50 Years of Angst

Fashion police maxim: if you don’t wear an article of clothing for two years, get rid of it. Bearing that in mind, I assiduously dredge up something from the bottom of my dresser now and then, no matter how hideous, worn out or ill-fitting, just so I won’t have to give it away. After the day’s wear, the article somehow burrows its way back to the bottom of the drawer without a fuss. Problem solved.

Like most true slobs, I have a reasonably diverse wardrobe, but feel no compunction to continuously draw water from that well. I could cite environmental concerns; laundering clothes dumps phosphates into our rivers and streams. Since I have no idea what a phosphate is, here’s the real reason: rising from an evening’s slumber, the first thing my crusty eyes encounter are the self-same, serviceable, comfortable clothes I wore the day before. Why not put them on again? They won’t mind, and neither will I.

Yesterday it was a pair of drawstring sweat-shorts. I got them at Sally’s¹ for a buck or two. They’re a bit short, and a bit tight. What the hell, it’s August in the Bronx. Combined with a standard wife beater, I was all set for an arduous of day of watering houseplants and smiling at funny kitten pictures that my not-very-close friends had posted on Facebook.²

My 13-year-old daughter eyed me suspiciously when I came downstairs.³
“Ummm…dad?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s with the shorts?”
“Why? What’s wrong with them?”
“No offense, but you look kinda gay.”

I laughed heartily (because I’m a hearty guy) and walked to the hallway, to self-consciously look in the mirror. I had to admit—if I knotted the the tanktop at my belly button and wore a pair of flip-flops, the look would’ve been complete: very gay.

The whole gay thing is no big deal to me, but it was at one time. My first job out of college was at a medical publishing company in Greenwich Village. Aside from a diverse full-time staff, the company had a 24-hour print shop that attracted a lot of freelancers—local people from the surrounding area, comprised of artists, musicians and gays in general. It didn’t hurt that the two managers of the department were a gay man and woman.

Never went as far with the outfits as Freddie Mercury…

It was a time when gays were coming out of the closet. Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Freddie Mercury, George Michael in denial—I was fascinated by the glamorous gay lifestyle. Commuting from an Italian neighborhood in the Bronx, I had never been around openly homosexual people before. Of course there were closet types in our area while growing up. They got picked on, beat up and abused on a daily basis, enduring a veritable potpourri of vitriol and hatred spewed by the local intelligentsia: homo, fag, pansy, queer and the like. I wasn’t a part of that, preferring to insult and demean fat kids instead. Every cruel child has a specific genre they should stick to, and weight problems were my forte. Nice, huh?

Downtown though, gays could express themselves freely, showing themselves to be creative and intelligent, and more than anything else, a lot of fun to be with. They seemed to know where all the good parties or trendy clubs were, living in interesting parts of Manhattan or Brooklyn that I wasn’t familiar with. I wanted in.

Performers like Michael Jackson and Prince were always wearing makeup. I started experimenting, especially if I was going clubbing. For any man reading this, I have news for you: makeup doesn’t just work on women. I looked fucking great. I had no idea how to apply it, but my best friend’s girl did: she would apply a touch of mascara to my eyelashes, pencil in some eyeliner and add the slightest bit of blush. It made my hair look blacker, my gaze more intense, gave my gaunt cheekbones an angular look and hid any zits I had. I was sure men wearing makeup would eventually become mainstream, in the same way earrings are now.

Other days I went for an androgynous look. There was no dress code at my job. I’d wear colorful flowing shirts, baggy pants, ballet shoes or pirate boots, with big poofy scarves for a belt. There was a liberal company newspaper that came out once a month, inviting any and all comments, professional or not. I purposely made outrageous statements about a preference for latex or wanting to be licked head to toe. Predictably, a few gay men started hitting on me. Their advances made me vaguely uncomfortable, but I figured I could handle it.

I was mostly a post-punk though, into the Clash, Ramones and Chili Peppers. I owned a 1978 Honda 550 motorbike, with matching biker jacket and chains. I had spiky hair ala Sting; most of my clothes were black and torn.

Gregory Cole sat in the cubicle in front of me. He dressed impeccably every day in oxford shirts, pressed jeans and black loafers. With a strong, sharp nose and a conservative haircut graying at the temples, it was impossible to guess his age. He was very elegant, and most assuredly homosexual. I was jealous of his language skills; foreign phrases rolled off his tongue, perfect accents and inflections intact. If a European author neglected to send photo #36 of an atrophied testicle, I’d ask him to call the doctor for me. When Gregory planned on visiting Turkey, I asked him how his Turkish was. He dismissed the idea with a wave, saying, “No big deal. I’ll pick it up in a day or two.” We started having lunch together.

