Suppers Please

December 11, 2012

porp-girl

 

I take you for real nice suppers, steaks and tates and red wines. Isso cold out Porp Porp, I got hot chocky from worky and will need tricky. You got that chicken-broth cunt. I want, I want. Hai Jamesons. May I ax you? How you got such perfecto faces and butts? You’re the bottle, I’m the genie, rubby rubby, loosey goosey, Porp so juicy, Bem so moussey, and by that I mean you silky like chocky moussey. Suppers please, yous and mees, beefs and cheeses, ducks and peas. Porppourri, you so dreamy, wanna reemie that teenie Beasley and get all meanie. Suppers please, peas and cheeses, beefs and geez you faces pleases.

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Never Fucked Before

November 29, 2012

Josie lives alone, except for a dove.

She shows the dove a teet.

The dove goes, “Pweet pweet!”

“Here’s a teet!”

“Pweet pweet!”

“Here’s a teet!”

“Pweet pweet!”

Teet, pweet, teet, pweet.

Now the Schwan’s man comes with ice cream.

Josie says, ”I’ma fuck today ha ha!”

The dove goes, “Pweet pweet!”

Josie says, “I’m so hungry for ice cream I could scream!”

The Schwan’s man says, ”Please do not scream! You will excite the dove and it will go pweet pweet! How irritating!”

Josie says, “I would also be irritated by the dove going pweet pweet! We would be irritated together! Both of us together!”

The dove goes, “Pweet pweet!”

Josie says, ”I never fucked before!”

“Pweet pweet!”

Josie says, “Have you fucked!”

The Schwan’s man says, “Yes! I have fucked two gals!”

Josie says, “Who were the gals you fucked!”

“I paid to fuck a bedouin whore in Iraq! I was hopped up on army pills! Sue me if you want!”

“You were brave to be a soldier! Who was the other gal!”

“Cheryl Holstein. She lives here in our town. We fucked in her laundry room and then we ate a gallon of Schwan’s chocolate ice cream. That ice cream was for someone else! I was almost fired ha ha!”

“I love Schwan’s ice cream!”

“Cheryl Holstein will not leave her husband for me!”

“What is it like to fuck!”

“So good!”

“I never fucked before!”

“I know ha ha!”

“I would like ice cream right now!”

“I miss Cheryl Holstein so much!”

Josie shows a teet. The dove goes, “Pweet pweet!”

Teet, pweet, teet, pweet.

“Pweet! Pweet! Pweet! Pweet!”

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Brushes With Fame

November 28, 2012

*Around 2001 my mom started hosting dinner parties for middle-aged singles in the tri-state area. (The three states are Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky.) Baby boomers would descend on our house a few times year and get really drunk, and my friends and I would often bartend. Being 15 at the time, this was our unfortunate introduction to partying.

One of the regular guests was a Dayton divorce attorney who happened to be Rob Lowe’s dad. He was older than most of the crowd, and after a drink or two he became quite the charmer. One night I found myself in a conversation with Rob Lowe’s dad and three male strangers. The strangers were businessmen types who I remember being pretty annoying compared to RLD, and it seemed like they were just meeting RLD for the first time that night, and RLD does not mention that he is RLD when he meets people for the first time.

For whatever reason, the strangers started an unbearable local-celebrity name-dropping contest. It went down sort of like this:

Stranger 1: I had dinner with the governor last week.

Stranger 2: How is Bob?

Stranger 1: Same old, still a bullshitter.

Stranger 2: Your words, not mine!

Stranger 3: The other day I was playing golf with John Glenn and he told me what it’s like to shit in outer space.

Stranger 2: How is Johnny Boy doing?

Stranger 3: Still a prick. I hope he dies soon!

[Laughter.]

[There was a break in the action, and then RLD chimed in with this:]

Rob Lowe’s Dad: You think that’s cool? Well, get this: I’ve fucked Rob Lowe’s mom.

[Laughter.]

I’ve fucked Rob Lowe’s mom is what he said.

He may or may not have explained later that he used to be married to her. I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter.

Great party, mom!

*Remember Spellbound, that documentary about spelling bees? One of the girls in it, April, lived in my sophomore year dorm. We weren’t friends, and I don’t think we ever really spoke to each other, but I would see her at parties, and I heard she didn’t like talking about how she was in Spellbound.

*Neil Gaiman’s brother worked on a documentary with my old roommate, and when he passed through New York he crashed on our futon for a few nights. He seemed to enjoy talking about how he was Neil Gaiman’s brother. The Neil Gaiman movie Mirrormask happened to be in theaters the weekend Neil Gaiman’s brother was crashing with us. He paid to see it in the theater even though, if I remember correctly, he had already seen it.

