Vomit Stories (you've been warned)

In 1979 I was driving a taxicab in Chicago, and I got a call for a fare at Henrotin Hospital. As I drove up to the emergency entrance, a hospital employee was waiting with a man in a wheelchair. As soon as I stopped he whipped the door open and pushed the guy out of the chair and into my backseat, then he came around, handed me a charge slip and an address, and quickly disappeared into the emergency room. (Back in those days the cab company allowed hospitals to charge cab rides, and I would cash them in later.) As I pulled away from the hospital there was the unmistakable sound of puking coming from the back seat. After emptying the contents of his stomach, the guy continued to dry heave, filling the cab with the aroma of gastric juices and 'Richard's Wild Irish Rose'. It turned out that the hospital was dumping the guy on a rehab center nearby. When I pulled up to the center, the rehab employee handed me a roll of paper towels and took the guy away. Obviously they had done this before.

Lately, Fat Kitty has fallen in love with my head. Every night after I fall asleep, she nestles up against my head and falls into a blissful slumber. Very often, before she falls asleep, she grooms me by licking my hair until it is sopping wet. It's very creepy. All this just started in the past month and I don't know how to break her of it without incurring a bit of resentment on her part. I have two good reasons for her to stop besides the creepiness of it. First of all are my allergies. I wake up every morning with my eyes puffed out like a blowfish, and with fits of sneezing. The second reason is because of what happened last night. I awoke to the sound of Fat Kitty doing the ‘kitty-cat about to barf’ dance on my head. I did manage to get her off of my head, but I did not get her far enough as she spewed forth into my shoes on the side of the bed. It has happened before, and I cannot understand why when a cat is about to puke, they always look for a hard to clean area to do it in. With all the tile and terrazzo floors in the house, she always aims for the rugs, shoes, Mark, or me.

By the way, back in 1979, I charged the hospital for the time it took me to clean the vomit out of my taxi. Unfortunately, Fat Kitty doesn’t have a charge card or I would make her pay. I guess she’ll just have to make it up shampooing my hair til it's paid off.

Truth In Packaging

People under the age of forty probably don't remember when you could buy a bottle of Tylenol®, and easily open it up to get to the contents. In 1970 they passed a law requiring child resistant packaging for over the counter drugs. This was probably a good idea because as a kid I remember eating the delicious orange flavored children's aspirin my mom kept in the medicine cabinet. They tasted a little like Pez candy, but tended to give you a bit of a stomach ache.

In 1982 some insane, sociopath decided it would be fun to lace Tylenol® with cyanide, then put the poisoned pills back on store shelves. Seven people died. As a result, another layer of tamper resistant packaging was required. Now when I buy a new bottle of my favorite, Excedrin®, I first have to get past the protective outer coating, then outsmart the child-proof cap, and finally with the help of a kitchen knife, break open the foil seal under the cap. After all that, I still have to go get some tweezers to extract the wad of cotton from inside the bottle.

For Christmas, Mark got me an 'Ultimate Trimmer', which the package described as 'ideal for beards, mustaches, and nose hair'. Considering that I don't have a beard, or a mustache, I guess Mark is trying to tell me something about nose hairs, or he just thinks my nose hairs are a mustache. The problem with the trimmer is that it was packaged to deter shop lifters from just dropping it down their pants. That means it was encased in a large, clear, plastic bubble that could only be opened by an orangutan, armed with a crowbar. After first trying to pull it open, I tried stabbing at it with one of Mark's expensive kitchen knives. That didn't work, so I then tried the shears that mark uses for cutting up chickens. Finally, after drawing blood, and getting out the electric carving knife, I was able to remove my new Ultimate Trimmer. It was well worth it, because I now have neatly trimmed nostrils, and I can't wait to try it on some of my other hairy parts. Or maybe I'll just grow a beard so I can give it a real workout.

A Feast For A Beast

Christmas dinner was a fine affair here at our house. We invited a few friends over and Mark whipped up a delicious dinner of prime rib, mashed potatoes, and spinach. It doesn't sound like a lot, but trust me, with all the extras like the crab bisque, bread, appetizers, and date/nut bars for desert, I was stuffed.