One day he invited me for a drink after work, with an editor named Suzanne. She had short hair, dressed like a man and had sexy photos of Cher plastered all over her cubicle. Walking towards the bars on Christopher Street, Gregory suggested we stop in somewhere for a cocktail. The place was sparsely populated with males chatting, but nothing really screamed gay bar. Gregory ordered the first of many Remy Martins, taken neat. Even after six drinks, he never slurred a syllable, had a hair out of place or lost his panache. I really liked him. He said the place was dead; we should try another bar further down the street, with a better happy hour.

We paused in front of a bar with no windows, called The Wicked Anvil or something.
“This place is a bit stronger,” warned Gregory. “If you feel uncomfortable we don’t have to stay.”

Stronger was a mild adjective. Men were wearing leather chaps, some with thick handlebar mustaches. Two guys at a table were in a clinch, sucking face with gusto. Shock must have read on my face, because Gregory immediately suggested we leave. I had no intention of leaving; I didn’t feel threatened, and wanted to see what this was all about. I was getting a glimpse into a secret world. We had a drink or two and left, without anyone approaching us. I was almost disappointed.

Back at work, there was a woman who intrigued me. Jean McPhee was a production editor with tri-colored hair and a few artsy tattoos on her wrist, rare for a woman at that time. She played bass in a band with Gordon Gano, of Violent Femmes renown. Nobody told me she was gay, figuring I already knew. She was 30, eight years my senior.

My entry-level job consisted of entering new manuscripts into an archaic DOS computer system. There were in and out boxes for manuscripts, with production assistants distributing them to the editors. I started specifically searching for her journals to enter, personally bringing the manuscripts to her desk when finished. Although I dropped them into her inbox with a loud thump, she never looked up at me. Nonplussed, I started writing little notes on the article photos. “Help me, Jean!” screamed neurons and protoplasm. I wasn’t going to be ignored.

If you had to stare at these photos all day, you’d find this hilarious.

Mitochondria mutations successfully asked her to lunch; a nucleotide landed me our first date. Sharing sushi on Eighth Street, I guess she felt a need to set the record not-straight.

“You’re the first guy I’ve dated in eight years. I’ve only been with women since then.”
“Is that when you decided you were gay?”
“It wasn’t a decision..I always knew. I’ve always been attracted to women.”
“Then why are you here with me?”
“You got my attention. And you’re cute.”

Cute was very, very good. I was in, baby. I was sure her lesbian experiences were some experimental phase, something she could forget about now.

She met my parents the way most of my girlfriends did, getting caught in their house screwing. Jean had her own apartment in Fort Greene, but I wanted to show her the neighborhood I was from. My folks had their winter house in the Bronx and a summer cottage in nearby Lake Carmel. I lived at home all through college; being a commuter-loser, I needed a place to have sex with girls. It didn’t matter to me which house I used, just as long as my parents weren’t there. No matter how many times I asked when they were leaving, returning, coming back or whatever, they always managed to fucking catch me (or better said, catch me fucking).

It was about 11 am; we were on the front porch relaxing when the car pulled into the driveway. I had put fresh sheets on the bed; there was no need for panic.

“Mom, dad, this is Jean.”
My mom smiled faintly and cleared her throat.
“How do you do?”
Jean took the intrusion in stride, smiling broadly. “Really good, actually. I’ve just given up drinking, so I feel a lot better.”
This was not the salutation my mom was expecting. “Well, I suppose that’s a good thing.”
“My dad’s an alcoholic.  I really don’t want to end up like him.”
I looked at Jean critically for the first time. She was wearing black leotards, leather short-shorts and Doc Marten paratrooper boots. With her tattoos and punk haircut, she wasn’t exactly the girl to bring home to mom. I made a lame excuse about Brooklyn traffic and high-tailed us out of there.

Jean wasn’t only direct with my mom; she was quite explicit when having sex.
“Fuck me on the table.”
“Fuck me on the fire escape.”
When we were in the act, as well. ”Fuck my brains out!”
Still relatively inexperienced, I never had a partner talk to me that way before. I very happily complied with her instructions, but couldn’t reply in kind. I just didn’t have it in me to talk dirty. She asked me once how I’d feel if she invited a girl to join us. Like the honest, naive idiot that I was, I told her that I’d probably get jealous watching her kiss another girl. It was my first shot at a threesome, and I passed. Still haven’t forgiven myself for that…

Otherwise, everything seemed to go great for about three months. We danced at underground clubs and ate vegetarian food; I went to all her gigs. One weekend I went upstate to hang with my friends, who I hadn’t seen in awhile. Monday morning at work Jean avoided me, and didn’t answer my phone calls later on. The next day was the same. Cornering her on Wednesday, she suggested we meet at the park after work. Something was up.

True to her style, she didn’t waste time with trivialities.
“I went to a flea market on Canal Street over the weekend. I was looking at tie-dyed shirts at some stall, and when I looked up, there she was.”
I looked at her blankly, uncomprehending.
“I met this girl and took her home. I was with her all weekend.”

I sat there dumbfounded by the “there she was” part, like she had found a hundred dollar bill under a Dead Head shirt. I tried to wrap my head around it, but Jean was still talking.

