I’m writing this on my patio. I am in my boxer shorts. I am on my patio in my underwear writing my writing. I am also wearing shoes. This is what they look like.
Echo & the Bunnymen plays on the hi-fi behind me. It keeps me company. My penis is flaccid…finally.
I read the news when I got home. Al Qaeda is defeated. Kobe Bryant is really something. Polygamy is bad. Polygamist’s kids are not bad. Myanmar forces victims to eat Mallo-mars. God hates me.
I’m sure he has his reasons. If he doesn’t, I can give him mine. Or he can call my parents or any number of teachers that did their best with me. There’s my ex-wife, managers at jobs I showed up late and unmotivated for, brothers, sisters, therapists, Bob Evan’s waitresses, etc ad infinitum.
Did you know this? I was a nervous child. I went to public school in the 70’s and in my school you had to get permission from the teachers to use the bathroom. Then they decided if you really needed to use the bathroom.
This made me even more nervous. If the teachers wouldn’t let me go, my human waste would end up in my pants. There would be a wet stain and a smell.
If you mess your pants in grade school, you have two options: drop out or kill yourself. So I had my mom write a note that I gave to the teacher on the first day of school every year. It said, “Holmes can go to the bathroom anytime he wants.”
It sounds like she is bragging, doesn’t it? “Dear Ms. Kulwicki, my son Holmes has an incredible talent. He can go to the bathroom anytime he wants! If you find extra time at the end of the day, you should have him show you. It is incredible.”
Of course what she meant was that I was to be allowed to leave class and use the restroom regardless of time or place. This worked. The teachers let me go anytime the urge hit me.
However one time when I was caddying for a rich doctor on the golf course (14 years of age) and several times while drinking (14, 15, 16, 18, and 23 years of age) I did mess myself. But luckily no one knows because I wasn’t in school.
Absurdly yours,
Holmes (written 5/29 at 11:11pm)
I guess I KIND of understand the accidents you had when you were drinking, but what was going on when you were caddying that made you mess yourself?
The golf course is a clever mistress…it was the summer of ‘86…afros and denim ruled the main stages and the sound track to Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo poured out of every passing car. I knew that my time as a caddy was short-lived because all I wanted to do was dance. Each night after a long day of toting the golf clubs of the rich and semi-famous in my small town, I would run home, dive in to my leotard, strap up my leg warmers and dance the night away.
One evening after an especially heavy night of dancing to Hall and Oates, I fell asleep in my dance outfit. Upon waking the next morning, I realized I was late for my scheduled tee time. So I threw on my caddying uniform over my leotard, grabbed my 10-speed Huffy and pedaled off to work. On the third hole, a 387-yard par 4 with a dogleg left and water guarding the front edge of the green…it hit me. My bladder was desirous of emptying its bloated self.
I hastily rushed behind a mighty oak tree (that would soon find itself feeling inferior), unzipped my zipper (waited for the horns of glory and bright lights to stop) and began to release the pressure.
Only then did I remember that leotard. My embarrassment forced me to never don the gear of a dancer again. My dreams were pissed away…for good.
And so now, mlm, you know the pain that I feel every time Irene Cara is mentioned.
I feel for you, Holmes. (Or should it be, “I feel you”?) Nope, since you have already bid a fond farewell to your penis, I guess that’s out. Didn’t you also have a torn up sweatshirt, a la Jennifer Beales? Ooops, sorry, didn’t mean to bring you more pain. By the way, I don’t think afros were very popular in 1986. More like Jheri-curl. Don’t feel bad about having to abandon your dream of dancing. For someone with calf muscles as awesomely developed as yours, there’s always ice skating, right?
anytime, mlm……as for the skating…my soul jsut threw up in the back of my throat…
Hockey, then? I’m a HUGE hockey fan! (Didn’t mean to make your soul take drastic measures–just trying to help you move on from your crushed dreams of dance…)
Hockey totally…as a norther WI boy…it was the winter sport of choice…as we got ready for baseball season…it’s just that dance allowed me to throw off the pretense of the traditional caveman and explore a creative energy that could only be cultivated through lucid drumbeats, self-aware lyrical prowess and a casual stretching of lycra…in all the right places…this pain will be conquered…it will jsut take time and the support of my friends…so I thank you my friend for your support…the gentle human touch that is longed for in times of sadness…thank you