Metalk

Metalkabout sitting in church

2012-01-28T11:34:00.001-05:00

I come to this one particular church in my neighborhood fairly regularly, three or four times a month, and I always think and pray about the same things - my wife and kids, my job, my brother Sean.

These three things are always on my mind.

For Jill and the twins, I pray for safety and happiness, asking God to help me be a better husband and father, maybe a bit happier, a bit less doom and gloom all the time.

For my job, I wish for less stress and a bit more security, or at least a better sense of it. I ask God to help me excel and do great work and to give me the words to deliver the goods that everyone demands of me. If I can do that, then the first part of my prayer - the one about Jill and the twins - has a better chance of being answered.

For my brother Sean, I ask for help with his wife and son. I need to stay connected to them more, to be more involved in Patrick's life than I am right now, which is very little at all. I don't talk to God during this time, I talk to Sean. And eventually, as it's doing right now, the idea of my little brother being dead and me talking to him in some abstract way, like when I look up at the sky thinking he hears me, it blows my mind. It blows. my. mind.

So then I switch and start talking to God, asking him to help me get through this, to help me carry the heavy weight of Sean's death on my shoulders.

And then, after I've said my peace, I say thanks and goodbye, walking out of the church and disappearing into the anonymity of the city, wondering if God heard me this time and if I'll make it through another week, smiling more, loving more, excelling more, and accepting more of the reality that Sean is never coming back.

That's what I do in church these days. What do you do?

Metalkabout it's snowing!

2012-01-21T10:47:00.004-05:00

You looked out the window this morning to see a city blanketed in a pristine white layer of snow. "Snow!" you say, "Holy shit! We need to motor. Get the sleds! Get the snowboards! Get the flask full of Whiskey! It's time to go drunk sledding!"

You said this to yourself, forgetting that just last night your girlfriend of five years left you to finally be with Jeremy, your now-ex-best friend and Yoga instructor at the JWC. When she walked out, she said:

"I will miss you, Derek (sniff, sniff)," she said, "but this is for the best."

"The best!?!" you quizzed her. "The best as in 'Fuck yeah! This is the best fucking time of my life? Or the best as in man this cake is the best tasting cake I've ever tasted? Or the best as in oh wow ... I am so getting fucked in the ass by the world right now because my girlfriend is leaving me and it is absolutely the best thing that has ever happened to me?' Is that what you mean when you say 'It's for the best, Karen?'"

Karen gave you the finger, saying, "You know what I fucking mean, Derek!" and walked out.

"No, Karen, I do not know what you mean," you whispered, tears running down your cheeks.

Karen sent her little brother, Dwight, over an hour later to collect her belongings. He took everything, even her sled, her skis, and her snowboard. She left you with nothing.

So now, while the pain from being recently dumped is heavy on your heart and really bumming you out, it's the fact that your dreams to go sledding have been dashed that's truly made your depressed.

But then you remember the flask — your flask — full of whiskey. "Karen didn't take that," you think. "Karen did fuck everything up." And with that, you take the first drink of many today.

You will go drunk sledding after all.

Even if it only happens in your drunken, broken-hearted mind.

Hooray snow!

Metalkabout the livery cab driver

2012-01-18T23:11:00.000-05:00

The other day, I was standing at a window in my apartment that overlooks Amsterdam Ave.

There was a livery cab driver parked off to the side of the street working on his car – Cadillac. The trunk was open. He kept pulling out cleaning products.

A squirt of Windex on the windshield, taillights, chrome trim.

A buffing cloth on the hood, side door panels, fenders.

He worked tirelessly to make that Cadillac shine.

I could tell that this machine was a reflection of himself — of his life and success and the success of his family.

By keeping it clean, he could use it provide food, shelter, and safety for them.

Maybe even earn enough money to help his daughter get through medical school.

Give his wife the nice things she deserves.

Take care of the ones he loved.

As I watched him, I found myself suddenly thinking about my dad, who, at one point in his career-filled life, was also a livery cab driver.

He, too, would obsessively shine his car. In fact, the car smelled of Windex and Armor-all whenever you got close to it.

But my dad wasn’t always a livery cab driver.

After the marines, he became a union leader for Shell Oil Company. (To this day, I can’t watch the movie FIST and not think of him.)

He was a successfully important man.

He also had a lot of friends, most of whom we’re old Marine buddies. They were always introduced to me as uncle Joe or uncle Mickey or uncle Frank.

I had a lot of uncles by way of Uncle Sam.

But it was Uncle Frank that changed my dad’s life — and my family’s — forever.

He had convinced my dad to leave Shell Oil to start a business together. A nursery, where they’d sell plants and flowers and, in the fall, pumpkins.

My dad liked the idea of being his own boss and working with the land. So he agreed.

I remember moving to Peekskill, NY, to a massive house. The biggest we’d ever lived in. And as my dad started his new business, we started our new life living in this palatial house. Running in the woods. Playing in our own rooms. Making friends in the cul-de-sac.

It was some of the best times of my life.

Then one day it all changed.

It was the middle of the night. I was awoken by my dad, who scooped me up and carried me out to the family station wagon, the whole time whispering, “It’s OK, buddy. It’s OK.” He buckled me into my seat as I squinted to see my three other brothers and my mother also in the car.

I was bitterly cold. My teeth were chattering. It made a loud noise. I could see my breath in the cold air. The whole time, no one talked.

I also noticed that the station wagon, which had those real wooden door panels and the suicide seats that faced each other in the way back, was packed with pots and pans and clothes and toys and food.

I found out later that this was everything we owned. Our worldly possession packed into one small station wagon.

As we pulled down the long driveway and up the street, I watched our house grow smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared.

It would be the last time I’d ever see it.

This was in the mid 70s. I was four or five at the time.

Apparently, business had gone bad — real bad, real fast— and “uncle Frank” cleaned out the bank accounts, leaving my dad to face the creditors on his own.

After months of trying to work something out with the banks — the house and their cars alos ready to be taken by even more creditors — my parents saw only one way out: RUN. Under cover of darkness.

So there we were, the six of us … on the lamb.

To a five-year-old, being “on the lamb” seemed pretty exciting. And it was.

And even though my parents were running from some serious shit, like creditors, possibly the police, and definitely the shame they felt for trying and failing … they never let us know that they were afraid or that we were in any danger.

For the next eight or so years, we were nomads, exploring the country wherever the work took us. “As long as we were together,” my father would say, “we’ll be OK. We are all we need!”

My dad took all kinds of jobs — as a laborer in construction, painter, landscaper even a migrant farmer. Every night, he’d scan the papers, and every morning he’d leave for his new job.

My mother had an equally important job: hold the family together. And stay sane.

We lived with friends for a few weeks, in cheap motels for a week or two more, off-season rentals on the Jersey shore for a winter or two, anywhere we could find cheap rent, even it meant shacking up with my dad’s marine friends — our “uncles” — up and down the east coast.

Like when we lived on top of Joe Kenny’s Party Time Inn in a one-room space that was more office than house. But we made due.

Once, after visiting with my grandmother, we pulled into a Two Guys Department Store parking lot. My mom and dad were scanning the sales circular, when he excitedly asked, “How much money did granny give you?”

She’d always given us a dollar or two when we visited, so he knew we had some cash. We emptied our pockets on the hood of the station wagon and he counted it up, announcing, “Let’s go camping!”

With that money, he bought a six-person tent. And for an entire summer, we lived in Caledonia State Park, Penn. It was the best summer of my life. The best.

We had run of the campground, got to know the park rangers, the kids and their families as they’d come and go. Made friends, saw them leave, then made new ones. Every day was an adventure, exploring the woods, swimming in the public pool, wading in the book, learning to love nature.

At night, when my father would return home from one of the jobs he’d taken (I later found out he was working as a migrant farmer in the surrounding area), we’d cook dinner over a campfire and sing songs, roast marshmallows, and gaze at the stars.

I’d never felt safer, happier, or more loved than in that tent — our home. My parents were pretty fucking awesome.

Things eventually turned around for my dad. He was able to scrape enough money together to rent a nice house in Scotch Plains, NJ. He worked for an old contractor friend for a while as a house painter.

Then one day he showed up with a brand-new-used Cadillac and announced, “I got a job, with benefits, as a personal driver.”

He was so excited. My mom couldn’t have been happier.

We were all happy.

For him. For my mom. For us (maybe we’d get those new Nike sneakers everyone else had).

I remember going with my mom to buy my dad a chauffer’s hat as a gift. He loved it — and he wore it everywhere.

For months after he took that job, I’d see him outside in our driveway washing and waxing and polishing that car. It always looked brand new. Spotless.

As he’d wash it, he’d tell me stories about how he drove the president of this company to the airport or picked up this important CEO and took her to her mansion up in the hills. All the while he’d be working to make that car sparkle and shine.

It was a point of pride for my dad.

But it was also more.

It wasn’t until the other day, when I was watching that livery cab driver down on Amsterdam working to make his car as beautiful as it could possibly be, that I realized: all those times my dad spent buffing and cleaning his Cadillac, he wasn’t doing it just to make the car shine.

He was doing it so his family could one day shine, too.

Metalkabout coffee boy

2012-01-14T22:18:00.001-05:00

It's your first day as the new barista at the new coffeehouse in the new development downtown. You're officially a slave to the man. Or in this case, every douchebag-hipster-dickweed who thinks he or she is something they're not because their lifestyle is funded by their mommy and daddy's gold card and allows them to front in a way that mocks your every move.

Giving in to these fake, plastic posers is something you've struggled with for months but have now come to grips with because you're tired of sucking the cock of old, smelly men to support the Adderall habit you've developed trying to stay awake so you can pull all-nighters to get through medical school.

Serving coffee to these assholes is like a vacation to Disneyland, compared to fondling the low-hanging grape nuts of AARP card-caring perverts. Yeah, it's way better.

Your first costumer is the dick-bag dealer who sells you the shit you're hooked on and whose dick you've also sucked to get a few free pills. "Give me a large Earl Grey?" he asks, not recognizing you at first.

"We don't sell tea," you say.

"Why the fuck not?" he demands.

"Because this is a ... coffee house," you say.

He looks at you, your face finally becoming familiar to him, and says, "Oh, hey, it's you. I didn't recognize you without my dick in your mouth. Listen, I don't care how you do it, but get me a fucking large tea now or you will never get another Adderall from me again."

You smile, walk in the back, whip out your dick, and piss in a large to-go cup. Then you add a slice of lemon, a dash of honey, pull a string from your sock and hang it over the side of the cup to look like it's connected to a tea bag, put the lid on, and walk out, saying, "My apologies. We do serve tea after all. I'm new here, still getting the hang of things. Here, it's on me."

He takes a sip, staring directly into your eyes, then says, "Mmm ... good fucking tea, barista boy. Good fucking tea."

As he turns to walks away, that shit-eating grin plastered on his face, you say, "You mean, good fucking PEE, barista boy, don't you, dickweed drug dealer?"

You never could keep a secret, could you?

Metalkabout tasty tortoise

2012-01-09T23:12:00.000-05:00

You're a turtle scientist. It's not the most glamorous job —after all, they shit and spit and fart and pee all over the place, snap atanything that gets in front of their shell, walk slow and run slower, and havelittle if any personality — but it's something you've wanted to do since youwere a little boy.

You just received incredible news from your colleague, Walter, stationed on the Galapagos. Genetictraces of a supposedly extinct giant tortoise species have been found livingon the Galapagos island of Isabela.

You say, "Do you know what this means, Walter? This mean the giant tortoises of Galapagos does exist, despite what whalers and pirates have done to them! What do they look like, Walter? Send me a text with a picture. Quickly, Walter. Quickly!"

Seconds later your phone beeps. It's the text. You look at the picture to see a bowl of soup.

"Walter, what's with the bowl of soup?" you ask.

Walter texts back: "It's the tortoise soup we made of the giant turtle we found," he said.

"You cooked the giant tortoise, Walter? What, are you a fucking fool!?!"

"No. I was hungry," he responds.

Metalkabout Happy Birthday Dad

2012-01-07T23:14:00.002-05:00

Today's my father birthday. He's seventy-one years old.

He's had a good run, a solid life, with the last fifteen years being a lot less than good: a swimming-pool accident on July fourth resulted in an injury to his c5 vertebrae and him becoming a quadriplegic.

These days, along with the loss of his legs, he has to live with the loss of his son, my brother, Sean.

Life's cruel like that. A good run turns into something downright tragic — a life of pain and regret.

Today, I'm not poking fun. Today, I'm posting the real side of my life. This is a note I slipped inside his birthday card.

Dad —

I can’t imagine many birthday cards begin with an apology,but this one will.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there on your seventieth birthday. Yeah, I called. But I could’ve done more.I could’ve done better. Like show up. Or send a gift. Done more is all I’msaying. For Christ’s sake, you were celebrating seventy years on this planet. That’squite an enormous achievement. A grand achievement. A milestone in every senseof the word. It’s something to be proud of —and to celebrate.

I should’ve helped you do that.

I’m not making excuses here, because that’s not who I am,but this past year has been brutal. It has little to do with being a new parent. That’s easy work,relatively speaking. It’s Sean. That’s been incredibly difficult for me. Forall of us.

I think about him all the time. Some days I wonder how I’mdoing it. Most days are a blur, and I feel like I’ve subconsciously fallen intoa kind of self-induced coma of my mind on levels I don’t fully understand justyet. Days come and go. Andsignificant days — important, momentous days — blur with therest. So instead of coming acrossas a caring, loving, engaged person, I’m perceived as distant or preoccupiedor, worse, uninterested or insensitive.

I don’t consider myself any of those things, especially thelast two, but that’s who I’ve become lately. All because my best friend— your son — made an exit from this world that absolutely no one could’veever predicted or prepared for. I’d do anything to go back to the days before he got sick. I’d doanything to have one more conversation with him. I’d do anything to hug him once more.

But here we are, dealing with something we never thoughtwe’d have to deal with, and, well, it’s been the toughest road to travel.

So while I don’t believe in making excuses, I do believe inunderstanding what lead to the disappointment. For me, it’s what happened on April 2 almost two years agothat has sent me into a sort of tailspin and clouded my vision and senses,making it easy to overlook the important things, like your birthday last year.

And now we’re at your seventy-first birthday. Another bigone. Another day to reflect on your life, embracing the good and the bad … butknowing it’s all yours and it’s the life you’ve proudly, dutifully,respectfully lived.

I’m proud to be your son, as I know all your sons are, evenSean.

The best gift I can think to give you is to let you knowthat you did everything right.

It was a bumpy road, sure, and there were times that you andI went head to head in ways not many sons and fathers ever do. But growingpains come in all shapes and sizes. And, if anything, ours were mere pressuretests to strengthen the love that binds us today.

But every day, no matter if I’m struggling with the realityof Sean’s passing, dealing with ridiculously-stressful issues at work, ordeeply in love with the two little miracles I now call my babies, I know I’mdrawing from the lessons you’ve taught me over the years.

And with eachone, I’m reminded that you truly did everything right.

HappyBirthday, Dad.

I love you.

Metalkabout the paperboy wants his Christmas tip

2012-01-06T22:58:00.000-05:00

A month ago, when you opened your apartment door to get the Saturday New York Times that's always waiting for on your welcome mat thanks to someone you've never met, there was an empty envelope on top of it. The name Phillip Demarco Jr. was typed on the outside. Nothing else. Staring at the envelope in your hand, you walked back inside your apartment and yelled to your wife: "Honey, do you know a Phillip Demarco?"

"Phillip who?" she asked.

"Phillip Demarco. He left an empty envelope on our New York Times."

"Why would anyone do that?" your wife asked.

"I don't know," you said.

"Hmm ..." she replied. "Maybe he's one of the columnists and this is his way of soliciting feedback on a new article he wrote."

"Good idea, honey," you said. "Let's keep an eye out for his column so we can fill that envelope with the proper feedback."

You've spent weeks reading every word on every page in the New York Times, even the obituaries, and there's been nothing written by a columnist named Phillip Demarco. When you mentioned this to your wife, a look of fear came over her. "Maybe ... I was wrong," she said. "Maybe ... Phillip Demarco is a mass murderer and that envelope is his calling card. Maybe it's his metaphor, and its message is that he will fill the envelope with your dead body! Oh dear. Now I'm scared, honey," she said, tears running down her face.

"Oh my god!" you said. "What if you're right? Honey ... honey, we have to take action! As it is we've already wasted a month looking for an article that will never appear. This Phillip Demarco killer could be anywhere, watching our every move ... waiting for the perfect time to strike. We could be as good as dead already! Oh god, I feel sick to my stomach, honey," you cried.

"You're right, honey," your wife said. "What should we do?"

"I don't know," you said. "I need some time to think."

As you said this, you opened the door to get your morning New York Times. Maybe the answer would be found in the National section or the crosswords or Science Times. Standing there, in front of your door, was a boy, a boy you'd never seen, a boy who looked at you as if you'd betrayed him in some godawful way. He was tossing your paper onto the welcome mat. Scowling as you looked down at him.