*A few years ago I brought my younger sister to a party at my friend’s parents’ apartment in SoHo. She was 17 at the time, didn’t know anyone else there, and was pretty bored, so she went out to the hallway to make a phone call. A half hour later she came back to the party with John Mayer and his friend. Someone gave John Mayer a beer and he drank it at the kitchen counter. He lived down the hall and talked to us in great detail about how the layout of his apartment was different than my friend’s apartment. I think he said his countertop was different and his ceiling lights were newer. That’s all he would talk about. He said, “Not tonight” when a young girl tried to take a picture with him. He told my friend that his parents were teachers and didn’t own a nice apartment, and that he deserved to live in the building because he earned his money, implying my friend had no business being there, which was rude.

*Kenneth Starr has a daughter who went to Vanderbilt University, where my brother went. One late night out when I was visiting, Kenneth Starr’s daughter and I happened to be in the same cab. I didn’t talk to her, or know who she was, or even realize there was a girl in the backseat at the time because I was so drunk. But later on my brother told me that Kenneth Starr’s daughter was in my cab.

“Who is Kenneth Starr?” I said.

“You know, the Bill Clinton, Monica Lewinsky lawyer,” he said.

“Oh yeah, I think I’ve heard that name before.”

“That’s his daughter.”

There you have it, my brushes with fame. To be honest, I only wanted to tell my Rob Lowe’s dad story, but it’s not long enough to be its own article so I had to tack on a few more of my brushes with fame.

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All in the Family [in VICE]

November 28, 2012

A high school friend of mine used to live in the Syrian Jewish neighborhood of Gravesend, Brooklyn, down near Coney Island. He described it as an insular, conservative, and somewhat bizarre ethnic enclave that included many opulent houses.

As we were putting together this issue, we realized that coordinating a fashion shoot inside Syria would void our insurance. So I got back in touch with my old friend and asked whether he knew of any families who might be willing to be photographed and possibly interviewed. I stressed that it would be a respectful, straightforward fashion spread, and he was kind enough to put out some feelers.

Here’s one of the responses sent to my friend from the father of a Syrian Jewish family (extended ellipses have been left intact): “Definitely not interested….. We do not like articles written about our community…… It is bad press, which causes unwanted attention…. Please discourage your friend from writing this piece….”

Continue reading.

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The Pits – Part I

November 7, 2012

The day after Barack Obama was re-elected, Mitt Romney and his Mormon wizards punished us Northeast heathens with a snowstorm spell. I was holed up in the apartment I’d just bought with money that came my way after pops sold the last of the gravel pits.

I’ll miss visiting that pit. The Guatemalans are good people, and at the risk of sounding like a perv, I’ll just say that the women who live near the pit are also good. I can remember Inez, the fleshy, bratty girl who would say mean things when she drank, like “You’re a fat man, your breath smells like a dead man’s butt.” I suppose that’s all true, but she didn’t have to tell me. It’s like that status update I saw on Facebook once: There are some things that need to be said, but not everyone needs to hear. I knew my breath smelled shitty that night, and that I was fat, but I didn’t need to hear it from a Guatemalan gravel girl. Especially after buying her a whole grilled snapper and four beers and telling her a thousand times that she is prettier than her sister. Which isn’t true.

Inez’s sister Libby cried when I told her we were selling the pit and that I would never visit again. “Buy another pit!” she said, tugging at my shirt sleeve. I explained that we would never buy a pit in the same pit zone where we had recently sold a pit at a loss. That would be stupid. I hate to say it, but Libby is simpleminded and doesn’t know the first thing about gravel pits, which is funny to me because she practically grew up in a gravel pit. But I’ll cut her some slack. After all, our house was on the twelfth hole at the Briary Club and I couldn’t hit a golf ball if it were the size of Libby’s head.

I didn’t tell Libby that the remaining pits in the area would soon be filled in to make way for cattle ranches, and that she and her people would need to move to the city or learn to hack it in the jungle.

Libby said she wanted me to take her back to New York City. “I will cook food and clean the house and do everything else.” It was implied that “everything else” meant wifely duties. Libby’s lips were always glistening even though she never wore lip gloss. It’s because she drank plenty of water and ate sticky fruits all day. I admired her so much. My idiot wife eats lip gloss like air, it’s gross.

“I already have a wife,” I said. “You know that.”

That made Libby upset and she lay her head on my chest and sobbed. She took me by the hand and led me into her bedroom where we made love three times. Nosy Inez no doubt heard us humping from the kitchen where she was conveniently peeling potatoes.

Libby and I fell asleep to the sound of Inez and her brother arguing, half in English and half in their native tongue that is called Yuca-something. The next morning while caressing Libby’s head I wrapped the thick hair on her neck around my thumb. She told me to stop, saying, “Sone, sone.” That was the Yuca word I heard from the girls a lot: Sone. I’m pretty sure it means no, or stop it.

“What are they arguing about?” I said.

“My brother doesn’t like it when you stay here.”

“Why?”

“Because you break the toilet.”

“It’s your food. It makes me irregular.”

“You should leave.”

“No. Sone. Sone. I’ll fix the toilet myself next time.”

“Just go, please. Right now.”

“I’ll miss you, Libby.”

“I’ll miss you too, Elvis.”

