on?
Me: Please leave me alone.
Bum: You look good today, I hope God is smiling down upon you.
Me: At this moment in time I would say that he wasn't.
Bum: Hey, I've got an idea. How about I do something that will make you want to give me money.
Me: Please go away.
Bum: I'll tell you were you got your shoes and you give me five bucks.
Me; No
Bum: Please, I need bus fare.
Me: Hey, no fair. Your crossing over into angry bum territory. Play in your own league.
Bum: Okay. Now how about our deal.
Me: Please Jesus, kill me now. Jesus?...Are you there Jesus?.........Okay fine. Thrill me.
Bum: Al-righty...........You got your shoes on Third Avenue.
(I go blank as blows rain down upon bum. I awake three hours later in police custody and looking at a lengthy jail term. But it well worth it)


In some cases these bums exchange some cheap merchandise, that they has come across, for the money in your pocket. Now, I must warn you. Most of this merchandise has been pulled from local dumpsters or is in some cases, stolen. The dumpster merchandise is usually easy to spot. It tends to be mismatched. In one hand the bum will be holding a ski hat and Bic pens and in the other hand he'll be holding a bathing thong and a can of shaving cream. The stolen stuff at least has a theme. For instance they may be holding half a dozen foam front baseball hats that say thing like "Number One Grandpa" or "Sexy Grandma". The type of hats that truck drivers and mentally depraved old people wear. The kind of people who think hats like that are either some type of award or reflective of how others see them. Thee bum will want to give you the merchandise at a reduced cost. In some cases asking you just to give them one fifth the actual asking price that one would normally pay in a store for this top of the line product. Now here is where the bum's lack of job skills and economic knowledge really work against them. Since the product is stolen and thereby has no value, I can simply take the product and not feel obliged to make financial restitution. After-all one fifth of nothing is nothing. Game, set and match.....Me.


Finally we come to the most mysterious off all bums, and that is the bum who owns a TV. If you walk down some of the streets in the city you can often see someone sitting on the streets bathed in a flickering blue light. Not unusual to see someone bathed in colored light, especially in the city. What with all of that neon they use. But as you approach you notice that it isn't neon coloring the man, but rather a small battery powered TV set that he has propped up on a box and is watching. Usually its some half brained sit-com. I guess that's all he can get. It must be hard to get cable on that thing so you know he doesn't have any info on how the Yankees did that night. This is the one bum I really can't figure out. They always seem happy and never hit me up for money. Which is strange when you think about it. Bums need money for all kinds of things; food, booze, towels, bus tickets, you name it. But this one has thrown batteries into the mix. And these batteries can be expensive. I don't know how they can swing it. I hate buying batteries. They always make me go over my budget at the supermarket. Most portable things I own now are powered by turning a crank and powering up a small generator. My flashlights, my radio, my dialysis machine, all non battery powered. Mainly in an attempt to stay green, but also because I am too cheap to pay for batteries. Plus chicks dog it when you go all green on them. They really love a guy who gives a rats ass about the earth, or at least pretends to. This is my least annoying bum. He never bothers me for money or gets in my face. I can't say as I am a fan of seeing him just sit in front of a TV all day letting his life go by. But, to each his own.

Why Cage Fighting?

Lately I've been thinking about changing jobs. However I'm really sure what iwould like to do. Well actually that is not entirely true. I do know what i want to do, its just that those jobs seem fairly inaccessible. You know, things like astronaut, pro football quarterback, garden gnome or sheik. I think that I would make a hell of a sheik, especially with a harem at my beck and call. Man that would be a blast. Plus I really suck at being a Catholic, so I might as well give Muslim a try. You know, kind of hedge my bets. But that seems to be one of those inherited jobs, not the kind that an average Joe like me could get. Freakin' Muslims! You know, now that I think about it I am against a mosque in New York City. Keep me from living my dream will ya? I'm not really sure what is involved in being a Sheik. I guess if I learned anything from the movie Aladdin, it would be that most sheiks are of European descent, have long white beards, are roughly three feet tall, are horrible judges of character and are not the least bit phased by parrots who have mastered the English language.

But of all the jobs that I don't want, the one that tops the list is cage fighter. How does one decide that this is how they will spend their days on this earth? I can't think of one morning when I have woken up and thought, "Man, if I could do anything it would be to spend an inordinate amount of time in a gym, get wildly tattooed, forget how to speak good English, and learn to get punched in the face. Now if I could only combine all of that with some kind of wildly homo-erotic activity, my life would finally come together." No, I can honestly say that that thought has never crossed my mind. I do love it when these so called "tough guys" go on TV and talk about their careers with the seriousness of a NASA scientist. They seem to be awfully nervous because they sweat at an abnormal rate during the most basic of interviews. Its like watching Nixon in the last days of Watergate. Well it would be like that if Nixon then proceeded to challenge Sam Irvin to a no holds barred Texas Death Match. Oddly, I have more respect for Nixon then I do the average cage fighter. But that's neither here nor there. But I do love it when these sweaty leviathans start talking about their upcoming fight like its all manly and brutal. I guess if you broke down and analyzed what they were really saying you might get a better idea of what is really going on. For instance when one of them, lets call him "Mad Dog", starts talking he says something like, "This fight is going to be really hard, I've trained big time and I'm going to punch my opponents face all the way to China". What he is really saying is, "Tonight, I will walk into an octagonal shaped room with chain link fence for wall. Then I will undress until I am half nude and begin to roll around on the ground with another half nude man at which point we will begin to imitate acts that one normally sees in Filipino porn. Provided I don't get an erection my embarrassment level should be fairly nominal. This sport is wicked gay". Of course I kid, these guys would probably never use a word like nominal.