I am writing this on the day after Christmas, and I have had prime rib for lunch, prime rib for dinner, and prime rib and gummi bears for a light, after going out to the bars, snack (Vodka makes you crave strange food combinations). As I sit here writing this, a malodorous fog has filled the room, and I am gagging on the smell of dog farts. You see Chandler has been dining on a very similar diet since yesterday. I thought I was being very conscientious in letting little Chandler have bits and pieces of Mark's prime rib, but what I didn't allow for was Mark and all the guests dropping him a taste here and there.

The funny thing about dogs is that they don't know the meaning of the words 'too much'. They may know 'sit', 'stay', 'come', but 'too much' is not in their vocabulary. As long as meat is coming their way, they open up and swallow. At times the meat doesn't even have to be offered to the dog. They may take things into their own paws, like Chandler did tonight. Earlier Mark had cuts of prime rib sitting on the counter, and was preparing our dinner of leftovers, when he stepped out of the kitchen for a minute. In those few moments Mark was out of the room, Chandler performed a feat of magic worthy of David Blaine. He made my dinner disappear. So now I sit here and put up with the ultimate insult. Not only did Chandler take my dinner off the counter and wolf it down faster than the speed of light, he is laying on the floor next to me, blowing farts that are so noxious that my eyes are watering and the cats keep trying to bury him in kitty litter.

Photo Friday

Chicago, Illinois, December 26, 2008

Wilton Manors, Florida, December 26, 2008

Video Thursday

Our Christmas.

I know, home movies are boring.

Merry Saturnalia

Well it's that time of year and the week from hell has descended, once again, upon my head. December 23rd is Mark's birthday, the 25th is of course Christmas, the 27th is the anniversary of my birth, thirty nine-teen plus one years ago, followed by New Years Eve, and New Years Day. The last two I really don't have any problem with, as I just stay home on New Years Eve because I really don't want to mix with the part-timers, and New Years Day is spent watching football. It's the three birthdays that I have a problem with.

If my mother were the only person to acknowledge my birthday, I'd be very happy. With each passing year it just gets more and more depressing. Thirty.....forty.....fifty.....holy crap, next year is looming large. It seems that it took about a hundred years to reach the age of twenty, and ten years to hit thirty, since then it has only taken ten more years to reach fifty nine. I figure when I turn a hundred, it will seem like just a month has passed since the year 2008.

Mark and Jesus' birthdays are a little more complicated, since I have to purchase gifts for Mark on both of those days. It just doesn't seem right. I do take it kind of easy, and do all of my shopping on line. The only problem with that is getting the crap delivered on time. Unfortunately, Mark's birthday present didn't arrive in time and I had to give him an empty box with a printout of Amazon.com's email telling me it would be here in two to four weeks, and I am still sweating the delivery of one of his Christmas presents. I rush ordered it overnight, but once again Amazon.com was sold out. They have sent me one more email stating it will be here today the 24th, but if it isn't I really don't think I can get away with the empty box trick again. Not unless the box is made out of gold and studded with diamonds.

Sweet Little Susie

About five or six years ago, while walking my dog Molly, we came upon a cute little Maltese dog being walked by its owner. Little did I suspect that for Molly it didn't look cute, but looked more like a snack, and in one quick motion had the little thing in her mouth. Up until that point I would have never considered that Molly had one mean bone in her body, or thought in her head. Seven hundred and fifty dollars in emergency vet bills later, You'd figure I had learned my lesson.

Flash forward to yesterday afternoon, and I am at the Abandoned Pet Rescue shelter, walking dogs. Don't get me wrong, most of the dogs there are sweet and good natured, but there are a couple who have issues. First of all there is Sandy, a pit bull, who likes to grab her own leash and walk herself. Sandy is not satisfied just grabbing the end of the leash attached to her, she wants the whole thing, and keeps snapping at the leash like an angry alligator, until she gets all the way up to your hand. Unfortunately Sandy cannot tell the difference between your hand, the leash, and a raw steak.

