I tried to open this blog to a few select writers. Like most things I do I didn't really think about the repercussions of my actions. There are people out there who have more writing ability than me. Why the hell would I want to be the least talented person in my own home? My blog is supposed to be a place where I shine. You come to it and read my ramblings and you leave thinking, damn that guy really knows how to use his massive fingers to make music with his keyboard. I don't want you to come here and think, ehh I have seen better. So with that in mind I give you a post by my brother. The writing is great. FUCK HIM!
When you combine obsessive compulsive disorder with manic depression the result is shit. Or at least a shit streak. Picture an equation where OCD + MD = a coil of feces. (My version of Microsoft Word doesn't have an icon for shit, and I lack the funds to hire a graphic artist to design a flashing pile of shit, so you'll have to envision a few squiggly rings, rendered in white chalk, as the universal symbol for a solid bowel movement. Still confused as to the precise contours of this piece of shit? Imagine a patient with late stage Parkinson's drawing the same squiggly design. Critics call it modernism by Jackson Pollock; I call it Shit by Lewis, circa 1984.)
The shit in question started at Bloomingdale's. No, it began its journey from farm fresh chicken fingers and Fruity Pebbles to a plumber's nightmare days before, when, after having pulled the drawstrings of my Ralph Lauren swim trunks too tightly, the inside of the waistband tore. This imperfection was too much for me to bear. The swim trunks, which had held the promise of decades of future use (the remaining swatch of fabric, faded by gallons of chlorine and years of wear and tear, would have eventually found value as an all purpose shammy and super absorbent rag for for my five-times-a-day masturbation habit), were now worthless. Hence the OCD part of the equation.
Each time I wore the trunks I would know, no matter how attractive they looked or comfortably they fit, no matter how many compliments they elicited (my Semitic hook rising and straightening like a WASP beak, all because of the power of Polo by Ralph Lifshitz), that the trunks were nothing more than overpriced remainders, remnants for the outlet bin in Cabazon, California.
I demanded that my mother return the trunks to Bloomingdale's for a new pair. That's right: the trunks which I had worn on vacation in South Florida, where the intense heat and humidity had caused me to sweat virtually nonstop, which in turn had transformed the interior mesh lining of the trunks into the equivalent of a gay fisherman's net, the same sweat having caused the blue and red coloring of the trunks to run as one purple river of 100 proof crotch juice -- those were the trunks I implored my mother to return. And she did! Or at least she tried. Which brings us to the manic depressive part of the equation.
Once inside the store my mother descended upon the nearest salesperson.
"I just bought these (waving the trunks like a talisman from some obscure island sporting event), and they tore!! I want a new pair!!"
"Do you have a receipt?"
"Get me the manager!"
When the manager, an African-American man in his mid- to late forties bearing all the solemnity and authority of his bespoke clothes and physical stature, did arrive his rectitude was the perfect yin of respectability to my mother's yang of bat shit craziness. But even the wisest people do the stupidest things.
By this time, a small crowd had gathered near the glass counter where my mother was screaming about the shoddy merchandise Bloomingdale's had the nerve to sell. The manager, trying to diffuse the situation and determine for himself if this "brand new" pair of trunks had torn like a piece of cheap tissue paper, put his two right fingers into the mesh lining of the trunks, exposing them for closer inspection. His fingers revealed the lining to have a series of . . . dark brown shit streaks!!
"I don't think so," said the manager, handing the trunks back to my mother.
My mother realizing that saving face was impossible, took the trunks and stormed out of the store.
Now, while this story is definitive proof of my foolishness and my mother's insanity, there is a lesson about good business, too. Had Bloomingdale's taken the trunks back, they would have become a legendary company known for amazing customer service. "They'll take back anything. I mean, anything! Did you know they even accepted a pair of feces stained swim trunks, which they summarily threw out, and gave the shopper a store credit?" The manager, alas, couldn't see the importance of word of mouth marketing. Nor did he seem to appreciate the value of good personal hygiene. Remember: his fingers were covered in shit -- and he didn't run to the nearest bathroom to wash (with hydrochloric acid) his hands!
Bloomingdale's: Like No Other Store in the World.
A wise china-men, or at the very least he was Chinese, no proof he was wise, once said to me that when you are on vacation you should eat like an animal. I tried to tell him that my trip to Colorado was to care for my sick dog and not a vacation, but he refused to accept that as an excuse to not eat like a fat mid westerner on a work trip in Fort Lauderdale. With his sage advice I found myself at the Charco Broiler in Fort Collins tonight. I had grand hopes of eating until I was stuffed but alas I found a black hair in the butter dish. I guess I could have picked it out and buttered the warm bread on the table but that's not how I roll. I still managed to eat onion soup, a NY strip, and garlic scallion bacon mashed potatoes* while my dog waiting patiently in the car. I told him, "I know you had a rough day in the cancer ward, but daddy has to eat." I am not all bad, I took him for an A&W root beer float after dinner so we both could wash away the sorrows. Yes I equate my bad meal to his radiation treatment. We all go through things in our own way.
I would kill for my dog
