if christine mcvie had a penis...

I’m not sure which even told me it was definitely time to kill myself.

There was the moment when I found myself singing Jimmy Buffett songs outside my house after I took out the garbage.

Another time was when I came home and just had to hear Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” in its entirety. Or maybe seconds later when I started to debate the spelling of “Rumours” vs. “Rumors” with myself.

It all went back to that moment in 2006. March 14^th or 15^th. I’m not entirely sure of the date only because I know it was after work, but sometimes I talked to her earlier, sometimes later. It always depended on when I left work. Usually it was late, but even my dumb ass left early sometimes. But the control freak in me didn’t allow it to happen often.

Tragic flaws are a bitch.

But now the moment has passed. Like it always does. I’m not trying to think of the female musicians that I’ve wanted to have sex with. It’s a long list. Most likely it contains just about every woman on MTV from 1981 until 1992. Then I woke up. Or porn started showing up on the internet.

You know, I did not watch much porn before the internet. Chris showed me a dubbed who-knows-how-many-times version of “Debbie Does Dallas” in about 1986 or 87. Right before we found out about Guns-n-Roses.

Is that when music mattered more than sex?

Hell no. It never has. And that’s because I can’t play.

Music and sex? Yeah, duh. I think the first time I realized this connection was Donna Summer. I was old enough to know better, but too young to know.

Stevie Nicks is on that list. So are Ann and Nancy Wilson. Lita Ford and Dora Persch. Amy Lavere and Wendy O. Williams. Sandy Saraya. Tiffany and Debbie Gibson. What a dream that awful Syfy movie was for people my age. It almost undid seeing the Amy Fisher porno. But what really can?

Olivia Newton John and the girl from J.Geils Band’s “Centerfold” video. But, does she really count? I don’t know if she could play bass…

I could keep going on, but it seems pointless. Someone will mention some hottie that I left out and I’ll go, yeah you’re right. So, I’ll stop now. But not before the Jim Dandy to the Rescue chick and the singer from the Divynals. I mean, you didn’t think I’d leave out the redheads? Bette Midler you say? Why not? I was young once too.

My broken Kit-Kat clock stares at me. It never worked. But I never got it fixed. I didn’t see the point in paying $5 and the cost of shipping to get something fixed “for free”. Some guarantee. And yes, this is an indictment of the Kit Kat clock folks. (Is there a hyphen? I don’t fucking know.)

I grow tired of Fleetwood Mac at about 500 words. I wonder if that is a scientific fact? If it is, I need to never listen to them while trying to type ever again.

Is morning better than night? Sexually, I do better in the morning, but I enjoy it more at night.

Whiskey dick is a blessing when you’re 25. It’s a curse when you’re 41.

My koozie was caught at a Mardi Gras parade in 2010. I was unemployed, broke and happier than I’ve been since. Well, that’s not true. There were a couple of great months in 2011. Then the levee broke.

And now I want to listen to Led Zeppelin IV.

And Jennifer Jason Leigh showing up at the door would be nice. Much nicer a little over a year ago. Because now, I’d have her in for a drink then call her a cab. I’m nothing if not a gentleman. It’s a blessing, really. Glad my granddad was a great man to my eyes. I have no idea if he really was in real life. Why? I didn’t know him well enough. Now, he’s gone. And I’ve made a saint out of him. Not that that is a terribly bad thing.

I miss my family. My friends and my ex friends.

Do they  miss me? I have my doubts. But I’m sure some of ‘em do. It’s the law of averages.

I was thinking of who would be in my wedding if it happened now.

There would be Josh and John and Ed (if he could get here from Japan). Then, I guess there would be my dad and spot No. 5 would be up for grabs. Sad and lonely and interesting. Really.

Fleetwood Mac is still surviving now. Almost 18 minutes in. I guess I can write, without a point, with Christine McVie singing. Oh yeah, she’s one of those I’d add to that list. Don’t judge me. I’m just a guy. With a penis. It’s what we do. Whether or not we admit it.

penis on display!

Don’t you fucking dare use that as an excuse.

Drinking used to be the cause of your writing. It sure as hell ain’t going to be the reason you’re not writing.

