I’m thoroughly convinced that if we could extract a human specimen from the year 1739, a real Post-Renaissancey type bastard, and blindfold him, and place him in the center of Times Square, and spin him around like a child before a dangling piñata, and give him a real quick debriefing consisting simply of “hey bro, welcome to the future”, and quickly untie the knot, and yank that old handkerchief from his gangly and ill-kempt mug, and yell “tada!” like all facetiously and shit, and strike a real good thespian pose full of bent knees and irony, and beam a fat row of shinies at our poor old subject, our left hand out, grazing a chilly New York breeze, well…
Well I simply think that mother fucker would explode.
I think that the sheer shock of our world would send his old gulliver into oblivion, like an uncut potato in a microwave set on HIGH. A few seconds would pass, and the jester in tights would gaze around, mouth open like a great collapsed dam, drool gushing out in pure astonishment of the sights and sounds and suits and suites of La Manzana Grande, and a fantastic hemorrhage would split between his ears, faster than the lightbeams that Einstein spent years dreaming about riding, and the sheer lack of horses and carriages, and the sheer abundance of TAXI 777-7777’s in their wake, would simply send his Latiny-Smatiny brain right through his pantaloons, and the godsent stinky-faced mother fucker would instantly collapse, like a black hole, like The Witch-King of Angmar, like a timelapse of crumpling tin foil set to 1000x speed, you know, like, real real quick. And suddenly that bloke would be inverted onto himself, and we’d still be standing there all hat-and-cane, wide-eyed like the sold-out audience of a legendary comic, right before the punchline, almost ready to squeeze out a roaring HAHAHA even if the joke ain’t funny, even if the next line isn’t the end of the joke. We’d be there, goddamn, just hollering at that poor old soul, our trustee abductee, who simply couldn’t handle, or even fathom, or even understand, the chaos that is our everyday.
Anyway. I think about shit like that a lot. Like, how nuts this fucking world is.
I like girls. I just goddam love girls. I love women. I just love women to death. I really do. I love kissing women and I love looking at a real pretty girl that knows she’s pretty, and I love smiling at a real pretty girl that doesn’t know she’s goddam gorgeous like Aphrodite, and I love dancing with a silly ole eccentric kind of chick, out dancing at the pub, just grooving like a big beautiful fool, her curls bouncing around like a company of cake-and-soda nine year olds at a birthday party, in a jumping balloon, shooting around like springs, for hours and hours. Her hair is bouncing everywhere, and she’s jumping around all silly to the sound of like “Big Girls Don’t Cry” by Frankie Valli & the Four Seasons themselves, and I’m just trying to stay out of the way of her noodle hair that has vigorously taken over the dance floor, and the entire bar, and is now flowing out onto the damp roads of midnight, over the whole city, stretching as far as love can take you, and even further, ’till it’s just me and that hair, dancing around to good falsetto tunes of greasy-haired men and the smell of mediocre gin.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just lose everything you have.
That it would be more relieving than anything, at least after a couple of days. You could find a place to run some hot water into a yellowed-up tub, in a Motel 8 or Hacienda somewhere off a highway, and you could lay there in that godlike hot water and just crack a big ole smile, and start laughing like a fucking madman, like a mad clown, at the trivial nature of owning things. You hear stories of folks who like, lose their entire estate to a fire, and a couple of months down the road they say something heroic like “I’ve never been happier! I have my health, my thoughts and my dog, and that’s all a man really needs anyway!” and a part of you wants to hold a real big bony middle finger up to that plastic smile on the TV set, and curse him for being so typical, just so cliché in the face of his tragedy, but another part of you is just damn jealous that this guy could take his life anywhere, jump on a train and head for the hills, for a city built in the clouds, for Atlantis, for Rapture, just pack up his dog and his thoughts and his memories into a duffle and live in the alley of Nowhere, USA, and you’re stuck with your satanically sharp set of cutting knives, and your discount recliner, and your thread counts and your iComforts, and suddenly you wonder what IS the boiling point of my life? and you semi-erotically, semi-thermodynamically, start to fantasize about your house going up in flames. You crave a good hot bath.
I like to look around at everyone. Sit in the coffee shop and look at every funny face that passes by and makes noise.
I’ve got sensitive nipples that get real hard in the cold, when I exercise, or when I’m vehement, like when a girl sits down quietly and recites her story about being raped to me, then finishes with “I’ve never told anyone else in my life before,” and I start breathing heavy through my nostrils, looking at my lap, and there they are, the nipples, hard as a rock, hard as her past, hard as those bloody visions of vaginal injustice, sticking out through the fabric of my shirt. My nipples also tend to become chaffed when I run, but only the right one, and only when I run real far, and but did you hear that people are still being raped?????
I’ve got a cynic that’s buried in a vision of a better world and a happy life and a default setting that requires me to be nice to fucking everyone I know, even the folks that don’t deserve it, even the ones that have broken me into a million little ants of my former self, ready to rebuild the colony after a real big flood (that’s actually just a curious, yet criminal, nine-year old with a garden hose), but I’ve never been raped, but I was a shaken baby, and god damn it I thought I never would write that down, and now I feel that sudden rush to the heart, to the nose, to the eyes, right before you kinda cry and lose your shit, out of nowhere, but I can’t because I’m in a coffee shop and a sad song is playing, and I’m wearing a pink shirt, and that shit would be too good for anyone watching, headlines read LOCAL EFFEMINATE BOY TEARY IN STARBUCKS, SAM SMITH ON RADIO, but I spent my first Christmas in the hospital, tubes sucking goo and pressure from my skull, needles the size of number 2 pencils gauged into my brain, like The Matrix, pulling the trauma of the shaking and my jelly-like brain right out of me, leaving scars and dents of events I’ll never remember, that I never knew happened, if it weren’t for those scars, and those photographs, and statistically speaking I should be dead, or mentally dead, but yet here I am, and here we are, and I’ve never really told many people that before, and ain’t that just something?????????
I’m going to take a bath to Paul Simon’s Peace Like a River and imagine the love of my life.
I know that a lot of folks read The Leaky Faucet. I really, really, cannot thank you enough. Every time one of you comes out of the woodwork and lets me know…well, that’s magic. So if you could do me a favor, my dear reader, and reveal yourself, publicly or otherwise, if you got to the end of this piece, to where we are now. And just tell me your favorite color, just so I know you’re there, that you’re a face in the dark rows of velvet seats, invisible to the bright lights of the stage that is this space.
Just tell me your favorite color.