"Oh, hello," you said. "May I help you?"

"No. Just delivering your paper like I've been doing every day for the last two years," he said. "You happy with my service? You dissatisfied with the way I place your paper on your welcome mat? Is there something I've done to make you not want to fill the envelope I left you with a token of appreciation?"

It took you a few minutes to register what the boy standing before you was saying, but then it became crystal clear. "Wait, you're Phillip Demarco?" you asked, your voice quivering with the fear of seeing your killer face-to-face. "Why!?!" you demanded. "Why do you want to kill me?" you said, slamming the door and quickly locking it before he could get to you.

"Honey, Philip Demarco is here — and he's our paperboy! The envelope he put on our newspaper is for a token of our appreciation! Run for your life!"

And that's how you came to be known as the dumbest fucking idiot in your apartment building last year.

Metalkabout bummer of a liver

2012-01-05T20:57:00.001-05:00

Your mom's a drunk. Your dad's a drunk. Your uncle Floyd's a raving lunatic and a drunk. Your grandma was a lush and a drunk, god rest her soul. Your boy Dennis is a sloppy drunk. You girl is a loose drunk. Your kid brother is a closet drunk. And then there's you: The sober son who's never once tasted a sip of alcohol, even though statistics say you should be as drunk if not drunker than everyone in your family, because, well, that's how the cycle works. It's a disease. And you're its next victim. Or so the story goes. But you're defying all logic and stepping off the crazy train. Fuck the disease. Fuck the cycle of life that says you're supposed to be a no-good-for-nothing drunk. You've got bigger plans, more sobering plans, and you're not about to mess them up by drinking even a sip of the poison that has infected your family for way too many years. Generations, even. Oh no. You vowed long ago to stay sober and to make something of yourself. The grand opening of Mikey's Top Shelf is just three hours away. You're so excited. You're so proud to be the first in your family to have beaten the disease of alcoholism and not let it stand in the way of your dreams. Today, you are free. Today, alcohol has no relevance in your life. Today, you hope to serve thousands of customers the homemade beer you've been working on. Today, you become the ultimate enabler. Cheers.

Metalkabout Water Boy

2012-01-04T23:30:00.000-05:00

You work for Jay Leno, and you have only one job: keep the coffee cups his guest drink out of filled to the rim. They can never, ever, ever go empty or get too warm. If they do, that's your ass. And that spells pressure. But you're up for it. Because you're hardcore. The real stress isn't during the show, though, it's during the commercial breaks. The moment Jay 'goes to commercial' you spring into action, running from the side of the stage to whoever his guest is. You carry an ice-cold pitcher of water with lemon in it, and you have a mere seconds to fill the mug and set it back on the table before the show goes live again. You've never once missed. That is, until tonight. Tracy Morgan will be sitting in the chair holding the mug. And when you run out to refill it, he'll recoil, saying, "Hold up, man! I'm not drinking water. I'm drinking vodka. So either find me some vodka or get the fuck away from me." Just as he stops talking, you'll hear the countdown to going live. You'll turn to run, tripping over some wires and and spilling your ice-cold pitcher of lemon-zest water all over Jay. Firing you is just the beginning of the pain you're about to experience. Good luck, water boy.

Metalkabout two babies and an eight-ball

2012-01-03T11:08:00.000-05:00

It's exactly 9:30 and you've just put your twins down for their morning nap.

That gives you two hours to live your life the way you used to, before you had the babies. You quietly open the liquor cabinet and grab the bottle of Jack Daniels. Then you go to the kitchen and pull out the eight-ball of cocaine from the cookie jar. You clear the table and begin to spell out your favorite entree at T.G.I Fridays: Buffalo Chicken Tacos. Those are a lot of letters. "Hooray!" you whisper to yourself.

You quickly line up a shot of Jack, then start cutting into the eight-ball. You spell out your favorite T.G.I Fridays dish and go to town snorting it up. You take a small bump first — "Whoa!" you say. Then you hit it even harder, snorting the entire word 'Taco' up your left nostril. "Holy fucking Jesus Christ!" you yell, lost in the euphoria of the moment.

Within seconds you hear the cry of babies coming from the nursery. Both kids are up. You kick the chair next to you across the room, shouting at your own stupidity and disappointment that you won't be able to finish the blow on the table that still spells 'Buffalo Chic'. You've managed to snort the '... ken Taco' and are feeling mighty good right now. But still ... there's the 'Buffalo Chic' left.

Then you hear a bang. Screams follow. You drop everything and spring into action, your mommy-instinct punching your drug habit in the face and telling it to go fuck off right now. Wired on Columbia's finest blow, you barrel through the door of their room expecting to find the worst. They're fine. Or they were. Now that they've been scared shitless by your forced entry, they'll most likely start crying any second now.

You stand there relieved, taking in the beautiful sight of your babies, hoping they go back to doing whatever it was they were doing before you barged in. You do this while secretly hoping 9:30 tomorrow morning comes quickly so you can get back to finishing the 'Buffalo Chic' on the dining-room table.

You're headed straight for Mother of The Year, you know that?

Metalkabout Day 2.

2012-01-02T20:09:00.000-05:00

Forty-eight hours ago, the world changed and peopleeverywhere changed with it.

All the cynics on the planet were forced to board a cruiseship bound for a place where their world-weary ways could no longer disrupt theprogress of humankind: Alan Alda's island in the Caribbean.

The ship was dubbed Glass Half Full, and as it wasjam-packed. Along with many of this year's celebrated leaders, actors,writers, poets, businesspeople, educators, and so on, you saw your sister,Helen, and your brother, Chip, boarding the ship. You were hiding onboard another boat docked just two slips away, so no one saw you. But you saw... everything.

There were so many cynical people on deck that you wonderedif there was anyone left on land to reap the benefits that now existed — likefree food, free living, free cars, free liquor, free this and free that andthen more free stuff on top of the free stuff already mentioned.

There were two people: You and a girl from Long Island names Tiffany.

Since the ship left port, you've seen no one. And you'veheard only one thing: silence. It's an eery silence. A silence unlike anythingyou've ever known. There's no complaining. No arguing. People aren't sayinghurtful things to each other. Empty promises aren't being made by politiciansvying for votes. Liars aren't lying. Cheaters aren't cheating. All because thecynics are no longer allowed to be cynical.

And while it's been nice to hear yourself think thosepositive thoughts you always think, it's been even nicer to hear yourselfreaping the many benefits of a world that's been scrubbed clean of cynics whoare now destined for some science experiment. That's what you overheard theship's captain say was what they had in store for them when they reached AlanAlda's island. Your guess is that they'll be strapped in a chair andforced to watch endless hours of MASH.

God save them all. Even Alan Alda.

Sitting in an empty Le Pain Quotidien eating a baguette anddrinking a latte that you made, you realize you're kind of like the new Adamand this new, empty world is the Garden of Eden. All you need to do nowis walk around until you find your new Eve.

Keep an eye out for the girl with the big hair and thetruck-driver who likes to yell out how “the North Fork is where it’s at,bitches!” and you'll find her in no time.

With you and Tiffany at the helm, the world is doomed.

Metalkabout a clean slate

2012-01-01T11:43:00.001-05:00

At the stroke of midnight last night, you yelled, "I'm turning over a new leaf starting tomorrow. No more boozy nights! No more slutty women! No more wasted time being wasted!"

Then you did another shot.

It's now 11:28 on New Year's morning and you're still in bed with the sheets pulled over your head because it feels like a truck repeatedly ran over it last night. Your breath reeks of that smell you get from the inside of the trash can after you've lifted the bag. And there's something lying next to you. You don't remember bringing anyone home last night. You don't remember much of anything at all. But then, you've been here before. Which is why you know the only way to end the guessing is to lift up the sheets to see what shameful sight is there.

You jerk the covers quickly. Nothing happens. You tug once more. Still nothing. You pull with all your might, grunting to make some progress, but nothing happens. So you feel around with your hand. You touch a leg, a hairy leg. Then a butt, which is hairy, too. Then it hits you: the bouncer from the last club you stopped at last night was talking you up big time. He whispered in your ear how he'd love to buy you breakfast in the morning.

"In the morning?" you remember firing back. "What are you suggesting, my man?" you say. "I'm a guy and you're a guy and, well, my gate doesn't swing that way."

At least it didn't before last night.

Happy New Year, fella.

Here's to turning over a new leaf indeed, eh?

Metalkabout plumber's crack

2011-12-29T23:24:00.000-05:00

The doorbell rings and you call out: "Who is it?"

"It's the plumber," a voice on the other side of the door replies, "and I've come to fix the sink."

"Sink?" you ask.

"Yeah. Got a call that your sink is clogged. The Super sent me up."

"Uh ... no ... the sink is in fine working condition," you say.

"Are you sure?" asks the voice. "The Super was positive it's your sink."

"Um, yeah. I'm sure. But thank you very much for checking," you say, your faced pressed against the peephole to inspect this master tradesman with a monkey wrench.

He was hot, real hot. And you, a sixty-three-year-old widower were lonely. "Uh, you know what," you say, "I do recall my sink giving me some trouble the other night. Maybe you should take a look."

You open the door and greet this titan of toilet bowls. He smiles back, revealing a big gap in his teeth. His one flaw, you think, as he walks by, the scent of Old Spice stirring up your senses. "The kitchen is this way," you say in a low, hot-and-bothered tone.

"Thank you," he says.

He immediately goes to work, bending down to climb into the cabinet. You hear banging, grunts, the sound of dripping water, and more banging. But all you can do is fixate on his lovely plumber's crack. Oh my, you think. It's not fat or hairy. It's not sweaty or sooty. It's delicious-looking.

So delicious that you pounce, attacking his gluteus maximus with reckless abandon and screaming, "Forget the sink, plumber boy! Fix me. My pipes need cleaning. My pipes are all backed up!"

And that's how you came to be known as The Plumber Crack Granny in Sing-Sing Prison. You're doing twenty to life there right now. The other girls on your block have great respect for you because you not only attacked a man half your age, you kidnapped him for forty-three days and made him work on your pipes each and every day he was your bitch.

That's right. The hot plumber was your bitch.

Way to go, granny.

Metalkabout Sean

2011-12-26T13:21:00.001-05:00

Every now and then I step outside of this odd narrative I've created here and talk about something that's real, very real, in my life. This is one of those times.

Hey, Sean.

A memory I cherish: It’s ChristmasEve. All four of us are in our footy pajamas, squeaky clean after baths, eachone’s hair slicked to the side (the way mom liked to do it). We’re in theliving-room area putting out a plate of freshly-baked cookies and an ice-coldglass of milk for a very special guest due to arrive any minute now.

We’re giddy — all four of ushopelessly punch-drunk with excitement — because we know exactly what his visitmeans: Waking up to a beautifully-decorated Christmas tree, with flashinglights, shiny bulbs (the kind that make your face look hilariously contortedwhen you peer into them), and … GIFTS. Big gifts. Small gifts. All kinds ofgifts. All under the tree. All for us. And all from Santa!

Santa was coming in just a fewhours. And all we had to do was go to sleep first.

Go to sleep? Are you kidding me? What kid could sleep on a night likeChristmas Eve? What kid in hisright mind would risk oversleeping and missing Christmas morning? Who made up this dumb rule anyway?

But that was the trade off: Go tosleep or no Santa.

We shared a room then.Technically, we all shared a room then. We were living in a one-room efficiencyapartment on top of Joe Kenny’s Party Time Inn. It was an odd Christmas that year. You could say the family was in transition. Dad was scrambling to get back on hisfeet with a new job. Mom wasscrambling to keep the four of us fed and clean and safe and happy, all whilekeeping her sanity. And, at that very moment, we were scrambling for ourrespective places on the floor to go to sleep. Because the sooner we slept, thesooner Santa would come and night would give way to the most magical ofmornings. Christmas morning.

So while mom and dad had a night’swork ahead of them — trimming the tree, wrapping gifts, and so on — we had onejob: Go. To. Sleep.

I don’t remember much about thetree we had that year or the gifts we received, but I gotta think thatChristmas was just as magical as all the others before and after it. I doremember all of us, though. Keith,James, you, and me. We were lying in that one area of the room, each onedesperately trying to fall asleep while making it harder for the other three.Keith was making noises. You were nudging. I was kicking. James was laughing.

We were all failing miserably.

Eventually we did fall asleep. Andmorning did indeed come. You were the first to wake, as always. You woke meup. You woke us all up. Giddier than the night before, youreyes wider-than-wide open, you were whispering, desperately trying to containyourself from jumping up to see where the tree was and what Santa had leftunder it for you. We laid there on our bellies for what seemed like hours,staring at each other, quietly scheming howto wake up mom and dad so Christmas could officially begin.

This is how I prefer to rememberthis particular Christmas day. Not standing by the tree. Not unwrapping gifts.Not being anywhere other than right there, on that floor. All four of us,staring at each other, the excitement and hope and happiness and love andinfinite possibilities of what the day ahead held for us — all of it capturedin your big, blue, wider-than-wide eyes.

I miss you so much, Sean.

Merry Christmas.

Metalkabout how you stopped a terrorist plot today

2011-12-18T13:23:00.002-05:00

You’rethe girl who just spotted the empty chair at Starbucks. You were already sitting on a woodenstool, perfectly fine for getting down to the task at hand today: finishing yourway overdue book report for the GED class you’ve been taking all year.

Butthen that comfy, plush chair opened up — and you just had to have it. Especially because there was a cute guyin the comfy, plush chair directly across from the one you had your eye on.

Yougrabbed your laptop and papers and bag and, with little thought, placed your giganticventi latte on top. You quicklyturned towards the comfy chair, fearing that at any second someone would take thespot, and — SWOOSH! — your gigantic latte flew from it’s shaky restingplace onto an unsuspecting man sitting in the wooden stool next to you. He was typing away on his laptop.

“Oh! My! God!” you said, your mortified tone catching the ear of everyone aroundyou. “I am so, so, so sorry,” youcontinued.

Theman, a foreign gentleman who spoke very little English but knew enough to say,“What the fuck, lady!?!”, jumped up to reveal a laptop now soaked in brown,milky latte.

Youreached into your purse, grabbed a handful of singles, a five, and maybe even aten, and shoved it into his hand. “Like I said, sir, I’mreally sorry about that. Thisshould cover the damage. And if there isn’t, just use the money to pay for your drycleaning or just to buy yourself something nice at Macy’s. Gotta go now,though. That chair over there hasmy name all over it and I’ve gotta get to it before someone else does.” (For the record, you forked over a total of nineteen dollars.)

Youran away. With no coffee to contend with on your stack of papers on laptop, youwere able to move with gazelle-like speed and agility, leaving behind the manwho had an incredibly dumbfounded look on his face. And a worthless laptop.

Asyou sat into your new chair, fixing your laptop and papers and tucking infor the afternoon’s work ahead, you looked over at the man, mouthing, “I’mreally, really, really sorry.”

Andthat was that. It was the last time you ever thought about him again.

Theman, however, a member of a little-known terrorist cell in the Midwest, had tocall his leader to tell him that all the plans for the group’s Christmas Day attackwere ruined. Ruined! Ruined! Ruined! By some stupid, blonde American woman who spilled a gigantic coffeeon his laptop.

Sohere’s to you, you forty-five-year-old, uneducated, mom-of-six who thinks the cute guy sitting across from her will even give her the time of day. And here’s to your obnoxiously-large coffee: the venti latte.

Youtwo make quite the terrorist-fighting team.

Hooray!

And thanks.

Metalkabout the 212

2011-12-14T16:05:00.001-05:00

The House passed the WaxmanMarkey climate-change bill today.

All but 212 representatives voted to push the bill through. It's a disappointing number, sure, but reality is rarely pretty in the House. And today 212 close-minded buffoons reminded us of just that. Because, instead of joining the others who were doing their part to do something to protect the planet, they stood fixed.

You were one of them.

You were, in fact, the first one to pound your fist on the table, yelling, "No! Climate change is nothing but a hoax that has been perpetrated by the scientific community!" Your level of conviction was, to some of your brothers' in arms, impressive. To the the rest of the house — and the world, for that matter — it was, in a word, pathetic.

Basically, you're a real dope. Because in saying no, you were saying yes to allowing greenhouse gases to continue destroying the planet.

In saying NO, you said yes to melting arctic regions, decimation of entire species, including the polar bear, and, thanks to rising sea levels, your posh apartment on West End Avenue. Sure, because when the Hudson rises from the swollen Atlantic tide, where do you think the water's going? You got it, Mr. 'NO' man. Through your lobby, past the doorman, and straight up to your apartment. Good luck saying NO to that, bozo.

In saying NO, New Hampshire's climate will become more like North Carolina's. And North Carolina's will be more like hell. Hot. Sticky. Brimstone-like.

Thanks to you and your 211 earth-hating buddies, the world's in grave danger.

