Category Archives: STUFF

Sorry Your Son Died; Thanks for the Nachos

Posted on by under STUFF, Uncategorized

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No one is “good” at grieving, but I believe you can be bad at it. Like if someone dies and you go on a murderous rampage or start raping your way through the pain, I think it’s safe to say that’s “bad.”

I, like most people, grieve somewhere in between. I’m awkward and I tend to flail. I make jokes. They’re inappropriate. It’s a defense mechanism. I don’t realize it’s happening until it’s too late.

On 9/11, I invited a bunch of people over to my place. There were rumors California was going to be a target, and my friends and I figured we might as well go out together, so we bought supplies and watched as the horror played out on the news. After a few hours, I couldn’t take any more death and destruction. None of us could. The newscasters started throwing out possible suspects. They mentioned Oklahoma City, American militias and terrorist cells from the Middle East.

I said, “How do we know it’s not the sharks?”

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They had been in the news recently, biting off limbs near the Florida coast. Who’s to say they didn’t learn to fly a plane?

It was absurd and stupid, but it was a swift blow to the misery in the room. We started laughing, a little too loud, mind you, because my landlord heard us cackling like maniacs. He evicted me a few weeks later.

I haven’t changed much. I doubt I will. Suffering from bipolar II, I can’t tell you how many times finding the funny has kept me from stepping off a ledge.

I don’t believe laughter is the best medicine, but it is necessary to survive.

And I’ve learned that even though my brain searches for a joke in the darkest moments, I don’t always have to voice them, and they definitely don’t belong in letters of condolence.

Last week my best friend as a kid killed himself. The cops tried to talk him off the bridge, but he jumped. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost five years. He’d gone off the grid. He didn’t like to take his meds. Now, he’s gone, and I never got to tell him how much he meant to me.

I wanted to go to the funeral, but it’s in Kansas City and it’s not possible right now. Instead I decided to write a letter to his parents. Growing up, I spent almost as much time at their house as my own. There were a lot of good memories, and I tried to list them off as best as I could recall. But after a while, the pain was just too great. I’d failed him as a friend. I should’ve reached out when I heard about his diagnosis of schizophrenia. I should’ve been there at his side, sharing my own struggles with mental illness. But I didn’t. I couldn’t stop crying, but I needed to get the letter into the mail, so I quickly thanked them for being wonderful people and for making me nachos whenever I spent the night. The nachos were always greasy and gooey and magnificent.

Just as I was about to pop it in the mail, I decided to show it to my wife.

She read it, then said, “Wait. Are you seriously saying, ‘Sorry for the loss of your son, but thanks for the nachos?’”

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I realized an edit was in order, so I took out the jokes and simply told them that I loved them and that I miss my best friend.

What say you? Have you ever said something inappropriate to someone in mourning?

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My Wife Raced a Little Person

Posted on by under BLOGS ARE DUMB, humor, STUFF

I’ve been reading comments praising my wife. It’s completely deserved. She’s put up with my Viagra boner. She’s handled my depression. She’s also cleaned up my pee. Two people asked for “Team Jess” T-shirts. I’m seriously thinking about making them, but I’m lazy so I doubt I will.

She is awesome though.

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One night she raced a little person.

We’d been drinking at the Power House. It’s the kind of bar that only has PBR on tap. It’s located in the nasty neon heart of Hollywood and Highland, L.A.’s Times Square. There are souvenir stands, celebrity footprints, the Chinese Theater, Madame Tussauds, and The Gap. You’ll see people dressed up as characters from your favorite movies.

Tourists can have their picture taken with Spider Man, Captain Jack, or the Incredible Hulk.

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The people behind the masks are typically out-of-work actors trying to make a buck. They earn cash through tips.

Kids seem to love it.

Personally, I get annoyed. I have nothing against people trying to make a living, but these photo ops clog the already crowed sidewalks. I’ve seen people nudged into the street. I’m sure some have been hit by cars.

But it’s not all bad.