“I don’t want this to get ugly. I want to stay friends,” she said. When I made no reply, she repeated the phrase.
“I really don’t want this to get ugly.”

I didn’t understand this ‘ugly’ part, either. Maybe she was expecting me to lash out with some hateful metaphors about dykes. I was too hurt to say anything. It didn’t matter whether she’d slept with a man or a woman. It was the first time a lover had betrayed me.

Don’t dump your lover on a park bench. Try to be more original.

She feigned an excuse about having band practice and made a beeline for the subway, leaving me sitting there like an idiot. Dumping me on a park bench was the lamest cliche ever. It should’ve been in a souvlaki shop while yogurt sauce dripped down my chin. I could’ve thrown a gyro at her or rubbed babaganoush in her pink, straw-like hair. Anything but this.

It was funny…she had told me she was still getting over her last relationship; her girlfriend had cheated on her. Maybe it was some kind of twisted revenge she was taking out on me instead. I saw her sneak out to lunch the next day with the head of the typesetting department, an outspoken lesbian with a reputation as a man-hater. They didn’t see me approaching.

“I mean, what was he expecting, anyway?” said the man-hater. The words rang in my ears as the elevator doors closed. I wasn’t expecting anything, least of all my girlfriend cheating on me. I moped around the office for weeks, keeping a low profile for once. Everyone in the office knew about our relationship. I tried to immerse myself in stamping and entering, which required the attention span of a flower pot. I eventually did notice a cute, new-wavy looking girl in Subscriptions, who seemed to be using the photocopier by my desk a lot. I asked her out to lunch. With yogurt sauce dripping down my chin, I learned she had a steady boyfriend. But Jean McPhee didn’t know that.

She magically appeared at my desk the next day. “Do you want to go see Robert Gordon with me on Friday night?” Robert Gordon was a rockabilly singer. I looked at her closely, surprised at the request. Although I heard every word perfectly, I made her ask again.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” I intoned innocently.
She repeated the question word for word, as if she’d been rehearsing it beforehand. Not once did she look me in the eye. I knew this was an attempt at reconciliation, but I wasn’t buying in. Not like this.
“I don’t think so,” was all I offered.
“Okay, fine,” she said with a stammer. I watched her stiffly walk away. She quit a short time after, moving to San Jose. The man-hater told me she was delivering pizzas at night to make ends meet; eventually I lost track of her.

The gay community didn’t hold quite as much allure for me after that. I was no longer interested in appearing androgynous, dropping hints about rubber products or watching men make out. In my heart I knew I was a straight guy, interested in dating straight girls. Although I really liked hanging out with Gregory, I stopped going to lunch with him. Maybe that was unfair to him, maybe not. I just knew I didn’t want to lead him down a path and hurt him later, like someone had done to me.

I may be angst-ridden about a lot of crap, but thankfully, sexual orientation isn’t on the list. I ain’t giving those shorts away, though…

²Silly anachronistic website for middle-aged people deluding themselves that they know the latest technology.
³Ibid..Ibid…Ibid, said the frog.

The other day I visited my mother at her ‘assisted living’ residence, a much cheerier syllogism than ‘nursing home.’ It’s actually quite nice, at least until the bill arrives at the end of the month. For a cool $6,000 a month, management provides a two room apartment with small fridge, three meals a day, resident nurse, and a long list of daily activities: karaoke hour, arts and crafts, belly dancing lessons and scintillating group trips to the local Rite Aid pharmacy. Pleasant Jamaican aides scuttle about, pushing wheelchairs, changing beds and vacuuming the resident cat.

I never miss the jar of hard candies by the guest register. My wife always chides me about grabbing too many, but when I consider the monthly rent, I’m tempted to back up the station wagon to load up on Jolly Ranchers. My mom doesn’t like the place, saying it’s depressing, full of old ladies who sleep all day in their wheelchairs. This declaration is always uttered shortly after my arrival, once I’ve roused her from a catnap. She wasn’t sleeping of course, just resting her eyes…

Oh, to be young and lop people’s heads off…

She was actually awake the last time I visited, sitting on a sofa in one of the common rooms. A large flatscreen tv was blaring the Travel Channel at an earsplitting volume. Since a conversation was impossible, we watched the program, which featured the alpine wonderlands of Switzerland and Austria. The narrator was walking down quaint, impeccably clean streets, dotted with cheery cafes; well-dressed  natives sipped very good local beer and very terrible local wine. We drifted down the Danube River and into the national museums. Our illustrious guide seemed to quicken his pace through gold-leafed hallways depicting boring portraits of the Hapsburg dynasty, settling on hometown artists like Gustav Klimt and Paul Klee. Somehow Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath made an appearance on screen, a somewhat jarring image after frescoes of celestial cherubs. When the narrator pointed out that the head of Goliath was actually a self portrait of the artist, I laughed so hard it drew the indignant stares of two elderly women seated in the room. It seemed like a giant practical joke (literally) on the Church; I later read the masterpiece was an act of contrition after Caravaggio murdered one of the pope’s soldiers.