Thanks, planet-killer.

Metalkabout Back Friday on Thursday

2011-11-26T20:05:00.001-05:00

Thanksgiving.

It's a day of reflection, for all to be thankful for the family and friends and good fortune they've enjoyed throughout the year.

For everyone, that is, but you.

You're a loner, as in "Ted Kazingski living deep in the woods of Montana" loner. You have no one in your life to be thankful for — not even a mom. She left you when you were three. You're fifty-two now. Sad. Truly sad. Worst part about your tragic life is that you've never celebrated Thanksgiving, so you have no idea what all the hype is about.

That's all changing this year.

Because this year, when you heard that Best Buy and The Gap were going to be opened all Thanksgiving day, you were so elated, so struck with giddiness that you'd finally be able to cash in on the big sales and furnish your cabin deep in the woods with a 43-inch flat screen while also buying one of those hoodies with the G-A-P across the chest for 50% off, that you decided you'd celebrate the whole day, with all the trimmings.

So you bought a book — Thanksgiving for dummies — that told you all you need to know about the holiday.

It's a day that starts with the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade — a must-see for nearly fifty million people — then a ridiculously-hosted dog show, a football game, and then ... bring on the tryptophan.

Ah ... gnawing on Tom Turkey and mash potatoes and gravy and sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce (the kind from the can, not the real stuff), and string beans and pie — lots of pie – like pumpkin pie and apple pie and sweet potato pie and chocolate pudding pie. You've never known such heaven. You've never felt so satiated.

You've ... never ... been ... so ... slee...py.

You woke up just thirty minutes ago, having passed out on Thursday night, right before leaving for your Best Buy shop-a-thon, somewhere between your third helping of turkey and a slice of pumpkin pie.

You missed the flat screen. You missed the hoody. You missed every sale out there.

Your one friend in the world did OK, though. She texted you over twenty times while you were passed out.

Apparently she was at Wal-Mart where she got a bunch of good stuff, including an X-Box system, fending off a bunch of kids with pepper spray.

Whoa.

Happy Thanksgiving, you loner fatso.

Metalkabout stop cursing and making fun of people

2011-11-12T19:53:00.001-05:00

No.

That's the short answer, "anonymous", you virgin-eared pansy.

I apologize if I've offended you and your three god-fearing friends who believe cursing is for the soulless and speaking ill will towards others is for the damned.

So I'm soulless and damned.

Or ... are you the soulless, damned one here, micro-brain? Or maybe you're just boring. Not sure which I'd rather be in that case.

But cursing? Really?

Sure, truck drivers have mastered it over the years, and it's certainly better coming from them than, say, the CEO of some elitist corporation that's helped tank the America you and I are both trying to live in these days. Do you really believe that horse shit, you stooge? Think about what you're saying. Cursing? Grow a little outside your comfort zone, numb nuts. If you believe cursing is reserved for the road warriors on this planet and no one else, you're a bigger moron than I first thought after reading your comment.

What's more, talking shit about people is fun. I'm simply making light of a situation someone's going through, without ever naming names, at least the real ones, and certainly not being mean to the point that they'd be sitting home crying. You, maybe. Them, doubtful.

So suck it, you prima-donna psycho.

Oh, and if you still need more of a reason for why I curse so much and trash talk people and their personal situations, try this on for size: Life's too short not to curse. What's more, life's also a big oaf of a bully that's cruel and absolutely mean to the people trying to live it every day (that'd be me and you, dip shit), so why not kick it in the nuts every now and again with a mindless rant?

And that is what these are, by the way, you dope — rants. Mindless, too. I write because I like writing. I have several blogs. Each on lets me explore a different side and tone. What side do you think this is, inspector dumb-ass? Whether it's good, bad, or a total waste of my time, I couldn't give a shit what you think. I don't write for you — or anyone, for that matter. I write for me. And for the fun of writing. What can I say, I like gerunds.

One person's opinion I did care about, though, was my kid brother's, and he's no longer here. A bunch of murderers posing as doctors killed him last year while trying to determine if he had H1N1.

If you've followed my posts this past year, then you'd know all about him. His name was Sean. He was loving as they come. A big-heart ox of a man. And he was my hero. Everyone's, I'm sure. And he shined. Like blinding shine. There wasn't a person on this earth that didn't love him within minutes of meeting him. He was that awesome.

He and I were the middle children in our family. So, I guess, in a way we'd attached ourselves at the hip and walked through life together.

He moved. I moved. Life wedged some distance in between us. Phone calls sufficed. We trekked on. I got married. He got married. We each saw success in business — and life. Both of us became fathers, although he never did get to meet my twins. They arrived three months too late.

As fast as Sean got here thirty-eight years ago, he was gone. Poof!

I remember standing at the airport, just hours after being on the phone with my older brother when Sean died. I'd had the pleasure — not at all — of being on the phone the entire time as a team of doctors tried to save his life. The did everything they could, except the one thing we needed them to do most: save him.

I flew out to my family within hours of my Sean's death. Being on the plane was surreal. At one point, I thought I'd helped a terrorist type in the PIN code to the phone he was going to use to blow us all up. He asked me to read the numbers. I did. Then I worried. I also wrote a poem about Sean or two Sean or ... I never write poems. But I was mostly numb.

Numb, numb, numb.

Numb when I landed. Numb when I first saw my surviving brothers, my mom and dad, my sister-in-law and nephew, Sean's son Patrick.

Numb when we all sat around talking and wondering and planning ... my little brother's funeral.

And numb when I begged my brother to take me to the hospital to see Sean. Dead Sean, not alive Sean. Dead. They had him stored there. In something like a 'fridge. Like I cared. I wanted to see my brother one last time, 'fridge or autopsy table. I didn't care. So I forced my older brother Keith to take me.

Walking through the hospital's dark, dank corridor towards the "cold room" they were keeping Sean is something I will never forget. The entire experience was fucking surreal. I kept thinking the smell was awful, the ceiling was low, the floor was dirty, the lighting was scary. This looked more like the hallway found in a parking garage, not a hospital morgue where loved one were kept. Where my loved one was being kept.

We walk into a small room. It was cold. There was a curtain up. The hospital administrator tried to warn me what I was about to see. Remember, I was numb. I walked right through her to the other side. There was Sean.

What I saw is what I saw. It's not for you to read or me to share. It's the end. And it's very real.

I walked away numb. And I've been numb ever since.

So I write to break through some of the numbness. I make jokes to bust open a window of laughter, even if just for me — so I can have a simple moment. And I curse ... I curse because, like I said earlier, life's too short not to. Why waste time looking for a replacement for the word 'fuck' when 'fuck' is the word you're looking for?

I curse and I tease because, well, I've recently been reminded how silly and temporary all of this is. We are here for but a second. Life is a blink of the eye.

So I try not to take life for granted. I try to be real. By saying what I want to say to who I want to say it to. Maybe that's wrong. Maybe it's not. And if I want to curse or call a fat guy a lard ass, I'm gonna. Not because I'm mean. I'm far from mean. But because I want to, and I'm here ... in my blog, my world. Not that fat guy's. Not yours. Mine.

And I'll say to you exactly what I'd say to him: If you don't like what I write, don't fucking read it. This is all mindless shit anyway, remember?

Why don't you get a life, before you realize there's not much time to live it, and go tell someone to GO FUCK THEMSELVES.

Try it. You might like living a little, you little twit.

Metalkabout the power of threes.

2011-11-11T12:26:00.001-05:00

Duck, duck, goose = 3. The father, son, and holy ghost = 3. Red light, yellow light, greenlight = 3.

The trilogy is animportant part of America’s makeup. Possibly the world. And for you, it’s even more important. You’re a triplet. So you’ve seen the true power of 1, 2, 3. Your two sisters make up the bedrock on which you’veconstructed your entire life. Faith in three couldn’t be stronger for anyone else than you.

And … you’d never forget their names.

So, the other night, while you and your twin sisters sat inyour living room watching your Uncle Rick fall flat on his dumb face by failingto remember the third agency of government he was going to get rid of when hereached office, all things in your world that once made sense suddenly did not.

You fell off the floor when he stumbled after saying,“Government, education, and … and … and …” his third finger not-yet raised tocount that third agency he’d eradicate from the system.

Your other sisters simultaneously gasped when, after watchingtheir Uncle Rick being laughed at not only by his opponents but also the entireaudience, one of his opponents threw out “EPA” and Uncle Rick grabbed onto itlike a drowning man to a life preserver, saying, “Yeah, the EPA.” Only toretract the statement when he realized it was a joke.

More laughs.

You all stood in jaw-dropped embarrassment when, as UncleRick’s world came crumbling down in front of the entire nation, he offered up “Oops”as a way to deflect or defend his stupidity.

Oops! Really, Uncle Rick? Oops?

Now is that anyway for a man of your Uncle Rick’s power toact?

Wonder if he’s ever used “Oops” to defend, oh say, one of his many executions was carried out. "Oops, sorry we killed that man, knowing full well the DNA proved his innocence."

Maybe it's time to stick a fork in Uncle Rick threetimes.

Think he’s done.

Metalkabout avoiding the stampedes, not the crowds.

2011-11-10T22:29:00.001-05:00

You’re a security guard at a Wal-Mart in West Virginia. Yourmom works there as a greeter. Sodoes your aunt and two cousins. Your grandfather, too. He works in the toolssection, selling riding motors and electric drills to guys who really don’tneed them and definitely can’t afford them. Going to work is a family affair for y’all. It’s somethingthat’s been done since Sam Walton, the founder of Wal-Mart, opened his firststore. Yup, your family’s been theresince day one.

And, since day one, there’s no better day than Thanksgiving.

You all pile into your pick-up truck — after having anearly turkey dinner and homemade glug and playing banjo on the front porch — andhead to work for the midnight shift. You like to wear a Santa hat with your security guarduniform on this night. It makes you feel festive, and you are. Managementdoesn’t mind, either, even though it’s a slight infraction of the dress code. But who cares? It’s the holidays.

This year will be different than the last, though, what withthe stampede of that poor shopper last year. A lot more than his dream of abrilliant, present-filled Christmas was crushed that night. He was. And now the world's watching to see it again. The sick, sadistic, twisted freaks who live to see tragedy like that befall good citizens of the world are watching, hoping it happens again. But there's a plan to ensure it never does. The bigwigs up at Corporate just announced all Wal-Marts will beopening at 10PM on Thanksgiving night. Two hours early.

Two hours, they're thinking, will be enough time to let shoppers warm to the sales and act more human, than consumer. Two hours earlier, they're thinking, will attract fewer people will who feel inclined to bum-rush the doors, sprinting to get their handson the limited quantity flat-screen TVs for $14 or the half-price iPhones orthe buy-one-get-five-free tube socks. Management is hoping that people will be more civilized with those extra two hours. They won’t feelpressure to mow each other down trying to get the deals.

Problem is, they've increased the shopping time, not the sale items. There will still only be sixteen flat-screen TVs, forty-three iPhones, and seventy grosses of tube socks on super sale. No more. No less.

So what's gonna happen is this: You're going to be bum-rushed two hours earlier than all previous years. The stampede will mow you down, then take out your mom and cousins greeting people at the door. You're all going to be the next Black Friday victims. Your grandfather, however, will be just fine. There aren't any sales scheduled for lawn mowers this year. So he'll be in his section, in the back of the store, drinking eggnog, never once knowing you're all getting boots to the face up front.

He'll give a mighty interesting eulogy for you that following Tuesday.

Mighty fine in deed.

Metalkabout Snow-tober

2011-10-30T10:42:00.001-04:00

You're a farmer. And October is when guys like you make real money. Because it's when all those cityslicker buttheads come out to your farm and pick apples from your orchards and pumpkins from your patch. You charge them boatloads of money, more money than if they'd gone to the store and bought the produce themselves. But they don't mind.

"It's a nice Sunday drive out to the country, honey," is what you hear most of them saying to each other. Wearing their flannel shirts and waterproof boots, jumping in and out of their Land Rovers, with their two kids and a dog in tow, they really do look like dopes. So what's a little extra on the produce, you know? They won't miss it. If anything, they owe you this money for providing entertainment. You're a roadside attraction to them. You are Sunday afternoon's 'something to do' for these wankers. So your 'little extra' off the top is a tariff of sorts. A nominal fee for being filthy rich and getting fat off the back-breaking work of Americans like you. Yup, sounds about right.

Problem is, you haven't seen many of them today.

Not a one.

Because today, Mother Nature shit all over your overpriced parade. It's October 29th — the Saturday before Halloween, which is one of your biggest money-making days all year — and you've already measured nineteen inches of snow outside your house.

Snow! In October!?!

The Farmer's Almanac certainly didn't predict this shit storm befalling you and your family. Nor did old geezer Smith down at the town deli warn you about this bitch of a blizzard coming your way. And that old, toothless bastard knows everything before it happens.

So you're stuck. Fields full of apples and pumpkins. And pockets emptier than old geezer Smith's toothless mouth.

And cityslickers don't give a rat's ass about Halloween when it snows. You know it. And they know it. They're back in their Upper West Side high-rises looking out the window without a care in the world. Or they're sitting in some Starbucks drinking eight-dollar coffees and reading about the plight of the American farmer in the New York Times. They're not worried about you or your family or how you're going to put food on the table this month because you didn't sell any pumpkins today. Nope. They're not worried one bit about that. Or about you.

You see, while October is a month for tree peepers and Halloween parties and cider donuts for 1% of of the U.S., it's just another stretch of thirty-one days for guys like you, Mr. American Farmer, representative of 99% of this fine nation of ours. And today, right now, you're having a pretty sucky day, thanks to old Mother Nature and her hissy fit of hail, sleet, ice, and snow.

But look on the bright side. All the pumpkins you don't sell today will make great targets when you and your cousin Cletus start drinking the moonshine and firing off your shotguns behind the barn.

It's Snow-tober, old boy!

Happy Halloween, you hick.

Metalkabout balloon friend.

2011-10-16T12:17:00.002-04:00

It's your birthday today. And there's a clown in the corner making balloon animals. Your mom flew him in all the way from Minneapolis, said he's the best in the business. Maybe so. But right now he's wasting time with snakes and swords. Anyone can make those, you keep thinking. It's getting you pretty steamed, which isn't right to do on your birthday.

"Hey, balloon clown!" you shout from across your living room. "Why don't you try making something harder?"

"Like what?" he asks.

"I don't know. Oh ... how 'bout a balloon phoenix that's rising from the ashes."

The balloon clown reached into his bag, pulled out a few colorful balloons, and went to work. His hands seemed to move faster than before, and his intensity grew to a focused, slightly maniacal stare. His brow furled, his lips pursed, he conjure up something deep within. And then ...

"Here you go, birthday boy. What else you got?"

You were amazed, blown away, transfixed by the beauty and majesty and detail of the phoenix rising from the ashes. Red and yellow balloons made up the phoenix itself, while black and gray balloons were used to created the ashes. It seemed so lifelike, so un-balloon. And all you could do was hold it ... and think about other things for the balloon clown to make.

For the next three hours, you quizzed the clown, telling him to make giant sea monsters, dragons, Yetis, even Lonny Anderson. And he delivered every time.

You conceded with one last request. It was something you'd hoped for all your life. You dreamed about it, longed for it.

"Make me a giraffe," you said.

And just like that, a seven-foot giraffe was born.

In the morning, when the party is long over, you'll find the giraffe half-deflated, its neck bent over as the rest of its body slumps backwards the ceiling in your living room. It will be bobbing desperately low to the ground, too. And by the evening, it will completely deflated of all life. It will be dead.

This will crush you – and haunt you for the rest of your life.

But that's tomorrow. Today, it's about eating cake. Which is just about to be served. Go blow out those candles, birthday boy. Just make sure you don't put your giraffe too close to the flames.

Metalkabout you're still occupying Wall St.

2011-10-15T11:27:00.005-04:00

You've been down at Zuccotti Park since the protests began, which is a month ago today.

You've been living in a six-person tent. It's the same tent your parents bought at Two Guys Department Store, back in 1973, when they were happy hippies themselves looking for a cause to stand up for. In fact, it's the very same tent you were conceived in. Yup, your dad and mom did the nasty in there — and out you came.

Some of your faux hippie friends find this news to be gross. Others think it's kind of cool. You find it comforting, as if the tent were more womb than rain-resistant shelter. You also see it as a sign. A sign that proves you were put on this godforsaken planet to protest the 1%. And it's here where you will make your stand and continue to occupy Wall St.

You're certain you're succeeding, too. How exactly, well, you're not entirely sure. But you're certain of it. You did get some coverage in Gothamist. They featured you taking a piss in the woods. The caption read: Member Of Occupy Wall Street Shows His Member. Or maybe it's the tweets you've been sending to all your friends back in Greenwich, Ct. They think you're a hero or a rock star or the next reality show in the making. Or maybe your success was born the minute you started sweeping the park on Thursday night.