The second 'bad' dog is Susie, another pit bull. Susie is totally deceptive. She lets me into her cage and meekly stands there while I put the leash on her, then she goes outside with me and walks along the grassy dog walking area, all happy and friendly with a big dog smile on her face. It's all a lie. Yesterday while walking Susie, I was chatting with another guy who was walking a cute little dog named Haga. I swore I was far enough from the other dog, but apparently I wasn't. Susie grabbed Haga by the snout faster than you can say, 'Oh Shit', and all hell broke loose. The high pitched yelps and barks of fear attracted all the other dog walkers, so I tried not to do that anymore. I desperately pried and pulled at Susie's jaw, but her grip was amazing. We finally got her to release the other dog, and when it was all over, Haga just walked away, a little bloodied but none the worse. Susie however wanted more, and I had to take her across the street.

You just never know what is really going through a dogs mind. They can be going along making you believe all is well and then the next thing you know, they are trying to eat your next door neighbor. I'm glad my dog Chandler isn't that way. I hope.

Guest Blog #1

This story is from my older sister Peggy, and is her remembrance of Christmas past.

Alan likes to talk about growing up in the '50's and I was right there with him. Christmas was a wonderful time at our house for us kids, but for our Mom it must have been hectic. Before there was TOYS 'Я' US, Mom and I would head over to Bettenhausens Hardware store on Oak Park Ave. All year long it was a boring place full of hardware (editors note: hardware is not boring). But at Christmas time Mr. Bettenhausen turned his upstairs warehouse area into a Wonderland of Toys, at least that's what it looked like to me. As the oldest daughter, I was allowed to help play Santa and went with Mom, climbing up the rickety wooden stairs and picking out the perfect doll, doll buggy, truck, cars, etc.

Somehow mom and I smuggled the loot into the house and it all got hidden, usually under their bed. I have had only two children to buy and wrap presents for, I cannot imagine how Mom did it for eleven, and so quietly! I do remember her locking us out of her bedroom as it got closer to Christmas, and on Christmas morning the pile of gifts under the tree was enormous! Never mind that you probably only received two gifts, and one of them might have been clothing, it always looked like we were rich that morning. I think that really defined my idea of what Christmas should look like, and my own kids have benefited from it!

I can vividly remember two gifts that I received as a young child. One was the "step-stool booster chair" in yellow vinyl that was actually meant for my Mom to use in the kitchen. When I saw it, for some reason, I got it into my head that it was mine! I can remember climbing up on it and looking down on my poor siblings, like I was the queen of the step stools! The other gift was an orange-crate dollhouse put together by my Grandma and Grandpa. It was 4 rooms, with rugs and curtains. Handmade furniture and purchased items filled the rooms in which a clothespin family resided. It was a gift given to me and sister Susan and we loved it, I'm just sorry it didn't survive to become an antique!

From the editor: I get a clearer picture of why my brothers and sisters are the way they are when I hear these stories of our childhood. For instance, though I love her dearly, my sister Peggy is bossy. She would boss me around when I was a kid, and to this day she is still a surrogate mother. Obviously, because my mom crowned Peggy as the arbiter of what the rest of us were given on Christmas, coupled with the yellow step stool for her to stand on and look down upon us, it is quite obvious how she became the 'boss'. As for my oldest brother, the 'Republican' (who I dearly love), my mom has told me stories of what is was like before my sister and I were born. He had it all. The attention, the gifts, everything, then my sister was born. That was his first time sharing. When I was born, it finally hit him that he would have to share everything, including his bedroom, with me. I think that was the first time the word 'socialism' came out of his mouth.

Photo Friday

Mom visits my new house for the first time in 1994

Video Thursday

Saturday, Mark dragged me along shopping and I figured I would take the video camera along, and maybe I'd get something for Video Thursday. Mark didn't know I was taking video until the end. One thing you might notice, Mark has to touch everything in the store.

Well, I was wrong, I didn't get anything special for Video Thursday. Shopping with Mark is just as boring as I thought it was, proving that I have good reason to hate it so much.

A Slurpee, A Pack Of Marlboros, And All Your Money...