Commissions by wealthy archbishops or nobility were keys for an artist to avoid starving to death. I’m sure Velazquez would’ve rather been painting a naked young woman lying on a divan in his studio, suggestively holding a plate of grapes. If only I could paint, or have fancy furniture…

The Entombment: Christ, you’re heavy.

I love Caravaggio; one of his paintings provided my first real art experience. When I was about 20, my parents scored tickets to the Vatican exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Telling me it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, I begrudgingly agreed to go. We made some obligatory rounds before hitting the special exhibit, examining mummy’s tombs and observing armless, footless or otherwise dismembered statues from a million years ago. When we finally reached the cordoned-off exhibit, there was a line; only a few people could enter at a time. Once inside, I wandered through the rooms, unimpressed with penis sizes on sculptures by Rodin and Michelangelo.

For someone who said he didn’t want any other idols before Him, God was a real attention hog. There was even more Jesus stuff. I was wearily gazing at another Saint Somebody or Other the Martyr Tortured Unmercilessly, when I noticed a large group of people in the next room. They seemed to be transfixed, agape and staring at something hidden from my view. I walked in and had the same reaction; my jaw nearly dropped in amazement. Hanging in the center of the wall was a larger than life Caravaggio, The Entombment of Christ. The figures in the painting (except for Jesus) seemed alive, capable of walking right off the canvas. I’d never seen anything like it, and have judged all great artwork by the same standard, regardless of the genre. A quality to the work that transcends the very medium used to convey it, an insistence on making its presence or point known to the viewer.

My own first attempt at the finer arts occurred in the third grade. Mrs. Muccigrosso (which means ‘very fat’ in Italian—those people shoot straight from the hip with their patronymics) walked into our art class one day with several large brown bags. There were 8x10 white canvases, tubes of acrylic oil paints, along with brushes and little plastic scalpels. The materials must of cost a fortune—at least as much as my catholic school uniform, which I promptly destroyed that day with Cerulean Blue paint stains. When I got home my mom had a heart attack.

“Whatever happened to finger paints?” she demanded to know. She had enough problems keeping me clothed. My favorite schoolyard game was Ringolevio, a rough game of group tag, or rather tackle. Captured players were put in a makeshift jail, but could be freed by a charging teammate. It was a great game for Mack trucks like Franco Biondi, who was shaving by age nine and had hair on his back at 12. Steamrolling into our jail at full speed, he’d bowl over pipsqueaks like myself trying to tackle him, shredding my pants on the asphalt in the process. All our team could do was grab his plaid necktie in an attempt to clothesline or choke him to death; he wore a clip-on though, rendering that tactic ineffectual. His bull rushes guaranteed himself a ripped shirt as we clawed at him; he never seemed to care. I’m sure his mother feared him too much to say anything.

Our goal with Mrs. Muccigrosso was to recreate Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night. We were handed a cheap lithograph print as a guide. I wasn’t impressed by Starry Night; it didn’t remotely resemble any night skies I’d seen in the Bronx. I preferred the collection of Norman Rockwell plates in my Aunt’s living room in Queens: perfect, white Anglican children with rosy cheeks, wearing goofy old clothes that didn’t quite fit, adoring cocker spaniels at their feet.

The stars don’t really look like that…

I read the brief biography printed on the back of the lithograph. It mentioned that the artist had cut off his own ear and mailed it to his girlfriend. I promptly raised my hand and asked why Mr. Van Gogh hadn’t just sent her a box of chocolates or a Hallmark greeting card. Mrs. Muccigrosso sighed deeply as if in pain herself, declaring that Vincent suffered from a troubled soul. I figured maybe his ear was the reason the painting didn’t turn out so good; his head must’ve been hurting like hell after that.

My own rendering was a complete disaster. Mrs. Very Fat made the mistake of emphasizing the cypress tree in the foreground, saying it contained thick layers of paint to provide visual context. I promptly globbed all my paint onto the left side of the canvas, later smearing it with my forearm when I bent over to wipe up the turpentine I’d spilled on the floor. Upon arriving home, my mom threw my shirt in the trash, and insisted on hanging the mess on our kitchen wall. Now that’s love.

One of my many regrets is that I never took an art history class in college; I can’t tell a Monet from a Manet. I can however, regale anyone with the basic principles of cost accounting. I love museums and art galleries though, eschewing any breaks for food and drink, compulsively reading all the plaques while my company patiently waits at the exit. I actually don’t like Baroque and have seen all the major Impressionists, preferring work that’s more abstract. Some people see a Jackson Pollock as nothing more than a bunch of paint drippings. I couldn’t disagree more. Somehow the paintings have an internal logic and aesthetic that forms a logical whole my subconscious mind can make sense of. Someone standing next to me looked at the painting below and asked, “What does it mean?” Art doesn’t have to ‘mean’ anything, any more than life does.

Jackson Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm.  Does it have a meaning? Who cares?