Yes, you — the son of two ex-hippies who once banged in the same tent you're in right now and then went on to have highly successful careers on Wall Street, raking in major wads of cash and spoiling you rotten throughout your childhood — picked up a broom and swept. You swept to let Bloomberg know you didn't need the city's stinking sanitation crew to come in and clean up after you and your dirty pals. You swept so that all others in the world would one day know the pleasure of having a job like sweeping. You swept for freedom. You swept against oppression. You swept and you swept ... and you swept.

And in sweeping, in toiling away for hours, in getting dirty and blistering the softy and tender and virgin-to-any-type-of-work-ever palms of your hands, you realized something monumentally important: You hate sweeping. It's menial, demoralizing, and sweaty as all hell.

You're secretly breaking down your tent tonight and getting the hell out of Zuccotti Park, heading back to the velvety comforts of your filthy-rich parent's place, where the 'fridge is full, the shower is warm, the bed is turned down, and the sweeping is done by a maid who is more of a representative of the 99% than you'll ever be.

Good try, poser.

Metalkabout you're standing up for, er, your rights, damn it!

2011-10-02T11:57:00.004-04:00

As you marched onto the Brooklyn Bridge yesterday, you were joined by several hundred people, all chanting and shouting how you were collectively mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.

You swore this would never happen again. You raised your fists in unity, demanding your rights as citizens of the free world. This moment, this taking over of one of America's greatest symbols — the Brooklyn Bridge — would go down in history as the moment that changed everything for you, for everyone. It would be the defining moment. The moment where freedom for every boy, girl, and liberal zealot out there would be restored, forevermore protected for people just like you to never be relegated to sitting down and taking it again. When injustice was happening, wherever it was happening, action would be taken — and the unjust made just again. All because of the stand you were taking right then and there on that bridge.

As you screamed through your red bandana, saying things like, "Fuck yeah! and Hell no we won't stand for this anymore! and United we stand; divided we fall!" a reporter from the NY Times made his way through the throngs of other peace protestors and shoved his microphone within inches of your face. "Please," he said, "tell us what this means to you today? Why are you here?"

You stopped yelling and started talking, saying, "This is the most righteous thing I can be doing with my life right now. Teaching second-graders how to spell and make drums with discarded Quaker Oats cereal containers is one thing. This ... now this is some heavy shit. This stands for something. This is what I will be remembered for!"

"And what is that?" he asked.

"Huh?" you responded.

"What exactly will you be remembered for?" the reporter pressed.

"This!" you said, throwing you arms out and seemingly embracing all those around you. "I mean, just look at the solidarity out here today, man. Look at the love. It's so heavily righteous, you dig?" you said, using a bit of hippie parlance you'd heard others in the massive group throwing around earlier in the day.

"Well, as a journalist, it's not my job to dig or not to dig. It's my job to get the story. And right now, people want to know what 'Occupy Wall Street' is all about. What are you protesting?"

"You know," you said, "I'm not really sure why we're out here. I know it has something to do with all the shit that's done down in the world over the past four years and maybe it's about how Wall Street continues to rise while the rest of the world falls and ... maybe, just maybe, it's because we're all just looking for something exciting to happen in our lives, but, for me, it's because my boyfriend asked me to hang with him and his friends today and I had nothing better to do."

As the reporter dropped his microphone, a look of complete and utter defeat on his face, you hurried your step, trying to keep up with the crowd, and were suddenly corralled by the police using a bright orange fence-like net where they arrested you.

Your mugshot has been plastered everywhere since you were arrested. You were one of over seven hundred who got pinched yesterday.

Sadly, you're also not the only one who's not entirely sure why you were out there in the first place.

Viva la, er ... whatever.

Metalkabout recess

2011-09-24T21:05:00.002-04:00

You were a giant yesterday. Towering. Massive. Andsuper-duper huge. You even think you stood taller than the six-foot-eightcrossing guard you pass each morning on your way to P.S. 1003, the mostinappropriate place to put a child of your superior intellect. Dumb-asses hanghere, not geniuses like you. But there you were. Studious. Academic. Attentiveto the social experiment in failure and mediocrity that played all around youin the form of underachieving kids. And you were fly as shit!

It was recess. Boys climbed the monkey bars. Girls whisperedsecrets while trying to spread cooties. Gym teachers dreamed foul and sinfulthings with underage children. Nerds daydreamed about cyber sex slaves and masturbatory moments whilerolling in their start-up money. And you sat by the bicycle rack reading yourbook, the Anthology of Great American Literature.

You were at the part when Pollock begins pelting prose ofrhythmic proportions. These fuckers were like tsunamis of wisdom that couldwash over the brain and drown the dumb out of anyone. But then you looked up and realized some of the dumb aroundyou was too thick, too dirty, and too far gone. “Nothing can save the brain rot around here,” you mumbled.

“Nothing.”

You continued reading, all the while knowing few around youwould ever score anything above a 600 on their SATs. But you, the smartestnine-year-old boy you've ever known, would easily score a perfect 2,400. Perfect. The kind of score that wouldmake a man feel tall. That was you. That would be you.

Metalkabout the endless toil

2011-09-16T14:13:00.001-04:00

Monday, you worked until 2am. Tuesday, you got home at 4am. Wednesday and Thursday, 2am again. You swear tonight you're going to get home earlier. Like 5pm early. So you can see your kids. So you can kiss your wife. So you can have some kind of life outside of the work-life you live now.

You go into the office to check on a few things. The project you busted your ass on all week is ready to go to the client. So you're good there. Or so you think.

You get to your desk at 9:30. The red light on you phone is flashing, indicating you have a voice message. Who'd be calling you so early? No one comes in before 11? It's probably a tell-a-marketer or the timesheet police telling you you're two days behind, you tell tell yourself.

You key in your password and wait for the voice to come on. It's the Creative Director from LA, the one you've been working with all week, the one that kept giving you conflicting direction and made your days turn into nights and your nights longer than you'd ever like them. He says, "Hey, dudes, just wanted to let you know that we had to combine your ideas with another campaign before the presentation."

"Combine?" you say. Wtf!

He goes on to say how he loved the work, but ... his boss (also your boss) wanted to do it. So he did it. And that's that. Nothing else is said. He ends the call by saying, "Listen, dudes, I'll check back with you later, in case there's something else I need you to do. Expect a call from me around 5pm my time, which is 8pm your time.

And just like that, your night is fucked.

Here's to your work-life, sucker!

Metalkabout post-Irene

2011-08-28T10:50:00.001-04:00

She came. And she went. And not only did you greet her with a big "Hello, how you doing, Irene?" this morning, you waved her ass goodbye as she silently strolled on through the abandoned streets of Hoboken.

Irene wound up doing a whole lot of nothing. Oh yeah. The most noise she made, was what was being said by all the newscasters who talked her up and down and made her the giant she was ... not.

So here's to sticking to your guns and telling all those people who warned you to flee to go fuck themselves. You were staying — and you stayed ... and you won. You did it! You showed them — and her: Irene.

And now, because you're one of maybe six stupid people who actually stayed the course and hung back in Hoboken, you get to walk the streets and give interviews to all the roving reporters looking to make as much as they can of what's left of the "storm of the century". Your pat answer will be this: "Irene, yeah, she was a fucking punk-ass bitch that didn't do shit to me or my house or my car or my cat!"

Of course they'll have to bleep out most of what you say, but you'll get your point across anyway. After all, you're there — you stayed — and all those fags who ran, well, now they can see you from their cousin's house in Pennsylvania or Vermont or Virginia or the shelter somewhere inland or ... wherever they went.

What scaredycatspussyjackassjerks, huh?

Metalkabout Irene

2011-08-27T20:50:00.001-04:00

Her arrival's been expected for the past few days. And even though you've been asked to evacuate the city of Hoboken by the mayor himself, you've decided you're not budging. That's right, you're staying put — not moving a single fucking muscle for anyone, not even the head honcho.

In nine hours, when Irene has fully arrived and is bearing down on Washington Ave, you'll be one of six people who decided to say "fuck you" to any warnings. You will all be dead by morning.

Buy hey ... at least you stood your ground.

Metalkabout you the old guy on the hog

2011-08-21T10:56:00.000-04:00

For years now, you've been riding your hog with a group of guys who like to get out on the weekends and motor up the Pacific Coast Highway. You ride in pairs of two, taking up as much road as you can and not giving a flying shit who you piss off. Even the cops started turning a blind eye to when you and your crew ride by.

Today's Sunday and there's a ride heading up to Malibu. You love Malibu, there's some spiritual connection between you and the place, so chances of you missing this ride are slim to none.

You got up early, dressed in your favorite Harley gear, and called your lady, Louise, to let her know you'd swing by her trailer in thirty minutes to pick her up. "So you best have your sweet ass ready, darlin'."

"Never mind me and my sweet ass, babe. We'll be ready," she said.

You walked out to the barn to get your hog warmed up and your gear packed, but when you tried to turn 'er over, she wouldn't kick. You tried several times more. Still nothing. You even kicked her in the rear for good measure, just in case it would rile something up in the beast — nothing. "What the fuck is happening!?!" you shouted. You sat down and put your head in your hands, "Dang it, Chester," you said. "How am I supposed to depend on you?" And that's when Daisy, your other hog, nudged you and pushed herself onto your lap.

Daisy was never your first choice in hogs. She'd never won any of the major county fairs, and she was slow, which meant motoring up the road on her was terribly laborious and painful. But desperate times call for desperate measures. "OK, Daisy. Looks like it's gonna be you and me today, girl. Saddle up!"

And with that, you and Daisy hit the road with the other riders, Louise sitting on back enjoying the ride.

A man on his hog ...

Now if that doesn't say America, what does?

Bet you thought this was going to be about a motorcycle, didn't you?

Oink, oink.

Metalkabout once upon a time ...

2011-08-20T21:28:00.000-04:00

You start every sentence with this: "Once upon a time ...." Like the other day, when you and your girlfriend were fighting and she asked if you've ever really loved her, you said, "Once upon a time, honey, I loved you more than words can say."

She burst into tears, running out of the apartment screaming, "It's been a lie. My relationship for the past seven years has been a fucking lie! I bet the Tiffany 'promise ring' you bought me is a fake, just like our relationship, you scoundrel!"

You ran after her (because that's what good boyfriends do), and you said, "Babe, what's up? Why's there so much drama right now? And what's with using dated language like 'scoundrel'?" She composed herself, a big snot bubble growing from deep within her nose, and in between what sounded like gasps for air and trying to explain that the word 'scoundrel' was commonly used in places like upstate New York and down south in Virginia, she tried to answer your question.

"Ever since we met, Dwight, I've tried to overlook this impediment of yours. But now that it's making me question where I stand in your life, I'm not sure I can live with it much longer." "Impediment?

What impediment?" you ask, knowing full well what she's talking about.

"That thing you do, Dwight, where you start all your statements with that 'once upon a time' bullshit," she said.

"Oh yeah, that," you said. You scratched your head, hoping it would look like you were deep in thought, the kind that causes you pain and anguish, the kind that she should recognize and have some compassion for you because of. She did not.

What she did have was another one of her fits. But this time, instead of crying, she started punching you in the back of the head, saying, "Once upon a time, I didn't beat you senseless, you fucking stooge! Now why don't you try telling me how much longer I'm supposed to wait around for you to make up your fucking mind if you love me or not, Dwight? And don't say 'once upon a time' you ... you ... scoundrel!"

You thought on her words for a long time, then you said: "In a galaxy ... far, far away ..."

Metalkabout Michelle Bachman

2011-08-14T10:59:00.002-04:00

You're her speech writer. And this week, the congresswoman is appearing on Meet The Press. So she needs to go out there guns-a-blazin'. She needs to bang the Obama-hater drum louder than any other presidential candidate. You're plan: have her talk about growing the economy.

She'll mention Elecytrolux closing its doors. Sad. She talk about the single employee in the federal department of transportation who makes over 176K a year. And then, now with the recession in full swing, the over sixty employees who make that kind of bread. "The government is growing; the people are not," she'll say. Great point.

You'll have her talk about her career as an attorney, her education as a post-doctorate degree, and God. She'll talk about God a lot. She'll debate the difference between the words "respect" and "submission" and how the two are the cornerstones of her marriage. And she'll talk about the sixteen children she's raised. All foster children. And all fortunate to have had her there. Thanks to God, of course.

You also think it'll be a good idea for her to tell the American public that God is the voice she hears in doing so many things in life — including running for president. God, in fact, will be her co-pilot in the White House. What better partner, huh?

And then she'll talk about her view on gay marriage. And that's when her world will crumble around her. The more she talks, the more she'll dig a hole that, by the end of the interview, will be deep enough to bury her and her narcissism.

But the world will miss this interview.

Why?

Because we'll all too busy looking at the corn dog.

Metalkabout one year later

2011-08-07T16:42:00.001-04:00

365 days ago today you guys were born. It was one of the greatest, most joyful days of my life. And for every day since you arrived, it's been a roller coaster ride of emotions, the leading of which is utter amazement. You both have blown my mind in so many ways.

And for that, I thank you.

Now if we could only do something about those "poopy diapers" of yours?

Happy birthday, MGD and LSD.

I love you both.

Metalkabout balloon therapy

2011-07-31T11:19:00.003-04:00

You’ve dedicated your life to the art of balloon making.

You were bitten by the bug at an early age — nine, youthink, at Jimmy Peterson’s birthday party. Now you’re forty-six, and every dayis a birthday party for you. That’s thirty-seven years spent making swords,giraffes, and ridiculous hats for snot-nosed little brats who repay you bygenerally smacking you in the face with the very same balloon you’ve giventhem. You’ve been bitten by your own snake creations. Attacked by the bears you’vemade. And viciously decapitated bythe swords you turn out by the dozens every hour. Kids can be so innocentlycruel, the little demons.

At most birthday parties, you’re a headliner these days,which means you usually go on after the clown has scared the living shit out ofthe birthday boy or girl and all his or her friends. So not only do you get the job of entertaining them, youalso have to console them, while they cry and squirm and scream hateful thingsto you, like something fueled by tourettes. You generally combat their unease by saying, “Hey, kids. Mr.Clown is not a monster — he’s your friend.” Parents and children alike are usually calmed by this. The partycontinues.

You then begin to make your balloons, starting with the easyones first — the swords, the flowers, and the snakes.

By then, the kids are usually putty in your hands, mesmerizedby the magical transformations they’re witnessing. The parents, too, become a little more at ease, usuallyleaving their little mob of whiners in your care as they inch away to the otherside of the room or backyard to get a moment’s peace.

And that’s when you strike.

Whispering, you say, “Hey, kids, remember Mr. Clown?”

They happily nod yes.

“Well if you thought he was scary earlier today … Just waituntil tonight, when he crawls out from under your bed and sucks out yourbrains.”

Stunned, their little toothless mouths agape, you quicklyfashion a balloon into a little boy or girl — depends on whose party it is—and twist it into a painfully tight-looking knot, squealing under your breaththe whole time before stomping on it and popping it. All before the parents see what you’re doing.

By the time a parent turns around to see the balloon carnageyou’re carrying out, it’s too late. You’ve scarred every child watching you insuch a way that it will take years of psychotherapy to help them get back totheir happy place of innocence and glee.

Lucky for them your day job is that of child psychologist.

Happy birthday, kiddies.

metalkabout "hey, you wanna meet at Starbucks to kick around some ideas?"

2011-07-17T12:31:00.002-04:00

You're the guy with an ulterior motive for everything.

Take today, for example.

You set up a "work session" with a colleague of yours at the architecture firm where you both work. She's new to the company and doesn't really know her way around the new CAD system you guys use. So you offered to help her learn the ropes. When she said yes, you knew she was as hot for you as you are for her. After all, who gives up their Sunday to actually do work. She was playing along with your plan so no one else in the office would catch on that you were both into each other.

Smooth move, fella.

So there you are, sitting in Starbucks talking about 3-D modeling and showing her your pop-up schematic that, as you remind anyone who ever sees it, was your idea and has earned the company millions in revenue because, for the first time, the sales guys in the field can demonstrate for customers how a remodeling job will go down from start to finish. And the customers can vividly see it, and buy into it ... and they love it.

You can tell she's impressed with you by the way she's been itching her neck. It's a sign that you make her nervous. Or at least that's the bullshit your mind has you believing.

What you don't know is she's allergic to cosmetics like the Old Spice you dowsed all over your fat, ugly face this morning when preparing for your date, er, your work session. So she's actually having a mild reaction to you right now.

Still, you continue to drone on about all the bullshit that happens in the field and how, with your 3-D model, she will be a huge success in the firm.

She owes you, you think, and it's time to make your form of payment known.

You purposely draw her hand in to one of the model's interiors walls, caressing her finger with yours as she does. She sheepishly recoils, touching her neck to keep the blissful shutters caused by your manly touch at bay. Or so you think.

In your mind, you are about to score big time with this little filly.