That’s for sure.

Always.

I read an excerpt from “The Sun Also Rises” today. It made me happy and sad all at once. It reminded me of the days I used to believe in something. No matter how trivial or silly that feeling was to other people. It mattered to me.

And right now, I don’t have that something to believe in. Despite Bret Michaels’ imprint on my brain.

A girl walked by in purple Umbros tonight. I had forgotten how much I love seeing a woman in purple Umbros. Which, of course, begs the question : why don’t girls wear purple Umbros anymore? Or does it really have something to do with being old?

Fuck.

I wonder why shooting off fireworks gets rednecks off so much?

I’ve never heard so many grown men go “Woooooooooooooooo” since the state fair and Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Anyways….

There used to be a time when I knew exactly what I was trying to accomplish. Even though I had no idea how to get there. Now? I have no idea what I want to accomplish, but I know exactly how to get there. Been there for a little over two years now.

In that time I made some friends, lost some friends, got some friends back and wondered about friends. I guess the same can be said of them and me? But I’m not a mind reader, so, who fucking knows…

I wanted to drive to New Orleans this weekend. Make up for the last time I was there. Even though I know that nothing will ever make up for the last time I was there. And I can’t fathom that being the way I think about that town.

Yes, it seems to hate me. But I love it. So I keep coming back. Like a beat wife or dog. Is it telling that those two things popped into my head?

I hate rap music now. Not old rap, just new rap. I guess that’s a sign of getting old.

But I like some new rock. Some new pop. Hell, pop hasn’t change at all. It’s just autotuned now. Which sucks.

How can it be that I can’t find anything to write about anymore? I need to get some visceral experience. I’ve been cooped up in a cubicle too God damn long. So long that it seems to not be so awful. Even though I know it is.

Who invented the cubicle? I’m sure I could Google it. But damn, why? I like the not knowing. The wondering of the questions. Instead of the instantly finding out the answer. The quest is no longer seen as a great thing. Ease is better than stress.

Fuck you. I like my quests. It keeps me breathing. And it should keep you breathing too.

Unhook that Ipod. Turn off that smartphone. It’s better out there without it.

Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. Cliched reasoning for giving up on the “Modern World.” Yeah, it’s all been said  before, and some 14 year old today will say it too in about 20 years.

Still doesn’t mean it’s not the right way to look at things.

I caught a roach in the house tonight. Inside of a KISS pint glass. I didn’t want to kill him or her. Maybe he/she will go out and tell the other roach’s that that guy is pretty damn cool. Let’s not try to eat his spices and such. Of course, it could be like a drug dealer that doesn’t make an example of the thief. Instead of looking good, you look bad. And tomorrow, I’ll wake up to roaches everywhere. Scurrying about like it’s play time at Chuck E. Cheese.

If I had a gun, I’d shoot nothing. I don’t see the point.

If I had a pen in my hand, I wouldn’t write. I have carpel tunnels.

If I had a beer, I would drink it. Ditto whiskey. I need to get drunk more often. It just feels right.

Fuck a coin that says 1 day. Or 30 days. Or even 1 year.

We are all going to die the same way – by not breathing anymore. And we all end up back in the food chain. Even if you think a locked up tight coffin will prevent it.

Guess what? It doesn’t.

Just ask the Egyptians.

One day, some douchebag will dig you up in the name of science.

And then you’ll be in an museum. For all the world to see.

It’ll be funnier if you drove a big-ass pickup truck to cover up your little penis. Because now everyone will see it.

Or something.

hey, hey, my, my

I drank myself into oblivion last night. Much like every other night. This one differed slightly. I woke up with my arms wrapped around some lady.

She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.

My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony. For some reason, Neil Young’s “Hey, hey, my, my” echoes in my head. A random moment that will never be explained.

Feeling woozy, I get out of bed. Thankfully, I have my boxers on. Scurrying about trying to find underwear in a funk with some stranger laying on your bed is not something to take lightly.

Making my way to the bathroom, the puke comes. I didn’t think I was going to purge last night’s excesses, but apparently, the body had other thoughts. I see from what comes up that I must have had some kind of chili-based product. It’s never really “food” when you put chili on top of it. From Lucky Dogs to Sheetz fries, bad things come with chili on top.

