Too Much Mastication Will Kill You! (or, Will This Razor Chafe My Palms?)

Since my pants were filched by the titans of finance, the luxury of free time has been available in heaps (or “shitloads,” to use the beaten man's vernacular). The endless ass scratching, a kind of secret handshake among the unemployed, reveals my hapless status. And while hours are trashed in self-deprecating pollution – Tostitos feedbag gently nestled beneath the chin – they might also brim with aimless web surfing, laundry, or creative reveries with neighborhood women. Thankfully, narcissism works in fits and starts, thwarting a permanent lapse into feral licebag territory. In other words, I’m usually coherent as opposed to rag-clad, and would rarely be seen, say, shaking my fist at traffic while cursing the fragile labor market. Likewise, I’ve been fairly spry after reclaiming rectal control in the wake of an HR-led emasculation (see "Apocalypse Now" from March 19). Yes, the initial pain is severe, but like everything else in the jobless slum, it converges to a dull pang. Several months later, one can even sit with minimal discomfort.

Delousing weekly – generally with a quick spritz of Ortho Home Defense – I prepare for intense mastication at my mother’s house. Although palms remain hairless, stomach bloats from the inexhaustible cornucopia of chow (pastrami into kiwis into chocolate death cake, to name one such jaunt through the gastronomic gauntlet); akin to stapling one’s mouth against a food conveyor set on hyperdrive. Of course, these gluttonous eating orgies are appreciated as a mid-week pause from crotch-scratching coma. And at this point, any diversion that keeps my hands out of my pants is a welcome plus.

Predictably, mom will recap neighborhood gossip, opine on my dwindling ego, and avow misinformed distrust of the internet, all before coffee and Entenmann’s. If my laundry was tumbling in the basement, these visits might parallel the rudderless magic of college, sans jackhammer hangover. Yet there I am, a leeching ignoramus, obtaining geopolitical headlines from my mother because notions of keeping informed – the core of an international business career – have become impossibly tedious. These days, you’re more likely to find me hanging in a closet with a rope slung around my genitals than perusing the Wall Street Journal. Yes, I’m the deadbeat charity case stockpiling leftovers from the maternal refrigerator, two steps from assuming residence in the garage with a weight bench and mullet. Well, maybe three steps from the mullet. But in all seriousness, I am almost off the grid. Blissfully ignorant, enormously happy, but off the fucking grid.

Like a drunken romp through 7-Eleven, doggie bag contents on any given week might include pineapples, taco meat, soup, oranges, and (only once) Goya sardines in mustard sauce(?!), bizarrely chosen yet lovingly packed for the favorite son. While the boxed fish stunk horribly – a gift more suited for beggars or church homeless drops – believe me, I’m not complaining. Something needs to offset the troughs of Frito Lay products on which I graze like a famished horse. And since I’m expecting a job offer shortly, I’ve only got a few weeks to burn 200 pounds, hack eight inches off my hair, and replace a spoonful of lost teeth. Those Catholic priests were right. Overly-indulgent mastication will kill you. And I don’t want to go blind.

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.

If You Listen Closely, You Can Hear The Banjos Strumming

“Yes, We Have Fried Tripe.”

Those were five words which cemented my arrival in the epicurean backwoods of northern New England. Not only was this crudely erected hash house of corrugated metal located on the boulevard of destitute dreams – where streets are lined with Bubba Teeth, and tag sales doom the used shit of an incestuous square mile to forever circulate from driveway to driveway – but this purveyor of roadkill was delighted to advertise bovine stomach chambers as their principal entrée. Squashed squirrel or poached possum be damned, demand for this kibble must have been inspiring enough for the posting of handmade signs promoting its re-availability; signs which, mind you, were plastered on every vertical beam holding the roof in place. One must no longer settle for the chipmunk fricassee, as the second coming of tripe has been resurrected inside these derelict walls of yesteryear’s overbites. Taste it again, for the first time. And no, we wouldn’t think of serving it any other way than from an artery attacking deep fryer, lobbing entire decades off grandpa’s life with each satisfying spork-full of intestinal anti-nutrition.