Jess and I live in the area. Sometimes we’ll see actors getting dressed on our street. They park near us because it’s free and it allows them to put on their garb without destroying the illusion. I’ve seen Wonder Woman stuffing her bra and Edward Scissorhands smoking a cigarette. It’s surreal seeing these iconic characters half-dressed. You’re visually deconstructing your heroes, stripping them down to sad humans beings.

The Power House offers this experience, as well, because after a shift, some of the actors stop by for a pint. I’ve thrown back drinks with Darth Vader and the Flash.

Chucky from Child’s Play is a regular.

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The actor is an African-American dwarf (I’m told by the Internet “dwarf” is acceptable. My apologies if it’s not.)

He’s almost always drunk.

My wife and I have bought Chucky a few drinks over the years. I’ve never learned his real name. I’m not sure want to. I like calling him Chucky. You see, he’s quite horrifying – not because of his diminished size or the rubber knife he wields, but because he’s an asshole. Not all the time, not when he’s sober. But after a few drinks, he starts talking shit. He’ll plunk down at your table and tell you to order him a beer. He knocks over glasses. He’s asked to fuck my wife more than once. I think it’s hilarious. Others don’t. Some want to punch him. They never would, because, well, he’s a little person. You can’t strike a dwarf without looking like a monster. And Chucky knows it. You should see his devilish grin when he backs a person into the wall. He gets off knowing there’s not a damn thing anyone can do.

One night Chucky was going on and on about how fast he is on his Razor scooter.

“I’m like a fucking bullet.”

Jess said, “I think you’re full of shit.” She’d had a few too many. I should’ve taken us home, but frankly, I wanted to see where this was going. No one had ever challenged Chucky like this. He was getting pissed.

After a few more beers, we were suddenly on Hollywood Blvd.

Jess and Chucky were going to race.

I said, “On your mark…Get set…GO!”

They tore off through the throngs of tourists. Chucky took the lead. Jess’s high heels were slowing her down, but she found an empty pocket and cruised through. Chucky and Jess were neck and neck, and then, out of nowhere, Chucky toppled. Jess was at least three feet away, so there was no way she touched him, because she herself has little person arms.

But to everyone else, it looked like she’d just shoved a little black person, which, I’m fairly certain, is committing multiple hate crimes.

Someone said something about getting the cops.

Thinking quickly, I said, “RUN!”

We took off, turned down an alley. We didn’t stop until we were home, both of us out of breath.

“Did that…just happen?” I asked.

“Yeah…I totally won.”

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Inappropriate Boners

Posted on by under humor, STUFF

I took a Viagra in Mexico. I didn’t need it. I just wanted it. My wife and I were on our honeymoon. I felt a little pressure – not from her; I’d just heard too many tales of twenty-four hour fuck-a-thons from buddies. Plus, we were staying at an all-inclusive, i.e., “all-you-can-drink” resort. I didn’t need to knock out my favorite appendage. I wanted this to be epic, meaning I needed to be able to do it in anywhere, at any time.

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See, usually, I have sex in bedrooms, sometimes the living room. I don’t have sex under waterfalls or on dirty sand or in public restrooms. I’m a germaphobe. I get grossed out and nervous, and when I’m nervous, my brain keeps all the blood.

But for this trip I didn’t want to be Regular Anthony. I wanted to be Super Anthony.

It wasn’t my wife’s idea. She didn’t need me to get hard while we went snorkeling, but I wanted the option. I wanted to give her an adventure, something she could fantasize about, even after I got old and fat.

I’m already on the downslope. I’m bipolar. My hair’s receding. I’ve gained weight. I get back pimples. Jess has put up with everything – the depression, mood swings, thoughts of suicide, and my sleepwalking. She’s cleaned up my pee.

I wanted to give her romance and a constantly erect penis.

Yes, I thought that was a good idea.

It was not.

There are sooooo many places where it’s inappropriate to have a boner, like the buffet or on a city bus or at the hotel swimming pool. There were children. There were grandparents doing water aerobics. I tried not to make eye contact. I just sipped my drink and faced the wall, elbows propped on the hot cement.

“Anthony, please go get us drinks.”

“Sorry. Can’t really move right now.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I don’t want to be arrested.”

