Bom Chicka Wah Wah: A Guide To Sleep, Sex, And Roof Damage

I sleep like a rock. Through thunderstorms, meteor showers, and airplane collisions, I sleep. When burglars pistol-whip overnight guests and nuclear reactors explode into dust, regular appointments with the Sandman remain unbroken. After all, what kind of fool wants his forty winks interrupted with the stress of a radioactive holocaust (or a smoldering jet engine crashing through the kitchen ceiling) at three in the morning? I’m lucky to aim correctly into the toilet bowl at that hour. Tangling with hazmat suits and fire extinguishers require, at very least, a bold cup of French Roast coffee to fully uncross my eyes. If forced to navigate a blazing fuselage before measuring out water and grinds for the Krups machine, it’s going to be one hellacious morning for everyone in my circle of trust, including surviving passengers slumped over the table hoping for breakfast. And while I fry an exceptional omelet, uninvited guests can be an irksome breed. In any case, prior to my career as an unpaid blogger (before writing ideas danced like sugarplums through all hours of the night), mind entered dreamland when head met pillow. No sheep. No bonbons. No Ambien.

My wife, on the other hand, passes the overnight hours flipping like a wounded fish. And while it’s often more distraction than comfort, the white noise of the television buzzes endlessly, as visions of man/mosquito hybrids from the SciFi network loll her droopy lids into a shallow snooze (see “Shame” for more on this). But yesterday, presumably bored with dialogue-bereft paeans to insect mutation, she soaked up an Oscar-caliber offering on Skinemax; also dialogue-bereft, unless you count the coital groans of a woman and her psychologist as paramount to story arc. Skinemax – for those donning chastity belts – is the late-night programming block on the Cinemax movie network, viewed through scrambled lines by curious children in the 1980s, and in crystal clear quality by masturbating perverts, university drunks, and sexually adventurous couples in modern times. And, of course, by my wife, used exclusively as a sleep aide. Because nothing says “restful slumber” quite like softcore pornography.

Perhaps it’s the X/Y chromosome differential, but my wife, cute as she is, cannot comprehend the lack of plot in said films. While men are easily satisfied with a few reverse cowgirls and a piledriver money-shot, women actually want to know why the UPS driver made a second delivery, or the reason the plumber needed to lay pipe with an extra long hose, on Sunday no less. Early forays into skin flicks did attempt some measure of dramatic design, albeit flimsy, as evidenced in ‘The Green Door’ or ‘Deep Throat.’ However, by eschewing literate college grads in lieu of hirsute miscreants and three legged anomalies, the industry churns out thousands of plotless gonzos each year at massive cost savings. When a mattress, an office desk, and a rotating cache of uniforms can afford a group of sub-tier pelvic pumpers the luxury of San Fernando Valley villas, expensive props and fancy location shoots become superfluous. Put differentially, a man teasing the weasel will not enjoy fast-forwarding through ten minutes of middling hospital dialogue or, dare I say, a romance-choked dinner of chocolate fondue set to flamenco guitar. Wah pedal solos and immobile cantaloupe-sized silicone generally meet requirements. Cue wooly moustache for 1970s throwback effect. Repeat with acid washed jeans and blazer for 1980s nostalgia. If the viewer truly wants to operate his brain, there are plenty of CGI-congested popcorn flicks where truck explosions can be dissected six ways from Sunday.

In any case, I’ve got to get back to my kitchen, as I’m still patching the roof from the latest asteroid pelting. Adding insult to injury, a few lingering airline passengers are demanding lunch. Maybe I’ll throw in a porn to keep them occupied while I tie up loose ends with the police. Over a bold roasted coffee, of course. Until next time: sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite, and may the next nuclear disaster occur at least one town over from you.