When The Bastard makes his bi-annual trips to the Maine wilds, slightly south of the Canadian border in an outdoorsman’s paradise nestled hours from any interstate highway, he does so willingly. He is not dragged by his ear, forced to abandon the comfortable trappings of suburban internet connectivity and ever-present culture, but instead embraces the opportunity to decompress. The stress of unemployment glides gently off the bone when seated in a wicker rocking chair overlooking a crystal clear lake, beachfront included. This place is a hidden treasure, a former camp which catered to moneyed urbanites during the earliest part of the last century, arrived at by railroad, and since converted into tranquil private abodes abutting a postcard-pretty landscape of pine, birch, and lupine. Flanked by two welcoming towns offering congenial gift shops and eateries, not to mention multitudes of hiking trails and water sports, this idyllic sanctuary has been rightly cherished by my in-laws since its purchase (for a song and various trinkets) in the late 1960’s. For those who remember, that period marked the zenith of the American Dream, when the middle class – less saddled with back-breaking mortgages, obscene university costs, and oppressive taxes – could afford vacation homes on (not near) the water.

After twelve years of venturing off the grid, I’ve come to appreciate the many allures of unspoiled terrain, not to mention the dustings of quaint charm and curious small town oddities. Due to the unforgiving winters (which cause severe contractions in the plumbing), I’ve also learned to defecate on a crooked toilet, steadying myself against the adjacent sink as if boarding the Gravitron ride with pants around my ankles. On this plot of greenery, drunks clumsily operate barbecue grills, uncles string tightie-whitey underwear across outdoor clothes lines for all to admonish, and gastronomes gorge themselves on cheese, beer, garlic, and fajitas, only to reek like an abominable steaming mess of noxious flatulence for multiple, unshowered days. When I put my mind to it, I can blow out concrete walls and kill small animals. Play hard, stink harder.

Pleasant aromas aside, my in-laws have been nothing but generous in their sharing of this restful patch of God’s country. Under their tutelage, my outdoor education has advanced far beyond kickball games and park fountains. In fact, over a span of years, I’ve come to appreciate that not every resident above 45° N latitude boasts a mouthful of beaver teeth and a lockbox of flannels. Nor would I any longer presume that a Ford F-150 is everyone’s dream graduation gift in that region. To my wonderment, I’m now even aware that well-adjusted white people do work at McDonald’s, and sometimes bus tables in restaurants.

While I may never fully ingratiate myself into the north woods alloy, frequent journeys offer bragging rights as more than a mere tourist. Perhaps one day I’ll have the stones to pull over en route and purchase a two legged chair or set of tarnished spoons or stained Pokémon doll from the interminable tag sales. Hell, I might even close my eyes and try the fried tripe (remember, it’s back). Next time.

Or maybe the time after that. Baby steps, you know?

Red Sauce Wrecking Ball

After suspecting mafia infiltration within his company, my cousin promptly fouled his pants and scuttled out of state. Now, I haven’t had the privilege of breaking bread (or antipasti) with La Cosa Nostra, but excepting the evidence of cement shoe fittings in the boss’ office, or panicky associates racing by your cubicle holding their sliced throats, I’m not sure how one arrives at such an extreme conclusion. It’s possible that Cuz became paranoid once biscotti trays and espresso replaced the usual coffee and donut tender at staff meetings. Or perhaps the cafeteria switched to an all sauce menu, with rumors of matronly plumpers tending to tanker-sized vats brimming with marinara. And I suppose the erection of a monstrous crucifix in the building lobby – with guards upholding a shoot to kill directive toward any non-genuflecting employee – may have been the proverbial icing on the cake (or cream in the sfogliatelle, for those who like their desserts flaky).

This celebrated tale of staggering cowardice is sometimes bantered about during holiday gatherings, especially by the hand-flailing Sicilian half of the visiting famiglia. Be it known, there was no valiant whistle-blowing on the part of my cousin, no Dateline interview while enshrouded in shadow, nor was a wire ever strapped to his testicles from which to record criminally slanted discussions as a courageous informant. Rather, he claims to have been slapped Godfather-style across the cheek, and told to keep his prying eyes under wraps, presumably before a demitasse spoon could be used to remove them. In other words, his hands were in the wrong cannoli dish, and the greedy bastard didn’t know when to stand down from the sugar high. With credit to my hardnosed grandmother, God rest her soul, a subtle smirk or eyebrow lift, usually directed toward me, always revealed her true feelings about the story. In her heart she knew that everyone’s favorite mafia-fearing cousin had flipped his wig and bought a one-way ticket off the reservation, huffing the fumes of the loony bus. She was probably right.