In her mind ... she can't fucking believe the fat, ugly, smelly loser at her new job is trying to make the moves on her right now.

And on a sunny Sunday morning no less.

Funny how that happens, isn't it, fatso?

Metalkabout the recession: round two

2011-07-11T21:39:00.004-04:00

President Obama gave one of his afternoon speeches today to let the country know we're heading for a world of hurt if we don't start talking serious solutions.

You voted for the guy, tend to listen to everything he's saying when he's saying it. Not today. Oh no. Today you were too busy watching the movers disassemble your TV stand and couch and single-slate pool table and bedroom set and dining room table so they can pack it all up and throw it in a large van that's headed to who-knows-where, USA, which is considered the suburbs, which you have no interest in going to because you've always lived in the city and this is where you belong.

But the the entertainer and chief, Mr. Obama, has said the American Dream is no longer about owning your own home, it's about renting. So you tried to sell and rent. But then you lost your job and missed a couple payments and, before you knew it, they came knockin' at your door.

Too bad.

Because today, despite just having been blown off by the Speaker of the House, John Boehner, and now faced with fixing the debacle of a fiscal crisis the country's in, Obama looked straight in the eye of every America and said, "You will not lose your homes, my fellow Americans, due to bankruptcy. No sir. Effective today, those families in need of more time to pay down your mortgage will get up to one year."

A full year of no mortgage payments? Wow! But that doesn't include you anymore. Oh no. Because they've already foreclosed on your house. And with no house, there's no need to give you a reprieve.

But don't you worry yourself about that silliness now. Just keep packin', Junior.

The new owners are anxious to move in.

2011-07-09T11:55:00.002-04:00

Metalkabout the end of an era

Yesterday, you watched as the Shuttle Atlantis ascended into the heavens above, a single tear falling from your cheek and drenching a beetle who happened to be admiring the launch, too.

The beetle had been standing directly under you. And while it is not a human and has no interest in the space race, it, too, had shed a tear. Ironically, the tear had fallen from its little beetle cheek and hit a worm slithering down into the earth.

The worm, who had also been watching, could no longer bear to see the majestic shuttle spacecraft take its final voyage, so it had turned its back on the whole thing and was headed to the center of the earth when the beetle's tear hit it in the head, just as it had turned to burrow its way down.

The tear rolled off its head and fell from the earth's sub layer to its inner core, where those little shrunken people form the movie Journey To The Center Of The Earth were hanging out.

The tear hit their little ship and spun it out of control. Luckily, the captain was able to right the ship and get it back on course. Or so he thought.

The ship, still soaking wet from the beetle's tear that had rolled off the worm's head, was now headed towards the opposite side of the world. When the little shrunken ship surfaced, it was captured by the Chinese government for spying.

After several hours of harsh interrogation tactics, including using a pen light to shine in the small eyes of the tiny, shrunken captain, he cracked and gave up the whole story of the shuttle program was being discontinued and how it was making Americans everywhere upset to the point of tears.

With this news, the giddy Chinese government got on the phone with North Korea, patched things up, and vowed to work together to be the next super powers in the space race, declaring it would be in the air by 2013. And soon after would begin to wage war on America until it had achieved total domination of the entire planet. This second phase of their plan would begin sometime after they won the space race we had failed to protect.

Seems like the end of an era will one day soon be considered a grave error on our part.

2011-07-03T10:12:00.000-04:00

Metalkabout your best friend, a.k.a. ...

Your friend Theresa is the artistic director for one of those hip, not-really-sure-what-the-point-the-art-on-the-wall-is-trying-to-make galleries downtown. She just called to say she's in your neighborhood and wants to pop over for a chat.

The last time the two of you had a "chat", you learned she was sleeping with your dad and, awkwardly enough, carrying his baby. She decided to give the baby up for adoption, which was the best thing for everyone involved. Especially you. Because someday you'll search out your stepsister who, as far as you know, is living somewhere in Brazil with her adoptive parents. You hope to be famous by then so Dateline NBC will want to follow you around as you search for the sister you've never known – a.k.a the family secret. It will be a rating bonanza.

Until that day comes, though, you have to deal with her mother, your once-upon-a-time best friend, Theresa, a.k.a daddy-fucker.

It's the first time Theresa's been to your new place since you moved in last June with Dwight. Dwight is an artistic director, too, and, awkwardly enough, Theresa's ex-boyfriend from way back when. He tells you, "It was only about the sex. No love was involved, babe."

Being highly insecure and ridiculously sensitive, you're not sure if you should find his words comforting or an outright assault on your relationship, the kind that demands that you cut his dick off and feed it to your dog while saying, "It was only about the sex."

But for now, you have to deal with Theresa, a.k.a boyfriend-fucker.

When Theresa arrives, she eyeballs your place, making a wincing sound and scrunching her nose, saying, "Oh, Becky ... I hope you're not paying a lot in rent. I mean, it's cute and all .... Oh, honey, just kidding. It's cute, really ... it's cute."

You wanted to tell Theresa to go fuck herself, but you're too concerned with what she wants to "chat" about.

"So what'd you want to talk about?" you ask.

"Oh, Becky, you're so cute." (Theresa uses the word cute to describe everything in her life, including things she hates.) "Becky, you're always all business. Do you have wine? White? Let's crack open a bottle of white wine and hang, like old times."

"We never hung out, Theresa," you say.

"We didn't?"

"No, we never did," your disdain for her becoming apparent in your voice.

"Well we should have." she says. "Let's hang out twice as long today to make up for all the times we didn't, OK?" she suggests.

"Cut the bullshit, Theresa!" you say. "What do you want to chat about?"

"Fine, Becky. I don't want to chat. I want to fuck."

"Who do you want to fuck this time, Theresa? My mom? My little brother? Who? Isn't it bad enough you banged my dad and my boyfriend?" you say.

"He was my boyfriend first," she says. "And your dad ... well, I'm sorry, Becky, but, honestly, have you seen your dad? He is smokin' hot. What's a girl to do when a hot dad puts the moves on her?"

"Puts the moves on you? Really? My dad was in a coma when you banged him, Theresa! It was only after you told me you were pregnant with his child that I found out how you'd been caught riding him that night. By my mother, Theresa! His wife! You got caught by my mom banging my dad in his hospital bed ... and he didn't even know it was happening. And the worst thing about it is, Theresa, my dad still has no idea what happened that night or why my mom left him after twenty-seven years of blissful marriage. He's in therapy for being a sexual deviant and he has no idea what type of deviance he's performed. That's all you and vagina's doing, Theresa!"

"A) Leave my vagina out of this, Becky. And B) that's all in the past now. And while your little brother is hot and a much younger version of your dad — and he (giggle) would be awake when we did it — I'm not interested in fucking him."

"Like I care about the answer, but ... who would you like to fuck now, Theresa?" you say.

"Uh, you," she says, her eyes now dangerously seductive as they undress you with every blink.

Now Theresa's always been hot. You, along with everyone who's ever seen her, have said it. And when hotness comes knocking on the door and wants to fuck, you don't turn it away.

Or do you?

Later today, when you're staring in the mirror, looking deep into your soul to find the answer to who you really, truly are, you'll find yourself saying this, "Theresa, my once-upon-a-time best friend, a.k.a, daddy-fucker, a.k.a boyfriend-fucker, a.k.a me-fucker."

Welcome to the club, Becky.

2011-07-02T11:08:00.000-04:00

Metalkabout 7 on your side

Your fat, greasy, fowl-smelling landlord keeps using your bathroom to take his morning dump. At first, you didn't mind because you didn't think it'd go on as long as it has.

Fast forward four months.

For four long months now, he's been knocking on your door at exactly 9:15. In he comes with the freebie news paper in hand — you know, the one you can find littered all over the street and really offers no journalistic integrity whatsoever — and the same two-inch cigar bit hanging off his fat, furry lip. He'll usually grunt some sort of inaudible salutation, which, given the time of day and the faint "m" sound you think you're hearing him make, you're pretty sure it's "morning." Then he walks straight to the back bathroom. Which is your bathroom. And there he stays ... for hours.

By the times he's done doing whatever it is he's been doing back there, the stench is so bad you can't go in for rest of the day. And since he's used your bathroom every morning for four months, well, you haven't been in that part of your apartment ever since.

You've been paying rent for a two-bed, two-bath apartment and yet you're only able to use one of the bathrooms because your landlord's stinky, fat ass is dropping nose bombs in there.

You reached your boiling point this morning, when your six-year-old son, Dennis, had to pee really badly, but his dad, Big Dennis, was in the other bathroom — meaning the one you're landlord wasn't using. Little Dennis, sitting on the newly-upholstered couch wiggling wildly around and holding his pee-pee, couldn't hold it any longer. So he did what any six-year-old would do in that situation. And just like that the smile of relief on his face grew, as did the stain on your couch.

And that's when you knew this problem of yours would never go away on its own. To get the shitter out of your shitter, you were going to need some muscle.

You were going to need to call Channel Seven to get 7 On Your Side.

But when you called the number they always flash on the screen during the news, this was the message the young intern gave you.

"Sorry, ma'am, I don't see Nina Pineda right now. I think she stepped out for a moment. May I take a message?"

Now we all know the phrase "stepped out for a moment" is a euphemism for "in the bathroom", and, with your luck, Nina probably was. And she was probably taking a shit.

And she'd probably be in there for days.

***

2011-06-28T21:24:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout your ass in the trash can

You're mentally unstable, have been for years now. Still, your doctor says you're not a threat to society, as long as you take your cocktail of psychotropic drugs every day. So he prescribed a steady supply of your medicine and put you in a assisted living facility on the upper west side of Manhattan.

Now he could've put you anywhere. Harlem, for one, is much better suited for crazy asses like you. But he's a firm believer in liberal socialization, the kind that not only puts you to the test, but also tests the people you're expected to socialize with.

So here you are, "mixin' it up" with some of the most liberal-minded ex-Beats ever to walk the earth. You're rubbing elbows with poets and writers and artists of all kinds. You even saw Kevin bacon the other day, said hello to him and his lovely wife, and they nodded back in your direction. You're doing OK up there.

OK, that is, until the pharmacist at the CVS where you've been told to go every Tuesday to get your medication tells you there's been a mix up.

"What kind of mix up?" you demand, while rubbing the back of your head, the spot you've been rubbing since you were a kid, the spot you rub every time you're about to lose your shit and have one of those crazy spells you're so well known for.

"Not sure," the pharmacist replies. "All's I know is that I can't give you your medication until this gets cleared up."

"HOW LONG'S THAT GONNA BE!?!" you cry out.

"Sir, lower your voice, please," the pharmacist pleads.

"How long, damn it!" you scream.

"A day or two, not really sure. Maybe three." he says, while pressing the little red button under the desk that's separating you from him.

You storm out, rubbing that spot on the back of your head harder and harder; faster and faster. "Oh man ..." you cry out. "Oh man!!!"

One of those upper west side liberals — a lady with long white hair, a tie-dyed dress, and hairy-ass legs — asks, "Are you OK, young man?"

"I bet you voted for Obama!" you shout. "Get the fuck away from me, you liberal Obama bitch!"

Your world begins to cave on you. You look around for comfort, any type of comfort, and there you spot all the ease you need right now.

You push the old hippy bitch out of the way and run to the trash can on the corner of 87th and Amsterdam. You then pull down your pants and hop up on the trash can. You sit up there shitting, rubbing that spot on the back of your head a little lighter, a little less fearful of what's happening all around you.

The cops come. They pull up right in front of you, asking one of the people leaving the CVS what all the commotion is about. You overhear the young woman they've asked say that there was some crazy guy inside who flipped out because he couldn't get his medication. They run inside, never once noticing you.

So you sit up there, wondering who in the world would flip out because they can't get their medication. Who would be so crazy, so out of their mind, that a little delay in getting their meds would make them go even crazier.

Who would do that?

Certainly not you. At least not while you're on top of the world ... taking a dump on it. No, certainly not you.

Here's to the homeless guy who was coppin' a squat on the trash can this morning.

Sir, your pooping in public truly did offend.

2011-06-27T10:58:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout the flood

I'm on vacation, which is an unlikely thing for me to say never mind actually do, but with the kids and all I gotta start breaking old habits. Not taking time off from the grind is one of the bigger ones on my list. Over the years, it's been one of my major offenses.

We don't really have that much planned for the week. We'll hit the zoo, bang around the city, maybe catch a movie if my in-laws volunteer to watch the twins one night this. If anything, the time I won't be spending at the office will be spent getting things done around the apt. Lots of "house" chores to do. It's a rising sea of domesticity, and I'm about to get carried out to sea on one of its strongest waves.

So from one list to another. That's where I'll be going this week. Hope to find some time to read, write, and relax a bit. But then - ha! - I have twins. Rarely do I ever cross everything off my list. Hell, rarely do I cross off more than one or two things.

Better make the things I do done count, eh?

2011-06-21T22:50:00.002-04:00

Metalkabout I got bad news for ya

You could hear him outside your front door again this morning. He was standing on your porch reading the morning paper. Your morning paper. You slowly approach the peephole and peer through. Yup, it's him again, and he's wearing the usual: his robe and slippers. And he's scratching his balls again, too, this time while reading the sports section. You stand there and stare for a couple minutes, while his fat, balding, freeloading ass thumbs through your newspaper. He's more informed than you are right now, thanks to your generosity.

He sits down and pulls a pen out from inside his robe. He then begins doing the crossword puzzle. That fucking dick, you think to yourself. You press against the peephole, angry ... ready to kill the newspaper-stealing bastard. You press so hard you leave a dent around your eye.

The floorboard under your left foot creaks and he quickly turns towards the noise. You duck, holding your breath so as not to make another sound. He goes back to doing your crossword puzzle, finishing all but one and getting none correct.

He then stands up and looks at you straight through the peephole.

"Morning', Frank," he says.

"Mornin' ... Jack," you sheepishly reply.

"See ya tomorrow, old buddy," he says while walking off your porch.

News alert: You're a spineless troll for letting your neighbor steal your morning paper.

But then ... guess it's only fair, since you've been stealing his wife.

Shame on you, home wrecker.

2011-06-20T22:10:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout the suspenders you wear can't hold up the weight of your hate-filled world

There you are, sitting in that old, tattered lounge chair in your club's makeshift barbershop. It's in the back of an abandoned building in downtown Chicago. Twenty of you have been been squatting there for the last year now. They tried ferreting you out last month. For stepping on your squat, you firebombed one of their trucks. Now they're gone, and they won't be back, at least not for a while. And by "they" you mean the city surveyors who want to turn the old building into a mall.

Fuck them and their mall, with its JCrew and Starbucks and Talbots. Fuck them royally!

You're getting a trim, which in your clique means touching up the buzz cut you all have. You're required to have it. Chicks, too. Can't roll with the club without it. You want just enough left on your skull to scratch up some asshole's face when you're in the mosh pit. Which is every night. You do damage in there, fuck kids up, make 'em bleed. Head first. That's how you do. It's how you make the blood flow — theirs and yours. "Not an inch longer, Dick Face!," you say to your homey, Driller.

"Fuck you, bro," Driller fires back, smacking you on the back of your nearly-bald head to punctuate his retort.

"Ow! You fucking pussy. Don't make me get outta this chair and fuck you up!"

"You fellin' froggy ... step, bitch!"

You both laugh. You met Driller five years ago at a rally. He hit you square in the face with a sign that read FTW!!! (Fuck The World). You got up and took a poke at him, knocking him in the mouth and taking out two of his teeth. He just stood there and smiled, blood streaming down his face. Then he punched you back. Twenty minutes and four teeth later, you knew you had a friend for life.

And you do.

Driller's not going anywhere. "Fuck that!" he always says. He's a skinhead for life, just like you, and he's gonna change the world by making it a pure place. "Pure. What the fuck does that mean anymore anyway?" you asked him the other day.

"You know what it means, you fucking dope," he said as he stood in the mirror and stared at himself pulling up his red suspenders, the trademark of your club.

"No, dick, I don't. That's why I asked. What does 'pure' mean to us anymore?"

"It means— ... Dude, stop fucking with me. You're fucking with me, right? Like, seriously, why you trying to fuck with me?"

"I'm not, dude," you said.

"I ... I don't really know, actually," Driller says. "Alls I know is we need to stick together and fuck people up who oppose us, you know what I'm sayin?"

"Yeah," you say, extending your hand to slap his.

Then you get up out of the barber's chair, brush off your newly shaved head, and say, "Yeah. Nice. I'm gonna fuck someone's face up with this brillo pad tonight."

You and Driller walk into the shadows of your squat, both carrying the weight of the racist world on your shoulders.

Xenophobia. Ain't it grand?

2011-06-19T09:59:00.003-04:00

Metalkabout who's your daddy?

Rarely do I step outside of the narrative on this blog to talk about myself, unless of course it happens to be about my brother Sean. He died last April.