Our world is an immense kaleidoscope of geometric shapes, bright and muted colors, redwood trees, plastic foam cups, fleeting orgasms, acid reflux indigestion, satori, sudoku, soy sauce, skyscrapers, hand-made sweaters, tsetse flies and brass trombones. Our conceived ideas and overt manifestations of society collectively resemble a giant Jackson Pollock painting.

I look at the painting, I feel the painting, I steal the hard candies on the way out. It’s all good.

The other day I visited my mother at her ‘assisted living’ residence, a much cheerier syllogism than ‘nursing home.’ It’s actually quite nice, at least until the bill arrives at the end of the month. For a cool $6,000 a month, management provides a two room apartment with small fridge, three meals a day, resident nurse, and a long list of daily activities: karaoke hour, arts and crafts, belly dancing lessons and scintillating group trips to the local Rite Aid pharmacy. Pleasant Jamaican aides scuttle about, pushing wheelchairs, changing beds and vacuuming the resident cat.

I never miss the jar of hard candies by the guest register. My wife always chides me about grabbing too many, but when I consider the monthly rent, I’m tempted to back up the station wagon to load up on Jolly Ranchers. My mom doesn’t like the place, saying it’s depressing, full of old ladies who sleep all day in their wheelchairs. This declaration is always uttered shortly after my arrival, once I’ve roused her from a catnap. She wasn’t sleeping of course, just resting her eyes…

Oh, to be young and lop people’s heads off…

She was actually awake the last time I visited, sitting on a sofa in one of the common rooms. A large flatscreen tv was blaring the Travel Channel at an earsplitting volume. Since a conversation was impossible, we watched the program, which featured the Nordic wonderlands of Switzerland and Austria. The narrator was walking down quaint, impeccably clean streets, dotted with cheery cafes; well-dressed  natives sipped very good local beer and very terrible local wine. We drifted down the Danube River and into the national museums. Our illustrious guide seemed to quicken his pace through gold-leafed hallways depicting boring portraits of the Hapsburg dynasty, settling on hometown artists like Gustav Klimt and Paul Klee. Somehow Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath made an appearance on screen, a somewhat jarring image after frescoes of celestial cherubs. When the narrator pointed out that the head of Goliath was actually a self portrait of the artist, I laughed so hard it drew the indignant stares of two elderly women seated in the room. It seemed like a giant practical joke (literally) on the Church; I later read the masterpiece was an act of contrition after Caravaggio murdered one of the pope’s soldiers.

Commissions by wealthy archbishops or nobility were keys for an artist to avoid starving to death. I’m sure Velazquez would’ve rather been painting a naked young woman lying on a divan in his studio, suggestively holding a plate of grapes. If only I could paint, or have fancy furniture…

The Entombment: Christ, you’re heavy.

I love Caravaggio; one of his paintings provided my first real art experience. When I was about 20, my parents scored tickets to the Vatican exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Telling me it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, I begrudgingly agreed to go. We made some obligatory rounds before hitting the special exhibit, examining mummy’s tombs and observing armless, footless or otherwise dismembered statues from a million years ago. When we finally reached the cordoned-off exhibit, there was a line; only a few people could enter at a time. Once inside, I wandered through the rooms, unimpressed with penis sizes on sculptures by Rodin and Michelangelo.

For someone who said he didn’t want any other idols before Him, God was a real attention hog. There was even more Jesus stuff. I was wearily gazing at another Saint Somebody or Other the Martyr Tortured Unmercilessly, when I noticed a large group of people in the next room. They seemed to be transfixed, agape and staring at something hidden from my view. I walked in and had the same reaction; my jaw nearly dropped in amazement. Hanging in the center of the wall was a larger than life Caravaggio, The Entombment of Christ. The figures in the painting (except for Jesus) seemed alive, capable of walking right off the canvas. I’d never seen anything like it, and have judged all great artwork by the same standard, regardless of the genre. A quality to the work that transcends the very medium used to convey it, an insistence on making its presence or point known to the viewer.

My own first attempt at the finer arts occurred in the third grade. Mrs. Muccigrosso (which means ‘very fat’ in Italian—those people shoot straight from the hip with their patronymics) walked into our art class one day with several large brown bags. There were 8x10 white canvases, tubes of acrylic oil paints, along with brushes and little plastic scalpels. The materials must of cost a fortune—at least as much as my catholic school uniform, which I promptly destroyed that day with Cerulean Blue paint stains. When I got home my mom had a heart attack.

“Whatever happened to finger paints?” she demanded to know. She had enough problems keeping me clothed. My favorite schoolyard game was Ringolevio, a rough game of group tag, or rather tackle. Captured players were put in a makeshift jail, but could be freed by a charging teammate. It was a great game for Mack trucks like Franco Biondi, who was shaving by age nine and had hair on his back at 12. Steamrolling into our jail at full speed, he’d bowl over pipsqueaks like myself trying to tackle him, shredding my pants on the asphalt in the process. All our team could do was grab his plaid necktie in an attempt to clothesline or choke him to death; he wore a clip-on though, rendering that tactic ineffectual. His bull rushes guaranteed himself a ripped shirt as we clawed at him; he never seemed to care. I’m sure his mother feared him too much to say anything.