“What are you talking about?”

I had to come clean. I told her about the little blue pill, how I’d snuck into one of the Mexican pharmacies early that morning. They have absolutely no regulations.

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“Are you shitting me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you…uh…?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god!”

“I just wanted this to be memorable.”

“Well, I’m definitely going to remember you having a boner with children in the pool.”

“Shut up, Jessica.”

“Well…can you…get it down?”

“I’m trying.” I was actually mashing it against the side of the pool, trying to push it back in like a wayward mattress spring. It hurt, not just the mashing, the erection. I’d never been this hard in my life. I’m not even sure how I had enough blood to speak. I was thankful the water was only four feet. Any deeper and I would’ve sunk. Some lifeguard would’ve had to give me mouth-to-mouth while the other guests stared at the tent in my trunks.

“So…are we just going to stay here all day in the pool?”

“No, just…” I decided to go under. I figured the lack of oxygen might send a little blood northward. I sat on the bottom of the pool with my boner. It was like a perverted version of The Graduate. Thankfully, it started to work. I could feel myself deflating. I also saw a little boy in goggles.

“Gooo awwwwaaay!” I screamed, waving one arm, while covering myself with the other.

Finally, he spun and swam to his father. The man’s legs were as big as my body, hairy too. I pictured the kid telling him what he’d seen. I pictured getting choked, those giant hands cutting off the blood to my brain and returning it down below, which would make the father snap my neck.

That image did the trick.

Boner gone.

But I didn’t know how long it would last. I hopped out. We ran for the room. My wife stripped off her bathing suit. The boner was back. We decided to use it. It was fantastic. I was an animal. I was a porn star.

We did it on the bed, against the wall. My wife made noises I’d never heard. It was glorious. For about an hour.

Then it was painful.

“I’m sorry. I need a break, Anthony.”

“Just…a…little longer.”

Harder, faster…must…finish…

“Please, I can’t. You’re like an angry jackhammer.”

I stopped. I apologized.

“It’s okay, Anthony, I just need a little…time.”

“Yeah…”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I wasn’t. “I’m just going to use the bathroom.”

I locked the door and flogged myself for another ten minutes. Still, nothing. It was like a champagne bottle with a stuck cork.

I gave up. After awhile it went down. We went to the buffet. I had lobster, then dessert. I felt a stirring.

What the fuck? Am I turned on by cake?

I had to flee. Jess met me later in the room. We tried again, and after another exhausting session…finally…

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I was afraid a lung was going to shoot out, too.

Sadly and painfully, the next day wasn’t any better. We went snorkeling. I saw a group of jellyfish. I prayed one would sting me.

Finally, by the third day, I was back to Regular Anthony.

My wife couldn’t have been happier.

 

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The Dangers of Sleeping Naked

Posted on by under family, humor, STUFF

I sleepwalk. I’ve been doing it since I was little. It’s scary and gross. When I was five my father found me in the kitchen squatting on the counter taking a shit. It was dripping onto the floor. My father thought I was possessed, that he’d have to have me committed. But I was just asleep, taking a dump.

I’ve pissed in hampers and hallways and in the corners of countless rooms.

I still do. My wife has found pee in our closet.

She rarely gets a full night’s sleep. She’s always waiting for me to pop up and move. She’s had to chase me down the hallway of our building. Twice I’ve been completely naked.

Some nights she hears me in the kitchen having a conversation with myself. I’ve eaten half a stick of butter, while mumbling, “Good cheese.”

My wife videotaped one of my adventures, made me watch it the next morning. It was me, but not me, more like a zombie. I gestured a few times and kept trying to find a butter knife for my mug of water. It was disturbing and sort of heartbreaking, watching myself functioning with no memory of it.

The worst was when I was eight or nine. I was at Boy Scout camp. It was some jamboree or jubilee or something. All I know is I woke up in someone else’s tent. I was in my tighty-whities and nothing else. Before you starting thinking I was molested, I was simply trying to get in some other kid’s cot. I kept saying, “Get out of my bed.” He kept saying, “Get out of my tent!” I told him it was my tent. He finally woke up his buddy and said, “Craig, ain’t this our tent?” And Craig said, “Yeah, see here’s my canteen.”