I find a t-shirt strewn about on the floor. Not a hard thing to do in this place as I tend to just chuck them everywhere. Same with shorts. And socks. Have I mentioned I’m not a very clean person? I go outside into the sun. It feels nice on my face. A welcome relief from the horror that will unfold in a few minutes or hours, whenever the creature in my bed comes to life. I scan the driveway. No other cars. That means I have to give her a ride somewhere or pay for a cab. Disappointment swells. No chance of her sneaking out while I’m showering later.

I go back inside, open the fridge. A half-drank pint glass of beer sits on the shelf. I love it when I do something like that. I never drink them, but my drunken mind believes that it is something worth saving. I take out the glass and take a sip. It’s cold, but flat. I pour the rest out. The 20-year-old me sighs somewhere. But fuck that guy, he ain’t coming back to give me the power of strong erections and long, flowing locks of hair. I reach back into the fridge and pull out a bottle of Amber. I pop the top and take a long swig. It feels right – getting drunk before I go back into the bedroom. Soon, I’m six beers in. I feel good with a buzz now. The day’s getting better.

Instinctively, I climb back into bed. I take off all clothes right before doing so. I spoon with this overweight princess that I have no idea who she is. I get a hard on. It’s nice. I fall asleep.

A few hours later, I have this overwhelming feeling, so I open my eyes. She’s staring at me.

“Hi!” she says way too cheerily.

“Hello, darlin’,” I say. Don’t know why I said darlin’, it just seemed to fit.

“I had a great time last night,” she smiles while she says that. It’s that kind of smile, implying impure thoughts. She’s obviously a bit of a shy gal. Ha.

“Me too,” I lie. Not that I didn’t have a great time, because waking up next to a naked woman implies a good time. But I simply don’t remember. Never will. If I end up marrying this girl, which won’t happen, she’ll have fond memories of last night. Will ask me about it all the time. I, on the other hand, will remember getting up from said night and barfing in the toilet. The first time I’d barfed since the 1990s from drinking. Oh, and chili.

She nuzzles up to my chest. I put my arm around her. I get a hard on again. There’s a definite pattern here. I’m kind of hopeful that she notices, not that there’s a lot to notice.

“So, what do you do?” she finally asks after a couple minutes.

“I didn’t tell you last night?”

“Nope.”

“Well, darlin’, I’m a writer.”

“That’s neat. What do you write?”

“Nothing right now.”


“Huh?”

“Well, I write about life. My life. Your life. Everyone’s life.”

“You’re going to write about me?”

“Most definitely.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

“Too late.”

“Don’t worry. I want you to write about me.”

My hard on went down immediately on those words. It’s like thinking of Angela Landsbury naked. Not the 1950s version, but the “Murder, She Wrote” one. Time is a terrible thing. Especially if you’re a barren branch, as the Chinese would call me. I can feel melancholy sweeping over my body and mind. A frown has appeared on my face.

“What’s wrong?” she says.

“Just…um…”

“What?”

“You just said something.”

“What? … I’m so sorry.”

She reached for my dick. I guess that’s her way of conflict resolution with a guy she just met. A guy who doesn’t even remember her name.

I rolled over to stop the inevitable. Not that I couldn’t use a nice blow job or fuck. I just knew it wasn’t going to be a good idea.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“Not your fault, darlin’,” I said. “I’ve got issues you couldn’t imagine. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you about them.”

I didn’t have plans to tell her. It just seemed the right thing to say.

“Oh…OK.”

She pulled the sheet up over her body. It was nice to have a warm body in bed next to me. I put my arm around her, placing my hand on her belly. She took my hand. We went back to sleep. It was the best sleep I’d had in years. So good, I didn’t mind missing work that day. Although my boss felt slightly different about it, firing me the next day.

I never saw that girl again. But, before she left – in a cab – she told me her name. It was Rebecca.

Hard on. Apply directly to the penis.

It’s a moment etched in the brain. It’s not wanted in there anymore, yet it insists to exist there.