Our goal with Mrs. Muccigrosso was to recreate Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night. We were handed a cheap lithograph print as a guide. I wasn’t impressed by Starry Night; it didn’t remotely resemble any night skies I’d seen in the Bronx. I preferred the collection of Norman Rockwell plates in my Aunt’s living room in Queens: perfect, white Anglican children with rosy cheeks, wearing goofy old clothes that didn’t quite fit, adoring cocker spaniels at their feet.

The stars don’t really look like that…

I read the brief biography printed on the back of the lithograph. It mentioned that the artist had cut off his own ear and mailed it to his girlfriend. I promptly raised my hand and asked why Mr. Van Gogh hadn’t just sent her a box of chocolates or a Hallmark greeting card. Mrs. Muccigrosso sighed deeply as if in pain herself, declaring that Vincent suffered from a troubled soul. I figured maybe his ear was the reason the painting didn’t turn out so good; his head must’ve been hurting like hell after that.

My own rendering was a complete disaster. Mrs. Very Fat made the mistake of emphasizing the cypress tree in the foreground, saying it contained thick layers of paint to provide visual context. I promptly globbed all my paint onto the left side of the canvas, later smearing it with my forearm when I bent over to wipe up the turpentine I’d spilled on the floor. Upon arriving home, my mom threw my shirt in the trash, and insisted on hanging the mess on our kitchen wall. Now that’s love.

One of my many regrets is that I never took an art history class in college; I can’t tell a Monet from a Manet. I can however, regale anyone with the basic principles of cost accounting. I love museums and art galleries though, eschewing any breaks for food and drink, compulsively reading all the plaques while my company patiently waits at the exit. I actually don’t like Baroque and have seen all the major Impressionists, preferring work that’s more abstract. Some people see a Jackson Pollock as nothing more than a bunch of paint drippings. I couldn’t disagree more. Somehow the paintings have an internal logic and aesthetic that forms a logical whole my subconscious mind can make sense of. Someone standing next to me looked at the painting below and asked, “What does it mean?” Art doesn’t have to ‘mean’ anything, any more than life does.

Jackson Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm.  Does it have a meaning? Who cares?

Our world is an immense kaleidoscope of geometric shapes, bright and muted colors, redwood trees, plastic foam cups, fleeting orgasms, acid reflux indigestion, satori, sudoku, soy sauce, skyscrapers, hand-made sweaters, tsetse flies and brass trombones. Our conceived ideas and overt manifestations of society collectively resemble a giant Jackson Pollock painting.

I look at the painting, I feel the painting, I steal the hard candies on the way out. It’s all good.

If Bono raises money in the middle of the woods and no one hears it, is he still a good person?

A cynical school of thought holds that true altruism doesn’t exist; it’s really selfishness in disguise. According to this theory, Albert Schweitzer/Brangelina types are either promoting themselves, acting out of guilt, or simply smuggling in good drugs, stuffing their newly adopted’s anus with pure-grade heroin or Retin-A, whichever is in greater need. By this same token, surely one of the biggest ego blows is to have one’s philanthropic intentions coldly rebuffed; a tacit, “Get lost” as our eager, helping hand is pushed away.

Electron micrograph of either: a) blood cells and a platelet, or b) soft chewy candy and lint.

The Red Cross held a local blood drive last week; they wouldn’t accept a donation from me. Spain, the fair country I resided in for 10 years, has a high-risk designation due to Mad Cow cases reported several years ago. The nurse filling out my questionnaire seemed chagrined; she apologized profusely, afraid I would be insulted by the rejection. I told her not to worry; my platelets, plasma and blood cells were perfectly content staying put where they were. I did swipe a container of orange juice and some cookies before leaving, so perhaps I was a tad miffed…

Losing blood on a voluntary basis would’ve been a new experience, having spilled more than a few pints throughout my accident-prone life. Most people chart the trajectory of their life through major milestones and achievements. “Oh yes, that was the year I got my doctorate” or “I remember now—I bought my first Ferrari that Spring.” My vague recollections coagulate along the lines of when I split my head open.

My first major blood-letting was at the age of six. I had a huge toy chest in my room, sporting a varied collection of cars, action figures, army men, guns and pistols, plastic musical instruments, stuffed animals and blocks. There were also hundreds of random Lincoln Logs, Legos, puzzle pieces and bits of models. The boxes for these particular diversions had been lost, broken or discarded long ago, with the remaining bits cast into the all-encompassing chest. There was no caste system in my world of toys; everything was thrown in haphazardly, often from different corners of my room, with a gleeful recklessness. Being a somewhat cavernous container, the easiest way to access any particular piece was to overturn the entire box and spread all the toys on the floor. My mother never understood this, operating under the faulty premise that I was making a mess. Her simple-minded thinking further mandated that all toys should be picked up afterwards. For me, simple laws of inertia and thermodynamics dictated that it was more efficient to leave everything where it was, yielding ready access again the following day.