Like Sean, who has a son, Patrick, I have kids. Two of them. They were born last August. They never knew their uncle, although I plan to tell them all about him every chance I get. In fact, my son, Luke, carries Sean's name as his middle name, Luke Sean. It makes me feel closer to my brother whenever I say it.

But my son is only half of the joy I've been blessed with this past year. He has a twin sister, Morgan Grace. They are amazing little creatures, and it's been an absolute trip watching them grow from defenseless little swaddles of wonderment to, well, bigger yet still defenseless little swaddles of wonderment.

I often find myself spouting off all those old-time cliches I've heard over the years. They are my everything. Life without them wouldn't be the same. I want to give them the world. And so on.

Funny thing is, it's actually all true.

Life has changed since they got here. And I don't just mean the obvious stuff. My thinking has changed. My expectation of people has changed. And, slightly melodramatically, my fears have changed. Now failing is less an option than it ever was before. Now the pressure's on. And I carry it with me everywhere, like a heavy woolen cloak in New York City's oppressive summer humidity. Somedays it weighs heavier on me than others, robbing me of the joy that I see in the two little gnomes crawling on the floor right in front of me. I definitely need to loosen up, and quickly. Sean wouldn't want this, although I know he and I shared this feeling.

But today's not the day for this kind of nonsense. Today's the day for stepping back and appreciating my brood. And I approached today unlike any day before it. This morning, as I lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling, I was excited — giddy even — to step out of bed in my official role as a daddy. Where were my slippers? My robe? My pipe?

And as I entered my kids' room, the two of them standing in their cribs waiting with big smiles on their faces to see which of their parents would turn the corner to take them out of their cages (aka cribs), I couldn't help but think: These are my little guys. And I'm their daddy.

I. Am. Their. Daddy.

It's a powerful feeling, being a dad, and it's something you really can't describe to a guy or dude who's never been there. Sorry 'bout that, fellas without kids.

I presume we'll do all the goofy dad things today. Brunch at the Boathouse, bang around the park and people watch, maybe even check out the Central Park Zoo.

And ... at some point in the day, as a daddy's day gift, Jill will give me the proverbial pass to go relax for an hour or so to do whatever I want to do, while she handles the kids (as she typically does anyway). This is a special gift, a gift bestowed on a daddy from a mommy (and vice versa on her day). And it's a gift I won't be taking lightly.

So when/if she gestures for me to beat it for that hour or so, she won't have to ask twice. I'll be gone like the wind. But not to loaf off. Not to nap (although that'd be nice). Today I won't go find a quiet place to read or jump online to senselessly surf or read the paper. No. Today I'll call the one person who needs me more than anyone else in the world: Patrick.

Sweet little Patrick Dugan. How I love you so. We all do, little man. And we're all trying to figure out what the plan is. Not just for today. For every day. We haven't forgotten you, little Sully.

Simple fact is, Sean's death is never really that far away. Not for me. Not for you, I'm sure. Not for any of us. And on this day, it's even closer than normal.

I'm happy to be a dad. And I'm excited about having a special day with my family. I really am. But there's always the grim reality nipping at my heels. My brother was a dad, too.

And his son misses his daddy dearly.

I do, too.

Happy Father's Day, Sean.

2011-06-18T12:00:00.002-04:00

Metalkabout you're freezing

In 1989, you died. But unlike most dead guys, you did something few men before you have done: you froze your body. Yup, put it on ice, just like old Walt Disney.

It's called Cryogenics, and you're a firm believer in its power.

You see, you believe that if you can put yourself on ice, someday someone will come along and find the cure to the brain tumor that killed you. And when that someone does, you'll be thawed out and cured, able to go on with your life as you had been doing before the day you died.

Problem is, guys like Walk Disney have lots of money; they can pay for whole teams of people to watch over them and keep the cryogenics machines working.

You, sadly, do not and cannot. You died with little over twenty-two hundred dollars in the bank. Your life savings from working at the McDonald's. You were the afternoon shift supervisor, had more corporate kudos than any other employee in your district. You were also twenty years older than most of your employees. Which is why you were wise enough to save your money. And every week, you'd save a little for a rainy day.

Well it rained the day you died. Guess that qualifies.

And ever since then your cousin Marianne's been dipping into your savings to pay for the dry ice and the six pack of Bud she needs and the carton of cigarettes and the fifth of vodka and the eight-ball of coke and the baby formula she needs for her bastard son.

Two grand goes fast when everyone's on its teat. So fast that today's the day it runs out. Today's the day the last of the dry ice you can afford is being dropped off.

So there you are, sitting on top of a month's worth of dry ice to keep you in that cryogenic state. Marianne made sure to stretch your last few dollars as much as possible. She also bought a keg, which is sitting on top of the dry ice, along with a shot block and 12-foot sub sandwich that people are picking at while enjoying the last of your money and you.

In a month, when the dry ice evaporates, they'll bury you in the back of the A&P parking lot. You always hated the thought of being buried.

You also always hated being cold.

And look how easily you got over that.

See you on the other side.

2011-06-15T22:01:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout this don't fight the inevitable

Some people believe that if they work hard and study hard and apply themselves in life, they'll get ahead. Others think that if they exercise six times a day for an hour each day, they'll live longer. Still others believe that if they stop eating shitty food and start eating good food — the vegetables and fruits and stay away from meat — they'll be healthier. There are people who think that if they play a certain sequence of numbers in the lottery every day, never once missing a drawing, they'll one day hit it big and they'll be rich. And there are people who believe that if they do good things onto others, others will do the same onto them. Good begets good. And other shit like that.

You know the truth.

You know that you can sit on your scrawny white ass all day long and your life will still be the way it'd be if you went out and got a job and brought home some money. You know that you could study your ass off for hours and it'll never make a difference. You know you could spend months trying to be a better cook, honing your skills with master chef's from around the world, and you'd never get any better. Your food would still suck.

You know these things and more because you're a fatalist.

And according to the doctrine you so stringently follow, you — we — have no control over our lives. So while most people do what they can to live, you do nothing extra at all. 'Cause whatever's gonna happen is gonna happen.

The inevitable is just that.

So when someone whispers in your ear that you're going to get hit by a car and die if you try to cross the street, think you'll go in the opposite direction? Who knows. Because right now, you're too busy doing what's always been inevitable (and obvious) about your neighbor's wife: You're doing your neighbors wife.

Shame on you.

2011-06-06T22:13:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout shhhhhhhhhhhh, damn it!

You spent the last fifteen years of your life studying the cello. And you've spent the same fifteen years chasing your dream to be a soloist in the New York Philharmonic. Of which the closest you've gotten was two years ago when you were third back-up player to the first back-up player, which technically made you the fourth back-up player, which meant you had about as much chance of playing on stage as Mayor Bloomberg has of being reelected for a fourth term.

Basically what this means is you're not exactly on the philharmonic's payroll. Which explains why you're currently broke. Penniless. A mooch.

To make ends meet, you wait tables at Ed's Chowder House across from Lincoln Center. At least you used to. You quit that job last month because aspiring cello players aren't supposed to be serving nuclear-exposed yellow tail from Japan to unsuspecting bridge-and-tunnelers. What you're supposed to be doing is playing the cello. Every day. All day.

Which means you should be performing in the subway or the park.

But not in those "quiet zones" Mayor Bloomberg has set up all around the city. Like in Central Park across from Belvedere's Castle. That was your spot. You made almost 60K last year alone there. Now you're desperately trying to find a place to play and make some dough, before the cops give you another ticket for noise pollution. Noise pollution! That's what that sweet, sweet music you play has been deemed. Not music. No the language of a lost world. Not magic with a melody. Noise!

Well excuse you, Mr. Bloomberg and your quiet zones.

Maybe it's time you made some real noise. The kind that comes from your cello hitting the back of someone's head. Too bad you're not strong enough to lift your instrument that high, eh?

2011-06-05T11:22:00.002-04:00

Mindlessly searching

Every morning at exactly 8:15 you fire up your laptop and hit the social scene. You take a morning stroll through Facebook to see who's doing what and what's happening to whom. You check your twitter account, possibly retweeting something that's so inspiring to you it must be inspiring to someone else out there. You then hit up the news — NYTimes, Huffington, Gothamist — you know, the good sources.

Invariably, you find yourself not knowing the answer to something you're reading, so you hit up Wikipedia and/or Youtube and/or Answers.com.

And that's where you're generally sucked into a black hole. Because what you originally started looking for also leads to so many colorful things you weren't looking for.

Like the other day when you wanted to know the latest on Anthony Wiener's wiener story. There it was, in all it's glory, the story that was no more evolved than just a day earlier when you went looking for it. He was still denying it was his package in the picture, and he was still beating up the press for wasting his time and the American public's for pursuing something so trite.

As your attention waned from Anthony Wiener's wiener, your eye caught the "what other viewers of this story have suggested" section on the page. One in particular was "Jewish men and boxer briefs." You clicked because you had to know what was on the other side.

The page turned out to be nothing of interest, except maybe that it lead you to yet another page about "Hot Jewish guys and nose jobs." Again, you pursued this story with curiosity and, perhaps, a little hope that you'd find something more promising — like maybe Mr. Right Jewish Guy With A Nice New Nose.

You found nothing, except a link to a plastic surgeon who performs outpatient nose jobs. You clicked to find he only takes cash, not Oxford insurance. Damn it! you think to yourself, while slowly circling another link on the page advertising another plastic surgeon who does take Oxford insurance.

You click on the link and immediately land on his page. There's an 800 number in a big bold font. It blinks. You can't stop staring at it. Next thing you know, you're dialing the number. It's busy. Whew! You hang up. And, even though you had no intentions of getting a nose job, begin to do some research on this particular doctor and his track record. You go from one site to the next. You spend twenty minute looking at videos of his procedures. You spend another thirty minutes reading customer testimonials. One woman who swears she used to look like Big Bird from Sesame Street swears she now looks like Angelina Jolie.

You love Angelina Jolie. You google her name. Hundreds of links appear. There's a You Tube video. You've never seen this one before. You click and enjoy fourteen minutes of the press following her and Maddox around in Paris. There are other videos. You click on another ... then another. Ten minutes, then twenty, then an hour passes.

You look at your watch. It's 2:15 in the afternoon. On a work day.

On ... a ... work day.

"Hello, this is (fill in your name here). I'm not feeling so well today. I'll be in tomorrow."

This is the third time this week you've called in sick because of the Internet.

And it's only Wednesday.

2011-06-04T12:28:00.001-04:00

Weiner's weiner

You were invited to a gala event last night to raise money for cancer. It was one of those things where everyone dresses up — suits and tie, little black dresses. People were there to see and be seen. And everyone played the part.

Then there was you.

You wore Jams. And dirty-ass Vans. And even dirtier underwear. And you hadn't combed your hair in days. Or washed it. And you were one of the guest speakers.

But you had good reason for all this tomfoolery.

You're the boyfriend of the girl who Rep. Anthony Weiner sent a picture of his package to. And ever since that ill-fated tweet arrived she's been anything but the same person. There's a certain celebrity that comes with being the girl who receives a picture of a Weiner's weiner. The fanfare has gone to her head. She's moving to Hollywood to start a film career. She even has an agent. And it was only last week that she was serving ice cream all day at one of the few remaining Carvel ice cream stores in American. And when she wasn't spooning out rocky road or vanilla swirl, she was visiting your sick-ass in the hospital spooning you on the bed.

You've been there for six week now. The chemo that was supposed to work didn't. And your tumor is back. It's lodged in your brain. Smack-dab in the center of it. There's really no other way to get to it except for chemo. Radiation treatments suck. What made them bearable is your girlfriend.

Now that Anthony Weiner has screwed that all up, you're trying to understand how you'll face life alone. It won't be easy, but you have a plan. And it's a plan that involves wearing loose-fitting jams and sneakers so you can haul ass if the shit you're planning to do goes sour.

So it's your turn to walk out on stage and speak to all the pretty people who showed up to support the fight against cancer. You tell yours story. Genuine tears fall from the eyes of hot ladies. It's a sure sign you've got them primed for the next part of your story.

You transition from chemo treatments to current events in the news. You quickly turn the corner from the war to Anthony Weiner's weiner. You dispel a few myths, saying, "his Hanes shorts are the same ones you can buy at CVS in a package of 3 for $11. And he's Jewish, just in case you were wondering. You make a few dick jokes, receiving some applause. Then you hit them with the new news, saying, "Anthony Weiner's weiener broke me and my girlfriend up. She left me to become a movie star in Hollywood.

And you say, "You know, you're a real dick, Anythony Weiner!"

Then you drop trow. And you stand there showing all the teary-eyed ladies your big Weiner. You say, "Look, ladies, I may have brain cancer, but I also have a ginormous gift. Who wants to come play with daddy?" Then you walk out the door. Your pride restored. And your dance card pretty much filled up for the next few years.

Nicely done.

Nicely done indeed.

2011-05-30T12:29:00.000-04:00

Metalkabout leaving it in the suck.

"The Suck." It's what your uncle used to call his time in Vietnam. He was a Private in the army back then — "A grunt," as he used to say. He used to tell you stories of what it was like over there. He'd say, "They're some short-ass people. And they like to dig tunnels. Lots of fucking tunnels."

Your uncle was a tunnel rat. That's what they called the guys whose job it was to go into the tunnels and ferret out the enemy — tunnel rats. He was fearless. Got shot in the face once and in the ass twice. Now he has three medals a valor. He's a hero. Or at least his ass and face are heroes. Or they were. Now his ass looks long and sleepy. And his ass is four times the size it used to be and sits on the couch all day long. Or it's propped up on the corner barstool at the American Legion.

That's where he is right now. "The Legion" is what he and his other war buddies call it. He's probably on his fourth beer of the day already. Another ten more to go and he'll be stumbling his fat ass home. Until then, though, he's got at least six versions of the same war story to tell. And he tells them to the same five guys every day. They all have their stories. And they all tell 'em to the same five guys.

You just got back from Afghanistan. Got no plans of hanging out at the American Legion. That shit hole's not for you. That's for the old timers and their half-assed war stories. Your shit is real. It's fresh. Some of it happened just a few weeks ago.

Like the roadside bomb that blew off your right arm and half your face. The scar on your face makes you look tougher. So you're good with it. But your arm — fuck! — you were a righty. And now you're trying to live your life as a lefty. Talk about bullshit.

Trying to shake a man's hand with your left hand sucks. So does holding a beer. And your girlfriend's hand. And whacking off lefty sucks, too. You used to only do that to pretend another chick was on your dick. Now it's a permanent thing — and it sucks.

But you're too loaded to care right now. Your eight beers in to this day. Your buddies have the spotlight shined on you right now. And you're all caught up in the excitement of being home. And besides, today's Memorial Day. This is your fucking day. Made to honor you and all servicemen who just got home.

Man, it's good to be home.

Your uncle never did get to feel that feeling when he got home from 'nam. Guys like him — "Baby killers" as they were called – were outcasts. Life sucked worse here than it did back in the real suck.

Or was this the real suck?

But he and every other Vietnam vet like him found home in The American Legions of this country. They were safe there. Still are. Which is why they'll all be there today.

You should head on over to see your uncle. Extend your left hand and offer him a beer. Buy a 'vet a beer from another 'vet. Then pull up a chair and listen to his story. And make sure to wear your purple heart. He'll have three of them. One for his face; the other two for his ass. Just don't make the joke. At least not today. Drink a cold one and listen in close. You'll learn he's just like you: He's a soldier looking to come home.

Welcome home, 'vets. All of you.

And thanks.

2011-04-16T21:05:00.002-04:00

Metalkabout Sean

The one-year anniversary marking Sean death has come and gone.

Wow. I still can't believe it.

I went down to Charlotte to be with family and friends. It was a somber two days, as most would guess. But it was needed. We spent some time at the cemetery, sitting by Sean's grave listening to music, drinking Guinness, and, I guess, just thinking about the reality of the whole thing.

Terry and Shy, two of Sean's close friends, and now members of my extended family, had the idea for each of us to write Sean a note on a card that we'd attach to a balloon and send up to him. "Up." We're always looking up. That's the Catholic thing, I guess, that Sean is "up there" looking down at us.

The balloons were nice, a sweet gesture if ever there was one.

But it was sad, too.

Sean's up there. Not down here with us. "Up there."

It's crazy. Unbelievable still a year later.

On Sean's memorial site, I wrote something the day before I left to go see the family. I miss my little brother. I miss him a lot.

April 02, 2011

Today marks one year, little brother.

One year without one of your weekday phone calls that always started with an abundantly excited: “Hey, J … how are you doing today!?!”

One year without one of your emails about Cathy and how beautiful she is, or how proud of Patrick you are, or how your business is doing, or … just to say you’re thinking about me.

One year without all the brothers getting together to talk about “what’s next” for the family, you and I not always seeing eye-to-eye but always walking away knowing we love each other.

One year without hearing from mom about how wonderfully successful you’re helping her become with her finances.

One year without getting an update about who’s winning the “James vs. Sean” Christmas decoration war.