I told the sisters my name was Elvis, just in case. While studying abroad in Berlin I learned the hard way that any time you’re having an international liaison, you should always use a fake name and tell lies about yourself. I didn’t think gossip about me and the sisters would ever get back to Marni, but you never know. Shit bubbles up; grease slips off the hog. Like, maybe after the cattle ranch displaces their people, the sisters move to the city. They can’t get a decent job, so they take a computer class and learn how to type and use Microsoft Office and build websites. And maybe Inez gets cocky with her newfound skills and makes a website where she writes about guys she’s slept with. Girls do this all the time. Thank god Marni does not read blogs, but Inez’s blog could get picked up and made into a novel or a movie, and Marni loves movies. A post-colonial romance about Guatemalan sisters and their love affair with the son of an American gravel tycoon is right in Marni’s wheelhouse.

Marni would be suspicious, even if the guy’s name is Elvis. How many young American guys visit gravel pits in Guatemala? I can only think of four. Me, those dicks the Grolsch brothers, and Pauly Droms. But everyone in gravel knows the Grolsches are too racist to talk to a native, let alone fool around with one, and Pauly can’t fuck because he’s just paralyzed enough. So that leaves me.

Oh whatever. Marni’s been on to me for years, ever since the 2008 election.

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Liquor and Longevity

November 3, 2012

—Anonymous

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The Slugman of Herbert Street – Part II

October 25, 2012

Nothing gnaws at the spirit like loneliness.
Nothing drips like a lonely Slugman does.

The Slugman walks down Herbert Street
dripping from his glans and sluggy teet.

I don’t miss those hippies.
I don’t miss their banjoes
or shoeless toes.
I don’t miss being awoken
from my daily doze.

I finally have time to look at me
and see whatever it is that I’ll see.
What
is a Slugman?
Under all the drip
what is me?

He holds out his hand and lets a drip rip.
It streams from his glans and onto his hip.

Good show!
I don’t need to drip on hippies.
It’s just as much fun
to cover myself in drippy.

Winter comes quickly.
Herbert Street is slippery
and travelers fall quickly
and the drunks who wander from Richardson’s bar
looking for their drip-covered car
curse the Slugman when they slip in his drip.

“Damn you, Natty Bones!
“Leave my poor car alone.”

Christmas Eve never brings Natty Bones relief.
He fills his stocking with drippy
and tops it off with dry leaves
and small spiders
and calls it Drip Pudding
and feasts
alone, of course
and walks to St. Yves
down the street.

Father Pip’s on the stoop
and won’t let him in.
“Not until you wipe that drip from your chin,
you perverted Slugmin.”
Natty wipes his drip and grins.
“Merry Christmas, Father Pip.”
And without warning, he covers Pip
in freezing cold, milky white drip.

“Looks like you’re having a white Christmas, Pip,”
Natty says as he shakes the rest of the drip from his tip.

A wintry wind blows and freezes the drip to Pip.
“Damn you, Natty! Damn the whole Slugman race!
“Now I have to do Christmas Mass
“with drippy stuck to my face.
“Are you coming in, Natty, you ass?”

Natty says, “I’ll pass.
“I don’t like Mass.
“I’m just here for the snacks.”

He grabs the communion basket with his sluggy paw
and shoves each wafer into his drippy maw.
“Damn you, Natty! Did you eat them all?
“Those are for Mass. What gaul!”

Time passes, as it does.
The Slugman thinks about things
like the way Herbert Street was.
And King Hippie and that hippie baby
who he covered in drippy
and how maybe, in another life, just maybe
they could live in drip-free harmony.

No way!

Natty Bones drips into his hands
as he watches the Times Square ball drop.
On Valentine’s Day lovers leave the Richardson tipsy
and slip in his drippy white slop.

The Slugman drips as the leaves on the trees near St. Yves turn a splendid green.

He tries to drip on April Fool’s Day
but no.
No?
There’s no flow.
There’s no drip dripping from my drip spout!

He can’t begin to explain this drip drought.
A sick April’s Fool’s joke
that must be what it’s about.
Tomorrow I’ll be dripping like mad, no doubt.

Time passes
as it does.
April 2 comes
and goes
and there’s
still.
No.
Flow.

Woah.

I can’t even do the one thing Slugmen were put on earth to do.

If I can’t drip, I am no longer a Slugman.

I am only a man.

He looks at his glans
He looks at his hands.
They’re both bone dry.
The man who used to be a Slugman
curls into a dry ball
and begins to cry.

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Published Work

Page 1: The Fox in the Garage

How I Started a Family

Do We Need Cynar?

Gary 1 and Gary 2

I Work at a Fashionable Hotel Called the Hudson

C.O.D.Y. the Robot Who Hangs Out

Ann and Her Birdhouses

Luke and His Bobber

The Fox in the Garage in 3-D

105 Stories About Ohio

Bits

The Slugman of Herbert Street

Harold and the Purple Women

Video

Dos Factotum

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