The best toys I owned were Tonka trucks, indestructible metal vehicles that could be sat on or rammed into furniture with great effect, leaving deep gouges in armoires and night tables. Capricious safety laws regarding sharp edges or toxic toys were nonexistent at the time. The resident bunk bed was really my favorite toy. A veritable Jungle Jim of possibilities, I was blessed with a baby brother who’s face turned crimson red when hung upside down by the ankles. The structure came with an obligatory ladder and top retaining bar; I had ditched those long ago. I alternately climbed up or leapt down from the higher berth without a second thought. The bedroom also contained two cast iron radiators large enough to heat a prison cafeteria; winter nights invariably roused me in a sweat, totally dehydrated.  Needing a drink of water late one night, I leapt off the top bunk directly onto the waiting plow blade of a Tonka bulldozer, opening an elongated, scalpel-like incision on my insole. Fortunately for me, screaming was one of my best skills, even managing to wake my father, no easy task. The event proved to be the first of many trips to the emergency room.

My next major escapade occurred a few years later, at our summer cottage in Lake Carmel. My older sister had invited a few friends over one evening to listen to a new album: Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Once I learned the record contained only three songs, I lost interest. As far as my young ears were concerned, that group was going nowhere. More interesting to me was Stevie Bickerson’s bicycle; I asked if I could go for a spin. He took a pull on his Salem cigarette, shrugged and told me to help myself, adding laconically, “Be careful, the brakes ain’t so good.” Momentarily considering his statement, “not so good” indicated a corollary of not so bad, either; some modicum of stopping power could be safely relied on. Considering that we lived near the top of one of the longest, steepest hills in town, further cogitation on his oblique warning was probably warranted. Instead I jumped aboard and raced straight down the hill, peddling furiously for more speed. Into the valley of death rode the Schwinn Hundred.

I was enjoying myself immensely, until the first intersection approached. I pulled the calipers intently, with no palpable result whatsoever. Nothing, zero. Luckily, there were no cars; I flew straight through the intersection without incident. Looking ahead, I began to panic. There were three more intersections to cross before arriving at Shore Drive, a heavily trafficked, scenic road encircling the lake.

I never even got close. An uneven rise in the landscape combined with washed-away asphalt to form a huge dip, looming directly in front of me. The town’s transportation department couldn’t afford expensive heavy machinery; my Tonka steamroller probably weighed as much as theirs did. As a result, road paving was a somewhat casual affair, patching a bit here and there or repaving only the top inch or two of tarmac. Whatever tar managed to stick to the earth below was considered fortuitous; whatever washed away was just fine and dandy as well.

Putnam Hospital: many a fine summer day spent, having my bandages changed.

Beyond the wash out was an abrupt bump, where the asphalt had tenaciously clung to an underlying boulder. I managed to navigate the dip without falling, then struck the jutting abutment at full force. I flew over the handlebars several yards before slamming into the pavement, landing on my right elbow. Having increased my diaphramic capacity several-fold since the age of six, I let loose a piercing scream, easily exceeding the town’s central fire alarm by several decibels. I had landed in front of one of the few winterized homes on our road, with a trimmed lawn and accompanying gnome decorations. Sprawled on the pavement, I noticed one had a scowl, holding a Keep Off the Grass sign in his little arms. A real, live elfin-like man burst out of a screen door beyond, scooped me in his arms and started running uphill, the only logical direction I could’ve come from. He was met halfway by my mother, sister and all her friends. My mom examined the wound closely, blocking it with her body so I couldn’t see anything. Looking into the faces of my sister’s friends told me all I needed to know; most of them turned away in revulsion.

My mom took me home and dutifully attempted to clean and dress my injury, tolerating my screams the entire time. She dressed the wound with gauze and bandages, and sent me to bed. The next morning we discovered I had bled through the covers, underlying sheets, bedliner and possibly the entire mattress, greasing the squeaky interior springs. She took me to the hospital immediately. With my elbow resembling runny mayonnaise, I couldn’t even brag about stitches; there was no skin left to sew up. Due to the danger of infection, they wrapped my arm in soft bandages. My mom drove me to the hospital every three days to have them changed. There was no cool plaster cast that people could sign, and no more swimming in the lake, either. It was the worst summer I ever had.