One year without watching a Notre Dame game because, well, they were your favorite team, not mine.

One year without any of these things, Sean. And more. So much more. And I’ve missed them all, every one of them.

But mostly I’ve just missed you.

We all have.

In fact, a day hasn’t gone by since you left that I haven’t been smacked in the face by the reality of what’s happened. My eyes well up. I become disoriented. I’m leveled. Crippled with fear and anger and silence … it’s always different. Each time is different. And each time I literally have to shake myself to break free from its grip. Because this thing — your passing — is as palpable today as it was a year ago. Maybe even more so.

But then, I guess I’m always going to have a hard time accepting you’re gone.

We all will.

I leave for Charlotte in a few hours to be with the family for the one-year anniversary of your passing.

One year, Sean.

365.25 days.

8760 hours.

31,556,925.9747 seconds.

All of it filled with one recurring thought: If love could’ve saved you, you would have lived forever.

I miss and love you more than anything, Sean.

We all do.

J

If you want to know who my little brother was, you can meet him here.

2011-03-27T21:23:00.002-04:00

Metalkabout feeling something different

It's Sunday night and I'm sitting here trying to decide if I should write about you ... or me.

Writing about you would be easier. After all, you're fun to pick on, easier to mock. But that's really just jealously at work. That's just me hating you for being luckier than me.

Because me, well, I've had some shit happen to me this year. And also, truth be told, you're life is much more interesting than mine, so I write about you out of spite.

Also, writing about you helps me avoid thinking about writing something truthfully painful about my life: my little brother.

This coming Saturday marks one year since he dyed.

There, I said it. Sean dyed.

Sean. Is. Dead.

Seeing that word — "Dead" — appear on my monitor right now is like waking up from a bad dream and realizing it wasn't a dream at all.

It's true.

True, as in Sean is dead.

For a year now I've been walking around seemingly unaffected by this one fact. I mean, I've known he's gone. But rarely do I say it, except maybe during random moments or in random places, just like this blog. I've never really looked myself in the mirror and watched my lips say the words. I never once told myself that my little brother is dead.

And in doing so I've managed to hide from the very fact that he is gone. And in doing that I've managed to hide from all the people I need to be around, to support them as much as I need them to support me.

Sean's wife needs me. Sean's son, Patrick, needs an uncle to remind him who his daddy was. My mother — our mother — needs me.

A lot of people need me.

And I've failed every one of them. I've failed them because I've never really come to grips with his being gone.

It's only now that I'm starting to fully realize that when my little brother dyed a big piece of me dyed, too.

And now a year has gone by. And if I don't do something to wake up and take back my life, another year will go by and another and another and another and ... I will continue to be stuck exactly where I am right now, which is this dark, numb place.

And my kids need me to be more than that. My twins — almost eight months old this week — need their dad to be here ... really here. And their mother – my lovely, strong, beautiful wife — needs me. To help her. To hold her. To live and love our life, while somehow still remembering Sean's life.

This one year mark, as painful as it been think about, is drawing near. It will be here soon. And I will have to face it, with all it have to offer me — good, bad, even, hopefully, something gloriously freeing.

Whatever happens on Saturday and the days that follow, somehow I need to find a way to live again. For all of us.

For me.

I love you, Sean. I live you, too.

For you. For us. Forever.

2011-03-19T00:34:00.007-04:00

Metalkabout heroes

There's an old gag on TV where a group of guys in the military is asked by their drill sergeant to volunteer for something so insane that, to anyone watching at home, the logical answer would be to say, "Oh hell no!."

The sergeant usually suggest something like, "I need one of you men to volunteer for a highly dangerous assignment. This man needs to be strong, selfless, dedicated, a little bit nuts, and have nothing to lose. In other words, men, he's someone who is willing to give up his life for country, if need be. If any of you soldiers here thinks he is man enough to meet this challenge, step forward."

All the men except one take a step back, leaving the poor sap who didn't standing out in front. The Staff Sergeant quickly puts his arm around this seemingly brave soldier and congratulates him while escorting him off camera to, well, his doom.

For a group of firefighters in Japan today, that's pretty much what happened.

As the nuclear reactor reached an unprecedented level 5, Japan's Prime Minister made his final plea for help, asking for volunteers to participate in what will be a highly dangerous but historical moment in the country's history.

And, of yeah, it may result in death.

His request played right into Japanese culture. The honor code of its people. Those suitable for the task — firefighters, in this case — couldn't say no. Not because they're fearless, but because it's part of who they are as a country and as individuals. No one concedes when they know they can help.

So from an earthquake to a tsunami to a nuclear nightmare, Japan is being tested in every imaginable way, its people willing to pay the ultimate price to sustain the country's the country honor, which is the only way it can envision a future.

And as these brave men fight to contain what has now become an open wound whose infection could easily spread across oceans and around the world, I can only hope that, if Japan makes it our of this mess in one piece, these men are honored in a way so befitting they truly feel like the heroes they are.

In the meantime, pray for these guys. Seriously.

Because a miracle is definitely what's needed at this stage.

Which, by the time you're reading these very words, could very well be stage 6 on the nuclear scale.

2011-03-16T01:11:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout the sea lions roar

You're a marine biologist looking for proof that sea lions have migrated to New Jersey. If you can prove this, you're certain you'll make a name for yourself, one that's ten-times bigger than Snooky's from MTV's The Jersey Shore.

Marine biology is a slow-going business, so you have a lot of downtime on your hands to watch TV. And MTV, with their new programming like Teen Mom 2 and Jersey Shore, has been all the entertainment you need to pass the time. It's your hope that once they get wind of your discovery of seal lions right off the pier where they're filming one of the best depictions to date of Italian Americans, you'll be famous enough to get a guest appearance on the show.

Then, once you're on the show, you'll befriend Pauly or The Situation and use them to get close to the woman you love — JWOW. That's one tough bitch. But a sexy one, too. And you want a piece of that action super bad.

So there you are, sitting on your boat, right off the coast of the New Jersey, looking for a migratory sea lion, better known as the Harbor Seal. It's been 44 days and counting since you left the marina to come out here. You're down to two cans of crushed tomatoes and half a can of sardines. After that, it's stark drinking your own urine or starve to death. You were never one for dehydration, so pee it will have to be.

Eventually, someone will tell you what you need to hear: You're already on MTV. Only this is the new season of an old show. Punk'd. And you've been PUNK'D bigger than most. Because while you've been out there all day every day for 44 days, you've been calling for a sea lion, roaring like a daddy lion who's lost his cub.

And for 44 days, the kids in the new shore house on MTV have been hearing your roars and asking if there's a sea monster out in the water beyond the breakers.

The producers don't have the heart to tell them it's not, nor can they tell you what's happening on land, because you'd stop roaring — and that's not what makes good TV.

What makes good TV is letting idiots like you and Snooky and Ron and The Situation be yourselves. And if being yourself requires you to cry like babies because you're afraid the noise you hear out in the ocean is a monster and not something more plausible like a daddy seal lion looking for its pup, have at it.

Have at it indeed

2011-03-13T20:27:00.003-04:00

Metalkabout KABOOM!

Nothing about what's happened in Japan these past few days is funny. Especially at the Fukushima Daiichi power plant.

Yet it feels conjured up, like something created in Hollywood: The ripple effect of a natural disaster — like Friday's earthquake — takes down a nuclear reactor that could potentially have large-scale global effects.

This kind of thing happens more frequently in the movies than it does in real life.

Sure, there's 3- Mile Island and Chernobyl. But those were so long ago. And ...

And nothing.

In the case of the Fukushima Daiichi power plant, gamma radiation has already been released. And whether it's significant levels or not, it's certain to spread throughout the immediate area, exposing local residents — including children — to lethal levels of poison.

The iodine pills, what good will they really do? For years to come, cancers of all strains will attack the poor people of Japan.

And sadly, that's the good news.

Now for the Hollywood part: Imagine things get worse and there's a full-blown meltdown, unleashing massive levels of radiation into the atmosphere. Japan is doomed. It's Chernobyl to the hundredth power. The entire island is obliterated off the map. And then, as the winds pick up and begin to blow towards the U.S., mass concern for the Japanese people turns to mass hysteria by Americans.

The tainted winds first blow through Hawaii. Whole islands are wiped out by this invisible killer. Its effect is felt for years, decades even, to come. Then, soon after vacationers and islanders alike are exposed to the killer winds, they hit the West Coast. From Canada on down. Even L.A. And, just like that, Hollywood finds itself the recipient of a lethal dose of reality.

I gotta think the last thought running through at least a few screenwriters' heads as the radiation starts to eat away at them would be: Damn, I couldn't have written this shit if I tried.

And that's just the thing: We're good at imaging armageddon — we've made a ton of movies about the end of our days on earth — but even the best of the worst-case scenarios can't paint a picture as terrifying as the one I'm seeing unfold on the TV these days.

It's the best non-fiction flick going right now. And it's terribly sad.

What's more, it's terrifying to think it could easily unfold as I've described above.

The poor people of Japan are quite literally living in hell as I write this. Just a few moments ago I saw an image on the New York Times of a mother and father standing in the middle of a sea of rubble — wooden planks, metal beams, debris everywhere. It's what was left of, I'm sure, a neighborhood just like one you and I would see here in the states.

The mother was crouched down, peering ever-so intently into a pile of wood, while the father stood some five feet behind her. Their backs were towards the camera, so you couldn't see their faces, but from the mother's posture — the stiffness in her arched back and extended arm — as she stared into the pile of splintered wood and metal, you just knew she was looking at something of great importance. It was eery.

And then I read the caption under the photo: A mother and father staring at their daughter's body.

I swear my heart sank when I read that. And then it did it again as I squinted and stared at the image myself, able to make out the face of the little girl deep within the pile of ruble. Her head was titled as if asleep. She looked peaceful.

Meanwhile, her mother and father were anything but.

I'm sad for that little girl and her family. I'm sad for all the people of Japan. My prayers go out to them on this, the third night after what's now been reported as a magnitude 9.0 quake.

But there's really nothing Hollywood about any of this. It's life. It happens. And the saddest thing of all is, it will happen again.

The only question is when?

And where?

In the meantime, the news keeps coming in: Another reactor is leaking radiation. More people have been found dead. Food and water is scarce. And apparently the quake pushed the entire island of Japan eight feet from where it's been for thousands of years. Actually moved the island eight feet.

Now that's something that's never been done in Hollywood.

Wait a second ... there's Lost the TV series, of course.

2011-03-13T18:20:00.000-04:00

Metalkabout an update

Nothing funny's going on these days.

If I'm not working to pay the mortgage, I'm working to make up the hours I've lost with my newborn twins. It's sad, but it's reality. And it's a downer. All grim and no play makes me a duller dull guy than I already am. I get that. It's understood completely.

So what, I'm dull. Sue me, dickbag.

In the meantime, while you're trying to drag my sorry ass into court, I'll be holding my own court ... of opinion. And you'll be the chump on trial. Why?

'Cause no one takes daddy from his babies!

Beat it, fella.

2011-03-12T23:47:00.001-05:00

Metalkabout betraying the public's trust

The room was cramped, hot, and dimly lit, so reading this month's edition of The Watchtower was worthless. You thumbed through it anyway. Had to. It gave you something to do, besides fixating on the smell of stale cigarettes, body odor, and sinners.

You stared at the pages blankly, the entire time thinking, good lordy ... do people shower anymore? The air was thick with sweat and ass and B.O. and ... who knows. But you couldn't leave. Not this time. Ditching on jury duty is a one-time deal. And your "one time" was last time when you called in "sick" on the sunniest day of the year. The tradeoff for that sunny day was this day, and it was a pretty shitty day at that. Or so that's what you were thinking back then.

It was only 10:22. Still over an hour left before lunch. Maybe you'd grab a couple 'dogs from that vendor on corner by the courthouse. His cart looked cleaner than most of the city's other shit wagons you'd seen. And he looked clean, nice clothes, combed hair, and it didn't look like he'd spit or piss or whack off in the hotdog water. One with "the works" sounded good. The 'kraut, mustard, ketchup.

Yeah, it was gonna be 'dogs for lunch.

When you walk up to the hot-dog wagon and ask for two dogs, the vendor, standing behind large, steaming pots of hot dogs and wearing an apron emblazoned with a picture of a guy that looks like Jesus with no beard and a caption that reads: Jesus Saves, stares at you long and hard before asking if you're on jury duty. You sheepishly reply, "yes", while making sure not to make eye contact with him. He asks, what case? You say, "I can't really talk about it."

He says, "That's cool," and then proceeds to to hock a snot in your hot dog with sautéd onions and chili. He then passes it to you with a wink and asks for $4.50.

"What the fu—?" you ask.

He looks you right in the face and says, " I can't really talk about it.

2011-03-06T09:59:00.001-05:00

Metalkabout number 800

You've been posting entries here for more than five years now.

Today marks entry number 800.

800 titles. 800 intros. 800 outros. 800 nonsensical rants, ramblings, and mostly made up points of view about whatever comes to mind.

Primarily, though, it's always about people just like YOU.

"You" as in something written here may or may not be about you, mimic you, or resonate with you. "You" as in all 800 entries that have been a source of utter delight, unrelenting laughter, and sorely needed reprieve from the real you you face in the mirror each morning. "You" as in maybe you guffaw because what you're reading is utter crap and poorly written and you wonder how anyone can put shit like this on paper.

"You" is an ode to the jackasses, nincompoops, and outright stooges who serve to entertain the rest of us with their silly, asinine ways. Every day. All day. Whenever we seem to need it most.

Maybe even right now.

"You" is the everyman we all have hidden inside us.

He or she or it can rear its ugly head at anytime, pulling you from the spectator's seat to center stage. So then ... you the one laughing can easily become you the one being laughed at. Simply by waking up in the morning, you risk becoming the butt of a joke here.

800 people have come before you. And, I suspect, there will be hundreds more. Maybe thousands. So the margin for error is wide and unforgiving and ... inclusive to all. So don't fuck up.

Because the we're all waiting to read something about you.

Anything.

2011-02-27T23:48:00.000-05:00

Metalkabout Oscar night

You're the guy who books the host for the Oscar's. Two months ago, when you suggested Anne Hathaway and that actor guy who plays the guy who gets stuck in between a rock and a mountain and has to cut his hand off to get free, you were almost laughed out of a job.

"Anne Hathaway, maybe," said the directors of The Academy Awards. "But not the actor who played the guy who cut off his own hand to save his life because he was stuck in between a boulder and a mountain. Not him!"

But you persisted and finally wore them. They said yes to Anne Hathaway and the actor who played the guy who cut his own hand off to save his life.

And now, in front of millions of viewers around the globe, your plan to celebrate Anne Hathaway and the actor who played the guy with no hand by making them hosts of the Oscars has failed.

You. Have. Failed.

And in doing so, every person in the world who's tweeting about the train wreck they're watching is wondering why no one will jump in a lend you hand to stop the madness.

Ironic, isn't? You hire the actor who played a guy with no hand and now no one will lend you one to save the Oscars from totally bombing.

Sucks to be you, fella.

2011-02-24T22:16:00.001-05:00

Metalkabout the indecisiveness you breed

"I just don't know, Maggie," you say to your boss.

"What's bothering you about it, sweetie?" she asks.

"I ... I ... well, I'm not really sure that I ... I can't put my finger on it exactly ... all I know is ... well ..."

Your boss's jaw drops, while her shoulders fall just as quickly in defeat.

"What kind of answer is that? You sound like a stuttering retard — 'I ... I ... well ... all I know ...' — like you've never formed a complete sentence in your life. I hired you to help me judge next year's fashion line and all you have to say is 'I ... I ... I? What the fuck?'"

"I'm sorry, Maggie," you say, "but I'm just not feeling any of these looks and I can't exactly put my finger on what it is."

"Fine! Then say exactly that next time," she says. In the meantime pick me out something to eat for lunch from this menu. No, wait! Let me do it ... or I won't eat until dinner."

"OK," you say. "What'll it be?"

"I want a chicken club with ... no, wait, I had that yesterday. Get me the meatloaf and mashpota— ... no, that won't do, not this close to bikini season. Oh I know. I'd like a BLT but hold the "B" and just one slice of bread. No that's boring. Get me some soup with a roll. Then again, the roll is fattening and I need to watch my figure. How 'bout a yogurt smoothy? Strike that. It'll never hold me over until dinner. What the fuck is happening here? Why can't I make a decision? I'm hungry; I need to eat. Why can't I order something?"

Little does your boss, Maggie, know that your indecisiveness — the thing she called you a retard for — is as contagious as a flu. And it looks like she's caught it.

Now who's the retard, huh?

2011-02-21T21:50:00.001-05:00

Metalkabout that noise last night

You're fairly certain the house you just moved into is haunted. Noises coming from places where there's no one to make them, lights flickering on and off, the low, guttural moan at the edge of your bed last night — these are all signs of a paranormal experience happening in your midst. And there's nothing you can do about because you just closed on the place and you made a rash decision in buying it by paying too much and the market just tanked and, well ... you're stuck.