Me, in 1978 wearing clean underwear

The 7-Eleven Store around the corner from me seems to have quite a problem getting and keeping employees. Unfortunately the one employee that they seem hang on to, is the worst one they have. It's not that she isn't a nice person, she's nice enough. The problem is that she's a slow, bumbling, moron, who cannot multi-task. When she's working, the line at the counter usually stretches all the way back to the Slurpee® Machine because somebody has given her five dollars and twenty three cents for a four dollar and twenty three cent purchase, and is asking for the change in the form of lotto quick pick. You can actually see the smoke coming from her ears as her brain overloads.

Now I don’t usually belittle those who are employed at lower wage jobs, because I know that they are working hard at a shitty job. I also don’t make fun because thirty years ago I worked at a 7-Eleven in Oakland, California, and it was one of the most humbling experiences of my life. For three months I worked the 11PM to 7AM shift, at a store on one of Oakland’s busiest boulevards, which meant that the holdup men had an easy way to escape. Back then they didn’t have self-serve Slurpees® and it never failed that when I got a rush of customers, some little teenybopper assholes would come in and order Slurpees® and cigarettes. Usually while I was distracted getting them their Slurpees®, another one would be stealing a six pack of beer from the cooler at the opposite end of the store. My only revenge was selling them the cigarettes, and hoping they got cancer in thirty years.

The night that finally convinced me to get out of the 7-Eleven business, was the night a guy pulled a gun on me and took all the money in the register. Later that night while I was cleaning the poop out of my underpants, I decided it was time to look for another job. I did work there for one more week, but after the same guy who robbed me came in to buy cigarettes, glaring at me the whole time, I quit. I just didn’t like cleaning the poop out of my underwear.

My Electric Bill Is What??!!

Some people treat Christmas like they are competing in the Olympics, and go all out trying to compete with their neighbors decorating the house. That's why I firmly believe that Christmas should be celebrated only once every four years. It would be just about enough time for me to recover from Christmas overkill.

At our old house on Ravinia Drive, my dad's outdoor holiday decorating consisted of one string of the large bulb, Christmas lights, on the little front porch. That was it. That, and the festively decorated tree in the large window at the front of the house were the extent of Christmas cheer visible from the street. I like that low key approach to Christmas decorating, and I honor my dad every year by stringing one strand of lights down the length of my front porch where they generally stay until a summer storm blows them down.

Some people like to put up a little more than that, like the people down the street from me who have lights and a blow up Santa in the front of their house. It's bad enough that it looks like a cheap storefront display, but apparently Santa has a slow leak and by the time I take Chandler for his walkies every afternoon, Santa is deflated and doubled over. Another house near here looks like it's sitting in the middle of the Kmart Christmas department. It is tacky and grossly overdone. I'm sure that it is clearly visible from outer space, and if you drive by it without sunglasses, be careful, you just might burn your eyes out.

Next Year A Hanukkah Bush

December, the Christmas month, and the time that many people hope for peace and happiness. Over the last eleven years my dog Molly and Mark had an understanding. Molly wouldn't knock over Mark's Christmas tree, and Mark wouldn't go insane. Molly was a good girl, and she never even acknowledged the existence of the Christmas tree other than the fact it blocked her favorite window. Unfortunately, Molly isn't with us any more.

Welcome, Chandler, to Mark's land of Christmas cheer and beauty. Chandler is just eight months old and quite active, so this year I suggested that Mark not do the full sized Christmas tree. I suggested he get a table top Christmas tree that we could put out of Chandler's reach. After seeing Chandler dismantle numerous toys, shoes, and other personal items, Mark agreed, so we went out and got ourselves a small Christmas tree. After an afternoon of Mark feverishly decorating to the sound of pleasant Christmas music, the tree was all trimmed up with beautiful ornaments, and twinkling little lights. The lovely Christopher Radko ornament that was a salute to the people who died in the twin towers, was hung front and center. To my relief, all this decorating happened while I napped.