Within months my cousin retreated from his lifelong abode in a spineless display of emasculation; filling his suitcase with bare necessities to make room for the colossal load of fright, paranoia, and extra underwear stuffed between his cheap shirts. This was the twilight escape of a mental midget, a man on the lam from an imaginary enemy. And while your blog writer was not present to wave goodbye in puzzled disbelief, it’s easy to imagine the “good riddance” hissed through my grandmother’s clenched teeth when forced to watch her escaping grandson’s testosterone leak down his pant leg. Off he went, head down, shuffling his feet into the big wide world. In later years, our runaway experimented with new age crystals, homosexuality, and jazz, before seeking the providence of Jesus Christ. This lifted the family’s tally of born again bible scholars from a paltry one to a boastful two (see “Everyone Loves That Wacky Uncle” from Jan 28), thus scoring a new record among my friends while setting the scene for dueling scripture quotation at ensuing dinners. When the Lord is calling his flock back for supper, who knew He came knocking at gay jazz clubs?

As a helpful rule of thumb, the Bastard recommends prompt remittance of “protection payments” for the man aiming to keep ten digits on both hands. For those not operating a small business or tooling around in double-breasted suits, it’s quite easy to keep one’s neck away from the trappings of organized crime, and thus one’s head out of a vise. That said, a law-abiding Italian hiding from the mob is like a fat man running from an ice cream truck. At some point you’ll either collide or find each other at a mutually appreciated venue, whether that be the park or the Ravenite Social Club on Mulberry Street. In this case, enjoy your anisette cookie, stick your cheeks out for the double kiss, and move along. Do not, under any circumstances, ask detailed questions, regardless of whether your firm’s cafeteria was refitted with brick ovens or a 24 hour pasta bar. After all, you’re going to want to keep that pinky for the ring, not to mention your wife for an excuse to wear the beater. Capiche? Good.

Bada bing.

Of Fish Sandwiches And Reverence

Wife: (while staring at a pan filled with three uncooked sausages) I hate to say this, but they look like little embryos or something.
Me: Didn’t I recommend you start a blog?
Wife: I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.

Presumably owing to a strange shift in the cosmos, McDonald’s is again promoting the oft-lambasted Filet-o-Fish sandwich. Were my blog audience comprised primarily of gasoline huffing truckers or college burnouts, said ad campaign (2 for $3.33) would already have translated into ichthyo-orgasm followed by repeated trips to a (choose one) truck-stop restroom infiltrated with prostitutes or dormitory toilet stall littered ankle-deep with beer cans. For the rest of our readers – whether completely opposed to the cardiac arresting attributes of simulated food, or simply confused by the notion of orange cheese melted atop a perfectly processed block of the cheapest fish nabbed from the least desirable section of the ocean – your healthy intentions are saluted, but your risk aversions are bewailed.

My father, rest his soul, was never afraid to sink his chompers into the minced fish value meal prepared by the always irritable crew of the Golden Arches. While most patrons ease into their bolted seats with the known quantity of a Quarter Pounder, Big Mac, or McNugget banquet, he rolled the dice and consumed an objectionable sea creature – possibly spawned in the manager’s fish tank – like some fast food revolutionary; bent on shifting convention amidst the fluorescent-bathed kings and drive-through queens of our modern dining age. Although my father’s rebellious acts were nary more than occasional subtleties against principle (like ordering rum raisin ice cream purely because it was a menu rarity, without regard to his indifference toward rum or raisins), these screwball antics piled high throughout the years. In other words, the man didn’t get a nose ring or back breaking Ace of Spades tattoo to exhibit his individuality. He ordered the Filet-o-Fish. Repeatedly. Because he knew you didn’t have the balls to travel that road, even though his pants were busting.

Notwithstanding this curious pseudo-renegade trait, plenty of my father’s genetic morsels were passed along and reflected upon as I aged out of adolescence. Certainly not my right-brained artistic persuasions (dad couldn’t print legibly, much less draw a stick figure), quick witted sarcasm (primarily drawn from my mother’s Brooklyn-bred sensibilities) or detached earlobes (thank God), but there exist attributes in this head which mirror subsets of his personality. He never worried. About anything. His mindset was eternally optimistic. If you promised to be home by ten, then waltzed in reeking like a distillery four hours later, he’d simply have assumed you missed your train, or ran into some old buddies en route. Never mind the fact that my frazzled mother, by now insane, would attempt to throw me off a ledge after decontaminating my clothes. In more serious circumstances, police would never enforce a 24 hour missing persons rule because my father would wait 48 before even considering the call (and might delay further for inexpensive nighttime rates), remaining in a holding pattern of extreme normality; slugging down coffee like a caffeinated maniac, thumbing through the Times, and managing the eccentric underlings of his accounting department. By then, you might be chopped up in a suitcase, internal organs auctioned in the black market and transported to a third world hellhole for repurposing by unhygienic hacks. But then again, probably not. And life would go on. And so it did, comprised with other Y chromosomal nuggets like my anally intact organizational habits, excruciating attention to mundane detail, and faint OCD flare-ups (see "Christmas In January" from Jan 15).