And so I left, wandered out into the darkness. I was scared and freezing. It took me almost an hour to find my tent. I’d wandered almost a mile in my sleep.

I’ve read some people drive cars. One guy claimed he was sleeping when he murdered his wife. There’s all sorts of crazy sleepwalking stories.

For me, it comes and goes. I won’t do it for months, and then, out of nowhere, my wife will be dragging me back into our apartment. “Get in here, no one wants to see your dick.”

I’ve thought about restraints, but I’m worried I’ll end up hurting myself trying to break free. I’m like a werewolf, only less hairy. I just hope I don’t try to shit in our hallway.

Have you ever sleepwalked. If so, what do you do?

Your Dream is Boring Me

Posted on by under humor, STUFF

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My wife likes to tell me her dreams the second she wakes up. It’s like listening to a drunk tell a story — weird, fragmented details combining into nothing. I used to try to figure it out. Now, I hardly listen. I just nod and think about what I’m going to have for breakfast. I wish I had more patience, but honestly, dreams are like poems. I’m happy you have one, but I don’t want to hear it.

Occasionally, there’s a Bukowski, Byron, or Frost.

My wife once told me she had a sex dream with Frasier Crane. He was going down on her on a cruise ship. I was sitting on the poop deck crying, and she kept giving me a “thumbs up.”

Then there’s my father-in-law. He had a dream he was riding on a flying toilet. He was soaring over New York. Everyone below was so happy. They cheered as he waved.

I don’t put stock into dreams. I don’t believe there’s some sort of hidden message. I think it’s just your brain fucking off. All day it has to process information, you know, to help you not die. There’s a car coming. Move! That pit bull isn’t waging his tail. It’s going to bite you. That lady keeps looking at your crotch. Does she like you? Or are you unzipped?

Finally, your dumbass falls asleep, and your brain gets to screw around. What if your father had a dick growing out of his head? Or…OR what if all your teeth fell out and we replaced them with acorns?

Sometimes you just stuffed your poor brain with too crap, like Twitter and chemistry and porn, and it’s simply shitting it out before the next day.

At best, your mind is fulfilling your sick, twisted fantasies, which you can’t actually do in real life, because you don’t want to go to jail for killing your boss or biting someone’s tit off.

Last night I dreamt I started smoking again. Ten months ago I quit. Recently, I’ve been having crazy cravings. Sometimes they last for an hour. My brain tells me, Don’t do it. You’re addicted. You’re going to be back to a pack a day. And I bitch and groan and tell my brain, I hate you. My brain calmly says, It’s going to pass. You’ll be okay.

But I know my brain wants a smoke, so later that night, after I fall asleep, he lights up and takes a drag.

My brain just wants to have a good time.

Have you ever had a fantasy-fulfilling dream? (Yes, I actually want to hear.)

Don’t Say, “Moist!”

Posted on by under humor, STUFF

My wife’s friend can’t stand the word “moist.” It makes her physically ill. Apparently, she’s not alone. There’s an article on slate.com about Why We Hate Certain Words and word aversion. In the article, George Saunders recounts a cousin’s disgust when he says, “moist,” during his readings. She admits she has no problem with other words, like “fuck.”

I think we all have trigger words. Certain letter combinations create unpleasant feelings in our mouth when we say them. The experience is nasty, so we avoid these words like some diseased rat.

For me, the word is “cunnilingus.” My mouth gets watery just thinking about it, and not in a good way. It’s like I’m going to puke, and it’s awful, because I like doing it! My wife likes it. Millions of women do. I’m sure my mom does. I’ll never ask her, but it’s a fair assumption. It’s a super-duper way to spend an evening. I wish I could say, “CUNNILINGUS FOR EVERYONE!” but I can’t without Pepto.

I’m not sure what it is. I think it’s the “-gus” tail. It makes me think of fungus.