Things at the house were so peaceful. The beautiful tree, Mark in a good mood doing something in the bedroom, and Chandler and I in the kitchen. Then it happened. From the living room, the crashing sound of something hitting the floor, followed by the tinkling of thin glass shattering and skittering across the room. Marks tree had fallen off the table, pushed along by a small gust of wind blowing in through the window. I stood there in the doorway of the kitchen, looking at the disaster, wondering how I was going to escape before Mark walked in. Too late. Before Chandler and I could run for our lives, a sound from the depths of hell exploded behind us. We were stuck between the fallen tree and Mark in full rage. You would have thought Mark had just seen the real World Trade Center come crashing down, not a tree full of Christopher Radko ornaments.

Truthfully, before I met Mark I had no idea what a Christopher Radko ornament was. From what I have found on Ebay and other internet sites, about five to seven hundred dollars worth of ornaments bit the dust Friday afternoon, explaining Mark's reaction to seeing the tree spattered across the living room floor. I am very glad that both I and Chandler were not in the room when it happened, and although Mark is still a little sore about the whole episode, I know that somewhere in the back of his head a little voice is saying, "I must shop for more".

Photo Friday

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!"

Isn't Blitzen a German automobile?

Video Thursday

Every Monday night I go bowling. I have been on this league off and on for nineteen years. I used to be much better, and much thinner. The second bowler is my team-mate, Steven. I call his style of bowling, 'Froggy' style and mine is just spastic style.

I Wasn't Always Messy

When we were kids, my mom's house was never dirty, but it often was messy. She had eleven children after all, and when you have that many of us rug rats running around it is inevitable that there were going to be days that the house was in disarray. She never did give in though to the temptation to just let it go. My mom fought a never ending battle to keep an orderly, neat, and clean home right up until the day that the last of her children moved out.

One of my mom's tactics for keeping her home looking good and putting on a good front for visitors was her living room. Other than holidays, and special occasions, my moms living room was off limits. It was pretty much a museum exhibit of how my mom dreamed her home should look, while downstairs in our bedrooms and the 'wreck' room, we were allowed to do the things that kids do. Downstairs we ate junk food on the sofa, put icy beverages on the second hand tables without a coaster, and generally ran amok high on sugar and pubescent adrenalin. Then, come Saturday morning, we were required to clean our bedrooms and the 'wreck' room top to bottom with no prospect of going out to play until it was done.

My mom doesn't have any children living in her home now, and she has finally achieved that museum quality look that she must have craved for all those years her home was crawling with kids. Every time I visit her now, her house is spotless, and not a thing is out of place. No matter though, the same rules apply today as they did when we were kids. She has a separate living room that is never used, and a 'family' room on the other side of the house. After all, she does have somewhere near twenty grandchildren, plus great grandchildren, and they still need a place to 'wreck' when they visit.

You're Not Santa

When I was a kid, there was a woman who I always saw around town, who dressed and acted like a man. I can only assume that she was a lesbian. I have to say, it took balls to dress like that, and be the only lesbian in a small town back in the nineteen fifties. It must have been hard to be the only gay in town.

Saturday was 'Wilton Wonderland' day on our main street. There was a small Christmas parade, and a tree lighting ceremony, along with caroling by the Gay Men's Choir. It was nice, but it got me to thinking. Maybe Wilton Manors has reached the tipping point wherein it is too gay. Of the hundreds of people strolling up and down the street, there were only a handful of families with children. At the far end of the street, a forlorn Santa Claus waited in vain for the children to come and get their photos taken with him. When a couple of children did show up, they got red carpet treatment, and got to visit with Santa for as long as they wanted.

I guess I understand why families would be put off by our towns Christmas festival. One store front had a hunky "Santa" in nothing but red underpants sitting in the window, attracting a large crowd. And as nice as the caroling was, as soon as it was over the music switched to loud, gay dance club music. Meanwhile, drag queens in their best holiday wigs seemed to come out of nowhere, scaring me, and the few children who were still around.

I don't think it's a good idea for people to only live with their own kind. That's how prejudices start, and xenophobia sets in. It seems that our little town, which was quite different when I moved here nineteen years ago, has become a gay ghetto. I wish it was a little more diverse, but at least it's a ghetto with cute shops and good restaurants.