Drinking till stupid didn’t get rid of it. Yelling and screaming at it doesn’t work much either. Writing about it endlessly doesn’t help much, but the pain seems to subside a bit. Talking to others about it just gets perplexed looks and uncomfortably bad advice.

Why this memory is so much more vivid than, say, that great night in Texas or the first time I kissed someone, I have no idea.

Instead, this one stays there. It’s just a short memory, but it’s awful -- me, driving my sister’s SUV. The smell of her dog everywhere. Her, standing there with no emotion on her face at all. Tears running out of me like ants attacking a dropped Push Up. Everything so bright as the late Spring sun is high in the air on Memorial Day in Florida.

I watch her stand there, making sure I’m not going to stop and come back. I watch the entire length of the driveway, finally reaching the road. I put the SUV in drive and go. Soon, the house is gone from view. So is she. The next 12 hours are nothing. I have one vague memory of the drive back to North Carolina. I remember making a phone call or getting one, I don’t remember which it was. My best friend who is an ex-girlfriend calling me or me calling her. I didn’t kill myself that day/night because of that phone call. Although I definitely thought about it.

Funny how that sticks. Two endings meeting up, but not allowing for another end.

Why fucking Dokken brings that one flooding back, I’ll never know. I guess the line “I told you I had to leave, I had my reasons. I said that it’d hurt to stay, the way I’m feeling.”

Eh. Whatever.

I could go grab a beer. Like I did so often when this memory flooded up my mind. Clogged it may be the better descriptor. Other things just don’t exist when that memory is there. Damn, has it really been four and a half years? What the fuck am I still haunted by that ghost for? Normal people don’t do that, do they?

Enough bad writing (including my own) has been dedicated to the longing that won’t leave. The longing that you think is gone when you find someone else, but when that person goes away, it comes right back. I guess I just need to find someone that’ll stay. Is that the key? Is that the solution? Is it really that fucking simple?

Probably.

***

“You fucking listen to this shit?” she said after my jukebox selection of “Dream Warriors” by Dokken started playing.

“I saw them live once,” I replied. “Still the loudest show I’ve ever been too. I couldn’t hear right for three days after. It was even on the local news just how loud the show was.”

“Still, this song. It sucks.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t remind me of anything.”

“Well, that’s as good a reason as any. My name is Michelle.”

“Michelle, pleasure to meet ya. My name is Randy. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Nah, I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

“Figures.”

“Why?”

“You’re the first woman to speak to me in three months that I didn’t work with or who wasn’t at a cash register.”

“It’s no wonder.”

“Huh?”

“Shave once in a while.”

“Cheers!”

***

Lights flickered in his eyes. Bright colors all of them. He felt a little heavy on the left side. Every bit of picked up medical knowledge told him he was either having a stroke or a heart attack.

But he had more important things to worry about. Mostly, the 14 hours left in his drive to New Orleans. He was depending on this trip to end some melancholy. She was depending on him to get her there. Basically, it was do or die, and maybe even do and die.

The lights stopped flickering after a couple of hours. The numbness in the arm about an hour after that.

“Survived another one,” he thought to himself as he guzzled some Dr. Pepper and ate a Slim Jim. Yeah, there was no reason to think, at 40, he’d be having those kinds of troubles. Just the mind playing tricks on him.

“Sure. But when the dick stops getting hard, that’s when you might want to get it checked out,” the sensible voice inside his head said.

“Not like I’d know,” he chuckled. Was that out loud, the definitely thought as he looked at her sitting in the seat next to him.

“You say something?” she muttered, digging around in the bag of cds he’d brought.

“Just thinking about my not having sex in a long time,” he thought.

“Nah. Just mumbling to myself.”

“You do that a lot. You know that?”

“Yeah, you live by yourself as long as I have, and you tend to not notice,” he said.

“I’ve lived by myself for most of the last 10 years. I don’t do that.”

“Well, I guess I’m insane. And you’re going to be a car with me for the next 15 hours. Buckle up!”

“Joy.”

I looked at her. Got a hard on.

“Ha. Guess, I don’t have to worry about that yet.”

***