That’s the only explanation. There’s no moral aversion to the act, and I’m fine with alternative phrases, like “eating pussy” or “chowing box,” which are, when you think about it, far more disturbing. “Eating” and “chowing” imply devouring a vagina. That’s WAAAAAAY worse than licking it, which is all cunnilingus is describing.

I’m feeling woozy. I have to stop.

What word(s) makes you feel like you’re going to hurl?

What’s A Retired Pope To Do?

Posted on by under humor, STUFF, Uncategorized

Today was Benedict XVI’s last day as Pope. He stepped onto the balcony of Castel Gandolfo as the teary-eyed pilgrims below shouted, “Don’t go! One more prayer!” But the sun was setting. It was time to hang up the red Prada shoes. He couldn’t go out like John Paul II. Those last years were just too awful. They carted the poor Pope around like Weekend at Bernie’s. No, it was better to go out with dignity. It was time to slip off the ring and make that long walk into the Vatican’s backyard, where in a few weeks he’ll be peering out the window, watching as some other guy tools around the Square in his old Popemobile.

That used to be me, he’ll think.  I had it all.  I was infallible. Now I don’t even know if I picked out the right yogurt for breakfast.

Most days he’ll putter around, check the thermostat, start a word jumble, but he’ll keep thinking about all the things he could’ve done. Removing the ban on condoms, for instance. He’d always been told they were uncomfortable and ruined the mood, but he’d never actually put one on. He’ll think about the corruption, the hypocrisy. Condemning homosexuals, while hiding pedophile priests?

That was rich, even for me.

But mostly he’ll wonder if he went out the right way. Right before he stepped out of St. Peter’s for that last time, he’d considered pulling a Jerry Maguire, throwing out his arms and asking, “Who’s coming with me?!”

But he didn’t, and now it’s too late.

Or is it? he’ll think.

That night, when everyone’s asleep, he’ll sneak across the villa, quietly open the closet, and there it will be, the old big hat.  Maybe just once, he’ll think and try to hoist it on his head before falling back against the wall, tired and out of breath. He’ll catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror and remember he’s no longer the Vicar of Christ. He’s just “Your Holiness Benedict XVI,” “Emertis Pope,” and “Emertius Roman Pontiff.” Sure, they look impressive on his business cards, but none carry the gravitas of plain old “Pope.”

Andy Reid and the Chiefs Stole My Dream

Posted on by under BIPOLAR, family, STUFF

I’ve spent my entire morning irrationally angry. I know it’s irrational because I’m upset by a rumor about the Kansas City Chiefs. Today there was a report the team is trading for Alex Smith. I want to punch a wall. I already threw my Chiefs hat in the garbage.

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And I’m not even a diehard fan. I hardly watch the games. Suffering from depression, I’ve learned it’s best not to see something so sad. But I do follow the team. I try to keep up with the stats and scores, because the Chiefs are the one thing my father and I can always talk about without risking a fight.

My favorite memories are of my dad and me at Arrowhead or cheering in our basement. To live in Kansas City during the 90’s was glorious. The Chiefs never made it to the Super Bowl, but they won over a hundred games. We went to the playoffs almost every year. We had Joe Montana. We had Derrick Thomas.

There was reason to believe we’d hoist the Lombardi Trophy.

The Chiefs haven’t given that hope in a long time, but there’s a stretch of four months every year between the Super Bowl and the draft, where we can all dream. We study college prospects and pour over mock drafts. We click on articles about coaching hires, contract negotiations, and free-agent signings. We cross our fingers as the pieces fall into place. We tell ourselves this will be the year we turn it around, the year where our jerseys will be seen on NFL’s final Sunday.

That’s the dream I’ve been holding and cuddling after I gargled the puke of last season. I even started to get those tingly feelings of hope. We fired Scott Pioli. We hired Andy Reid. Then we picked up John Dorsey as GM. They’re proven winners. They have NFC Championships. There was reason to believe they’d repeat that in Kansas City, the town I grew up in, the place where you could be stricken deaf from the roar every Sunday afternoon, or crushed by the sea of red rushing down 1 Arrowhead Drive.