I later learned that injury could engender felicitous pity from nubile females. At the age of 17, my friend David landed a job cutting grass and landscaping for a local allergist, who owned a small farm. Because God Is Great, the residence yielded six uninhibited teenaged daughters from two different marriages, along with a shiny new swimming pool. Three sisters hailed from England, and showed no compunction about sunbathing topless. Needless to say, I made my acquaintances immediately, and was soon visiting on a daily basis. The pool’s stiff diving board proved to be a good diversion from other stiff things, resulting from staring at pert young boobies. By August I could do a swan dive, jackknife, cutaway, front flip, back flip, and a one and a half. What none of us could master was the elusive gainer, comprised of a hurdle forward and back flip. An especially bodacious cousin named Caroline was visiting from Great Britain that week; she decided to remove her top as I was attempting the tricky maneuver. Understandably distracted, I slipped on the edge of the board and bashed my shin on the edge of the board, falling into the water. The girls jumped from their recliners, waited for me to surface, and asked if I was okay. My friend Tom examined the diving board, extracting a piece of leg meat by the hairs. “I don’t think so,” was his expert analysis. That one put me on crutches for a week.

A Tempest in only slightly worse condition than mine.

The biggest scar I have is from a 1968 Pontiac Tempest,  inherited from my Uncle Jerry.

Uncle Jerry was my favorite relative, ever since I could remember. On holidays, he’d sit me on his knee and extract a shiny quarter from his pocket; better than my grandfather, who was only good for a nickel or dime. He always ate too much turkey for dinner, with even more spumoni for dessert. Shortly after, he’d  fall sound asleep on our couch.  Snoring loudly, his head would tilt back slowly until the air was cut from his windpipe, involuntarily jerking his head forward. The cycle would then repeat, over and over. It was fascinating to watch, like one of those dipping bird toys that sips water out of a beaker.

He chain-smoked and owned a succession of vomiting dogs; I never did get the smell out of the carpeting. Eventually contracting emphysema, he suffered a series of strokes, lost his eyesight and finally, his driver’s license. Before reaching total blindness and bequeathing me his beloved Pontiac, he successfully crashed into a host of stationary objects, systematically dinging and denting every part of the exterior. One of the larger dents was over the driver’s door hinge; it chafed loudly against the quarter panel upon opening, emitting a pterodactyl-like krawwk. A leaking rust spot over the back trunk ruined anything stored inside. The transmission pan leaked as well; God knows what living or inert object he had run over to puncture it. Other than those minor faults, the 350 engine ran like a champ; I was happy to have the wheels.

There was a magnetic Virgin Mary affixed to the dashboard, with little red carnations around it. My first day driving the car, David tossed the statue out the window. Watching the figurine skip along the pavement in the rearview mirror, I knew revenge would be hers one day.

To think, I could’ve been a ballet dancer…

I woke one typical July morning to move the car, in compliance with Manhattan parking regulations. A car had double-parked too close for me to unloose the pterodactyl. Walking around to the other side, my leg brushed against a mangled steel bumper, instantly carving a huge slit down my leg. The wound was so long and deep that it caused the surrounding skin to sag and pull away, partially exposing my calf muscle. After a few fascinating seconds of watching my sock and shoe fill with blood, I drove to the hospital four blocks away.

Before entering Emergencies, I scooped some fresh blood from my shoe, smearing it onto my pants and shirt. Visible gore is a sure-fire way to avoid the waiting room. The admitting nurse took one look and led me into triage.

I tend to get chatty and make dumb jokes when nervous. Trying to remain casual about seeing my own dark muscle tissue, I wouldn’t shut up, blathering on and on about backless smocks and cold stethoscopes pressed against tender skin. The intern on duty eyed my leg with a mixture of ennui and distaste, making no reply. Working mornings in the ghetto was definitely not his thing.

“Were you in a knife fight?” he asked coldly. He was holding a clipboard, with a ninety-part form to fill out. No wonder he was in a pissy mood.

I stared back at him in surprise. One part of me took it as a compliment; the idea that I looked tough enough to be mixing it up with a stiletto in some high-stakes, gangland turf battle. It also implied I was white trash, which although true, didn’t sit well with me.

“It’s eight o’clock in the morning. I prefer knife fighting after a cappuccino and croissant.”
He was nonplussed by my bon mot. “Cause of injury?”
“I scraped it against my car’s back bumper.”
“No, really.”

I proceeded to show him a few sundry scars: seven stitches in my thumb, after hacking into it with a meat cleaver. 18 stitches in my left hand, after chainsawing it with my right; 6 stitches on the ball of my foot, courtesy of broken glass at Rockaway Beach;  12 stitches on my other leg from a minibike mishap; 8 stitches from—

“I get it now,” he said, interrupting me. “I believe you. You’re a klutz.”

That’s right, baby. I wasn’t any gangbanger, sliced up by Crips or Bloods or Banditos or whatever. I had earned my scars the hard way, by being an absent-minded, accident-prone spaz. It was just as well the Red Cross didn’t taken my blood; I probably would’ve knocked the IV over and made a mess, unleashing Mad Cow antibodies into the atmosphere, akin to the last scene of Twelve Monkeys.

Better still, I could conduct my own sociological experiment. Me and Bono could walk into the middle of the woods and have a shin-kicking contest, just to see what happens. I may not be an altruist, but I know I can scream louder than him.