Vividly I recall my father clad in a shit-brown robe flipping pancakes on Saturday mornings, singing along to the oldies on New York’s CBS-FM like it was his second job to destroy pitch and annoy neighborhood dogs. And there we were, our traditional nuclear family, passing the syrup while held captive in a radio reverb chamber double-timing as our kitchen, listening to dad mangle the words of the entire doo-wop canon. And though music was our shared passion, his forklift’s worth of showtune records warranted a masculinity citation of the highest caliber. But then again, he played that Judy Garland album loud and proud, windows flung open against a street full of pre-teens, because he had brassier balls than to which you could ever aspire. You didn’t like this dandy schlock polluting the air and ripping apart the ozone? Go home and play your own tapes, kid.

Sometime within the past eight years, my father got sick. He was a fighter, which bought him considerable time and confounded a revolving door of medical professionals, but all wearied victims consent eventually to their predator. At the end of a very trying week helping my mother plan funeral arrangements, shore up finances, and keep sanity amongst relatives, I broke down. He was gone. An emptiness had finally presented itself as the rest of the world was moving on and the realities of the situation were settling comfortably into focus. We never spoke deeply, he and I. His proud independent streak, mistaken as aloofness by certain types, was something I understood well and respected always, something hereditary which also burns in this writer’s own heart. That said, he approached fatherhood with brilliance. Never overbearing, compassionate when warranted, stern with matters of importance, and exceptionally lenient with the rest of life’s trivialities. The old man did things his way. He couldn’t give a rat’s ass what you thought.

But still, what kind of a person orders the Filet-o-Fish from McDonald’s? And then orders it again?

Everyone Loves That Wacky Uncle

For a while my uncle concerned himself with nuclear holocaust, so he grew an impenetrable beard, purchased two rifles, and hunkered into an upstate New York trailer park. An obvious solution to Cold War malaise. If Leonid Brezhnev or, dare I say, the Great Leader Kim Il-Sung came knocking on his door one afternoon in those heady days, colossal hydrogen bomb pointed two feet from the kitchen window and threatening to blow his whole damn double-wide into the Andromeda Galaxy, Uncle Conspiracy Theory would’ve channeled the spirit of Berserker and forced his way out like John Rambo punching the heads off unruly Cong. This Unabomber-like preparedness occurred before dear uncle welcomed our Lord & Savior back into his undeserving arms, but after his mini-career administering inkblot tests to loony tune mental patients.

And God love him, but beard or no beard the man boasts an uncanny resemblance to Orville Redenbacher, he of the ubiquitous red bowtie, buffoonish grin, and popping corn empire. Mercifully no other relation embodies these traits, but the fear of recessive inheritance, the silent killer which turned an otherwise good man into a paranoid sociopath with a fixation on truck stop cuisine and lumberjack couture, prowls in the murky underbelly of each holiday reunion. It’s the strangling vine around my family tree, pulling down whole fucking limbs. In other words, genetics has a funny way of blindsiding the most confident among us.

But everyone loves that wacky uncle. The guy yanking dimes out of your ear, pretending to steal your nose, and dutifully tossing out off-kilter knee slappers like bad jokes were going out of style; the avuncular jackass breaking a change roll in his mouth to vomit a dollar’s worth of pennies on your meatloaf, letting his dental emergency of loose “fillings” wreck dinner (again). You like this stuff? Well it's a good thing our families didn’t live across the street, because my uncle was more given to quoting occasional scripture with extraordinary relevance and precision. That said, if you maintained a peculiar interest in how the Pentagon was implanting microchips into the brains of ordinary citizens or poisoning our food supply to fatten the drug companies, you might be regaled for hours. He’s still coming to terms with receiving social security via direct deposit because, remember, government control of bank accounts is a half-skip away from government control of minds. And don’t expect a new Etch-A-Sketch on Christmas morning either when you’re more apt to find “Jesus H. Christ Is Your Supreme God, Volume 542” crammed into the stocking. At least he wrapped.

Nonetheless, if one steered clear of politics or religion (or direct deposit), he could be genuinely funny; quick witted and sharp in the most surprising of circumstances. Rarely a stirring conversationalist, he would lend you his ear for hours, to listen fairly but seldom impose. When each of my grandparents fell ill, he provided the needed care, ceaselessly giving of time and strength. And his penchant for calm mixed with delicate optimism was a blessing to my mother when my father passed on and the world all at once seemed to stop. The old adage about choosing your friends could never be more true, but family is family like it or not, and the bond of blood runs deep when tested.

But still, what a crazy bastard.