Screw the brave. This was the home of the Chiefs.

Even if they never made it to the Super Bowl, even if we sucked every year, for these precious months of off-season we, as fans, get to hope. We get to dream.

But this morning that died with a report the Chiefs are trading our second round pick for Alex Smith, a man benched last year in San Francisco for Colin Kaepernick.

Is Alex Smith better than our current quarterback, Matt Cassel?

Yes.

Did we need to improve the most important position in the NFL?

Yes.

Did Alex Smith lead all quarterbacks last year in QBR until he suffered a concussion?

Yes.

Does Alex Smith make us better?

Yes.

So why am I crapping and crying over this potential trade?

Because if it’s true, then John Dorsey and Andy Reid stole the small moment when Chiefs fans don’t feel foolish fantasizing about Super Bowls and champagne.

Alex Smith doesn’t suck. He’s “serviceable,” according to most “experts.” But no one dreams of being better than average. No one swoons over the idea of inching past .500.

We dream of parades and glory.

But even the most optimistic fan would never say Alex Smith is going to bring us rings.

And during these wonderful months, that’s all we we want to believe. It’s what sustains us through the worst.

Every human needs a little delusional hope.  It’s what gets us up off the floor, keeps us marching, striving, trying.

We couldn’t live without it. We’d never take a risk. I never would’ve moved to L.A. if I didn’t believe I could make it as a writer. My mom never would’ve jumped in the dating pool if she thought it’d be just as difficult to meet the right person whether you’re gay or straight.

We take leaps because of hope.

But the Chiefs snatched it away from us. They took away our Super Bowls dreams and handed us a possible Wild Card birth. Is that better than what we’ve had? Yes. But during these few precious months, we don’t want Wild Cards. We want confetti.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Alex Smith isn’t a turd Jim Harbaugh polished, like Andy Reid did with Kevin Kolb. Maybe next season I’ll hear Arrowhead’s roar all the way in California. Maybe we’ll do more than make the playoffs. And maybe I’ll pull my Chiefs hat out of the garbage, sit down, and watch us play next February.

Maybe I’ll even win my Super Bowl bet with my wife.

I’m Coming Out, Too!

Posted on by under family, humor, lgbt, STUFF, Uncategorized

When my mom came out she was terrified of how people would react.  She didn’t know if the ones she loved would stand by her, but she took a “leap of faith.”  She trusted us.  And her bravery has inspired me to come clean, as well.  Yesterday, on The Ricki Lake Show, I was wearing Spanx.  And they weren’t men’s Spanx.  They were my wife’s Spanx.

There, I’ve said it.  And it feels good, almost as good as peeling off those tight pantyhose shorts.  If you want to judge, then judge.  If you want to click away, then click away.   I have no time for bigots.  I stand here proudly and a bit uncomfortable in this nylon sausage wrapping.

I had no choice.  My pants wouldn’t button.  I was ashamed and petrified someone would discover the truth.  I had to pee through a little slit in the crotch.  A few drops dribbled onto my new pants five minutes before the show.  My wife and I had bought the suit especially for my TV appearance.  Damn it, I knew the suit was too small in Macy’s.  I told myself I could trim down, lose ten pounds in six days.  I ran, ate nothing but spinach, but I only lost a few.  The button on the pants would fasten, but one wrong move, one tiny twist, and I knew it’d snap off and fire into the crowd, possibly hitting someone in the front row.  What if it killed my poor mom?  You’d be logging onto mygaymom.com/theladywhowasmurderedbyherfatson’stightslacks.

I tried holding in my gut.  I tried not breathing.  But the risk was too great.  So I mustered up some courage and marched into the closet.  And I came out in my wife’s undergarments.

Sure, I could make excuses.  I could talk about how I quit smoking nine months ago, and that when I’m stressed I sometimes eat when I used to have a cigarette.  I could mention how I’d injured my knee, which made running painful.  But it’s time I take responsibility for my belly.  It’s time I tell the truth.

Yesterday, I was on TV and I was wearing Spanx!  And it felt good, like a warm hug, a warm, sweaty, slightly chaffing hug.

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