You've mentioned the ghost (you always say it with a whisper) to a few people, most notably your sister Alice who coincidentally happens to be a real-life ghostbuster, white jumpsuit and all. It was a career choice influenced by the movie Ghostbusters, which, up until today, you've always teased her about. Especially her crush and Dan Akroyd.

Well who's laughing now, huh?

Your sister is in your house this very minute with a team of her ghostbusting friends who, just like her, can recite every single word ever spoken in the movie. They've just radioed to the van you're sitting in outside your house that they've made contact with the paranormal entity and it's not good.

The ghost's the original owner of the place and he's pissed. Apparently, when you were knocking walls down to make your wine bar/office, one of the workers you'd hired found a piece of paper wedged in between some of the old paster lath. Not knowing what it was, he tossed it. Or so he said.

What he didn't know was that it belonged to the man who built the house you're now living in. The man who was now haunting the house. And unless he gets the piece of paper back, he's going to make your life a living hell by haunting you every single night for the rest of eternity — or your life, whichever comes first.

Luckily the contractor is coming by next Wednesday to do some last-minute touchups. You'll ask him when he arrives, you think to yourself.

You radio your sister to tell the ghost that this whole thing will be resolved in a week. One week is all you're asking for. Her response is this: "The ghost would like me inform you that until this is "resolved" and he gets his paper back you're ass is his. Oh, and don't close your eyes when you sleep. Not even for a second.

Good luck with that, eh?

2011-02-20T23:57:00.001-05:00

Metalkabout an oldie but a goodie

Metalkabout a sweet deal

You're a car salesman, been in the business for twelve years now. On your desk, which is a metal box in the middle of the showroom, is a picture of your wife and three kids (came with the frame), an autographed baseball from the '79 Yankees, even Thurman Munsun (all forged by your sister, Melody), a degree from Yale University (can you say phony); an award that praises you as salesman of the year (the bullshit's never been deeper than it is right now), and last but not least: a large, never-before-cleaned-but-always-used coffee mug with HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY written across the front (psst... total crap).

To the unsuspecting eye, you appear to be a normal guy who works hard, has a loving family and, best of all, is fanatical about America's favorite pastime: baseball. To those who do know you, however, your life is a lie — and your desk is the stage from which you perpetuate those lies.

But that's all about to change. Or so you claim.

You see, you recently saw the TV show 'A Christmas Carol' on TNT. This is the story of Scrooge, the miserly banker who is visited by ghosts from the past, present, and future. Unable to dismiss the disturbing message they leave him with — "There is more to life than money, Scrooge!" — he begs, cries, and recants his misguided ways, all in an effort to save his soul from the years of damnation he's already committed it to.

Fortunately for you, this story struck a little closer to home than you would've liked. You're a modern-day Scrooge. Your motto is: spend, spend, spend. On yourself. No one else. Just y-o-u. Or at least that's the old you. Because your days of toiling away and making the cashola your numero uno priority are gone. As of right now, you will never tell a lie or be evasive, vague, or undermining in any way to sell a car and seal the deal.

Your level of commitment will be tested later today when Kelly Saint James, a potential buyer, walks through the door of your dealership. She will ask for you, having been referred by one of your customers who still to this day receives a Christmas card from you and your "wife" (read: your sister and mother sitting at the kitchen table signing cards 'love Jim, Mary, and the boys' for all your customers). And she will want to hear all about your family and, being an avid Yankee fan, the day your ball was signed.

Good luck staying the course, pal. Remember: if you can't come up with a new, no-bullshit story, you won't sell another new car for as long as you live.

Vroom, Vroom!

2011-02-20T00:27:00.001-05:00

Metalkabout bunny ears

You're a journalist for a local Florida paper — The Gator Daily. It's not the big leagues. Hell, it's a free paper, so there's really no pressure for people to even read the shit you're spitting out there. Which is why, up until now, your career has been fairly uneventful, lackluster even.

That changes today.

Because you just scored an interview with the guy who invented putting two fingers behind another person's head during photo opts. so it looks like they have, well, two fingers growing out of the back of their head.

Yeah, that guy.

This is an exclusive interview, the only one of its kind ever to be granted. You're a bit nervous, sure, but you've been preparing all night for this, and you think you have the questions to win a Pulitzer. After all, the guy's a legend. With that one act, he altered the family photo forever. And once people got wind of how easy it was to two-finger fuck up a picture, things were never the same. Dads grew ears from their bald spots. Brothers everywhere gave sisters everywhere finger ears. Sisters gave it right back when the next photo opt. presented itself. School photos had multiple people with finger ears growing out of their heads. Even grandmas were given the finger ears. It was all-so cruel. But it was all-so funny, too.

It still is.

Which is why you're so confident that this interview is going to change your life. This is going to be big, huge. In fact, you just ordered "the premium package" from Time Warner Cable. Soon enough, you keep telling yourself, you're going to be living large.

You got the two-finger guy's name from an old friend who's spent the last seventeen years at the Kodak Photo Hut cleaning up after his mess. His days entail retouching out fingers behind the heads of thousands of people. Wedding pictures, graduations, even funerals. Nothing ever seems to be off limits. He's even met the father of two-finger photo fucking in person. Sometime around 1997, he was paid a visit by the finger-behind-the-head guy. He pulled up at the drive-thru at the Kodak photo hut and threatened your friend to cut the shit cutting out those two fingers. Your friend said he could not. It was his job, as a Kodak employee, to see that ever photo looked at good and blemish-free as possible.

That day, the two-finger photo guy vowed to get even with him.

So now you're supposed to meet this guy at the diner in Orlando. He said 9PM. You got there at 8PM, just to be safe and to set up. It's now 11:30. You're pretty sure he's not gonna show. You decide to cut your loses, but not before asking the waitress if she'd relay a message to the guy if he shows.

You hold up one finger and say, "Show him this."

Care to guess which one it was?

2011-02-18T13:15:00.000-05:00

Metalkabout packed house

You just got through sixteen weeks of therapy. You feel like a new man, like a new you. And rightfully so. When you finally came down from what was a fantastical fourteen-year high, you discovered you have an insanely deft ability to rhyme like one of those gangsta rappers/drug dealers you've been buying your crack from all these years.

Now, since getting clean, you can't hold a conversation without spitting rhymes, linking words to build extraordinary story arcs that leave the people you're talking to mystified and drop-jawed at what they're hearing. For some reason, the moment they hear your jams, they're overcome by an uncontrollable urge to drop everything in their life and follow you. Bankers, Wall Street bigwigs, lawyers, accountant, scientists, garbage men, waiters — all walks of life are ready to walk behind you.

When the directors at the rehab knocked on your door to discuss you current lyrical situation, you stood on the other side, saying, "You can't come in, yo, 'cause I'm the master MC with the illest flow." They broke down the door anyway, because it's policy at the treatment center to let an official of the facility enter your room at anytime upon request.

They asked, you said no, and now they're coming in.

They'll be quite surprise to discover all 8,000 of your followers are living in the room with you.

Cramped? Yes.

Impossible? Never.

2011-02-13T23:58:00.000-05:00

Metalkabout never "never say never", Bieber

Since the day you arrived on the music scene, people have wondered where you came from and what your story is. You're the kid every kid wants to be. And every young girl wants to be with.

You are a teenage heartthrob.

And tonight it was all supposed to culminate with your award at The Grammy's for best new artist of the year. Tonight, you were to be crowned king.

And, boy, did you dress the part. Classic whit tux, polished kicks, combed hair. You even bathed before the big event. And you've been practicing your acceptance speech for weeks. You knew exactly what you were going to say to your fans, because you were ready for your public to see you go from boy to man this evening.

But, alas, Justin Bieber, you lost to a girl. A pretty girl, no doubt. But a girl indeed. Your song "Never say never" should be retitled to "Never again will you 'Never say never.'"

Esperanza Spalding beat you, Bieber.

Suck it.

2011-02-12T00:02:00.001-05:00

Metalkabout your obsession with you

You're so into you. It's mildly funny yet highly pathetic how you stare in the mirror for hours on end admiring the beauty staring back at you. You bat your eyes at yourself. You blow kisses to yourself. You press yourself against the mirror to get closer to yourself. It's twisted. It's odd. It's the only way you know how to love you.

Ant that's sad. Very, very sad.

But it's not just a mirror you lose yourself in. The other day, while eating two McDonald's quarterpounders with cheese, you caught your own reflection in the silver napkin dispenser on the table. You quickly sat up straight in your seat and began staring at you. Transfixed, you mouthed "I love you" to you. It was the most tender moment you've ever had with you. It was blissfully, magically, wonderfully everything you'd always imagined the moment to be. And then it was more, much more.

You raised a french fry to your lips, slowly making sure not so lose any of the tightness in your jaw bone. You then you turned your head to the left, then the right, never once taking your eyes off of you. Never once imagining there would one day be trouble in the paradise you've created in your eyes.

You swore that day that you would always love you, be faithful to you, adore you. And you've never betrayed that promise.

But you will. Soon.

Because next week your twin sister is coming home from college. And while she's equally as hot as you, she's also just as in love with herself. The girl who looks exactly like you is in love with a girl who looks exactly like you. But it's not you. It's her. And you're in love with her, too. Which is making the "you" you vowed to never betray very, very mad.

It's about to get complicated in your world. And twisted, too.

Good luck with that, huh.

2011-02-06T23:18:00.002-05:00

Metalkabout what you, Super Bowl forty-five, and Turk 182 have in common.

For years, all you’ve heard around your house during this time of year is how your dad was one of the 65,000 spectators to witness Super Bowl I. He was in the stands when Green Bay spanked Kansas City’s ass. It was 1967 and you were little more than a glimmer in his eye at the time. In fact, his eye was trained on the game through the lens of a film camera. Yup, your dad filmed the game — the entire thing — from midfield.

He worked for CBS and was on assignment that day. When the game was over, he took his reel-to-reel tapes, sealed them in the can, and carried them home, where they’ve remained in the attic for the past forty-plus years.

History, hidden in your parent’s Cape Cod-style home.

Every now and then your dad’s spoken at great length about that game. But he’s never once mentioning the tapes. In fact, it wasn’t until you were cleaning the attic out that you found them. You see, you’d recently had your father committed to an old-folks home. And now you’re selling his place — your old home — to support your secret habit: snorting coke off the dirty butts of homeless men. This kinky, dirty little secret of yours has gotten bad, which is why you need to get rid of your dad’s house quickly. You’re asking virtually nothing for the place — forty-two bucks, an eight ball of blow, and a six-pack of Utica Club Beer, chilled.

But first you need to clean out that damn attic.

You did a few lines of Columbia’s finest on the Formica countertop in your parent’s old kitchen — exactly the same spot you propped Mary Parker up on the cutting board and took her to orgasmic ecstasy some sixteen years ago — and now your mind is reeling and your heart is about to pop out of your chest … and you can’t shut the fuck up, even though there’s no one else in your house. Still, you’re talking your own ear off.

You look left and see a box. It contains several reel-to-reels. They’re labeled as such: Super Bowl I, 1967. You almost ignore what you read and discard them with the rest of the trash you’ve tossed down the collapsible ladder that leads to the hallway downstairs — where you cousin Trevor is further discarding the debris by tossing it out the window into a dumpster you had dropped off on the front lawn a few hours ago — but then you take a second glance and realize the gold mine you’ve just stumbled upon.

Twenty minutes later you’re on the phone with the NFL association. When you tell them what you have, they say, “We’ve been looking for a copy of that game for years.”

You say, “Look no further.”

They say, “We must, until we’re 100% sure.”

You say, “Oh you’ll be 100% sure once you see what I have.”

They say, “How much?”

You say, “One million.”

They say, “We’re coming over.”

A day later, two men from the NFL association knock on your door. You’d been waiting for them. You nailed a white bed sheet to the wall to use as a movie screen, and you set up your dad’s old projector with the tapes, so when the men sat down on your mom’s old plastic-covered couch, you were ready. You rolled tape. Within fifteen minutes, they were on the phone with the main office. Thirty minutes later, they were handing you a check for one million dollars.

A million bucks. Wow. Now you’re up to your elbows in coke and the world has it’s football history fully intact.

Tonight, as you watch Green Bay kick the crap out of Pittsburg, you can’t help but think that your dad had something to do with preserving America’s favorite pastime. And you, well, you have had a hand in it, too.

But right now that hand is attached to a credit card, which is cutting up a huge line of blow that spells out TURK 182.

You chose Turk 182 because that’s the Super Bowl commercial you just saw — and it absolutely blows.

2011-01-31T21:17:00.001-05:00

Metalkabout it's the last day of January

In the past month, you've said goodbye to 2010 and hello to 2011, watched your twins get their two bottom teeth, traveled to South Africa on business, and got the flu.

If you were to compare the pros and cons, you'd be far ahead of the game right now. But the flu really counts as two things, which leaves you just one good thing ahead. But with you being a pessimist and all, one good thing ahead just doesn't cut it.

With just one good thing ahead, you're just one step away from being in a dead heat with all the bad shit in life. And that's all you can focus on. Which your'e doing right now. You're just standing there in your bedroom, feeling like shit from the flu, and looking in the mirror wondering how the hell you let yourself go the way you have. You are so freaking fat. A total blob of gas and blubber. Your gut is protruding over your waistline. If you didn't know any better, you'd be a prime contestant on The Biggest Loser. You are just that fucking lard-ass fat.

And wait! A triple chin? It's — uh, they're — staring back at you from the mirror. Sure, put that turtleneck on to hide it. Those rolls will still be there later when you take it off. And when you take it off, you'll be one con ahead of the pros, which will make you sad, even though you're happy that you found what you needed to make the inevitable happen: You found the bad shit and none of us is ever really any good.

Wow. That's deeply bleak. You're depressing, and that's not meant in an artistic kind of way.

2011-01-02T23:26:00.003-05:00

Metalkabout drool, baby, drool!

That clear, stringy, bubbling drool that keeps coming out of your 5-month old son's mouth is cute. It's so cute, in fact, that you had an idea yesterday: you're going to bottle and sell it.

You're naming your new product Drool.

It's a catchy name, a hip name, the kind of name that you imagine Sacks Fifth Avenue wanting on their shelves. Definitely the buyers at Macy's and Bloomingdales will want it. You're convinced this idea of yours will have people believing that the word drool is a projection of the reaction they'll get from anyone who smells them. That's right. The minute they dab the Drool on, the world will begin to drool for them.

Your idea is genius. And it will make you a very rich man. That is, as long as your newborn son keeps making it.

Which is where your critics come in. The say, "'Drool' is a scam."

You say, "Not so."

Because you truly believe, if applied liberally and frequently, your customers will experience exactly what they're after. People who smell them will drool, because the scent of purity will be so strong, so unavoidable that even a prostitute with thirty years experience standing on the corner will fell like a virgin again.

Now all you need is for you son to keep making it.

2011-01-01T20:23:00.003-05:00

Metalkabout your New Year's resolution

All night long last night you professed how this year was the beginning of a new you, a much more sober you. You were turning over a new leaf. And that leaf was going to hit the ground and stay there. There'd be no more flying high for you. Which meant no more one-hitters, no more bongs or rolling papers or apple-core whammies, no more of scraping bowls in the morning for a wake-and-bake, no more spilled bong water on the carpet, no more Visine before, during, and after activities, no more mid-afternoon runs to McDonald's to curb the munchies, no more seeds popping in your joints — hell, no more joints.

You were going clean, finally. You would be stoned no more.

And it was going to begin at the stroke of midnight.

So you took one last hit off your favorite pipe — the one with #1 granny emblazoned on the side — making sure to whip it into the crowd around you at Times Square before saying, I am freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee of the weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed!

And, as the ball dropped and everyone counted down, you exhaled what was to be your last hit of the fine, red-haired creeper weed you've been smoking for sixty-seven years and thought how wonderful the world was going to be tomorrow in your new, clean, sober body.

And as 2010 gave way to 2011, the millions of people around you hooped, hollered, and cheered, you taking it all in while giggling and letting that last hit take you on a magical mystery tour.

Then, as the ball settled, and the midnight kisses subsided, someone passed you a joint and, without so much as a thought to the resolution you'd been making all night long, you took the biggest hit and passed it on down the line.

It was 12:01AM, Jan 1, 2011.

Way to go, grandma. You're the first and fastest to break their New Year's resolution. Ever.

Happy New Year!

2010-12-31T22:10:00.001-05:00

Metalkabout my brother is gone

If you follow this blog (there are 10 of you), then you know I lost my brother, Sean, to H1N1 nine months ago. It's been one of the toughest things I've ever had to go through. Even as I write this I wonder if I've fully accepted it, if it's fully hit me yet.

Has it hit me yet?

That's a scary question. Just the thought of everything I've felt so far not being all I will feel. What's more? How will I handle it? Will it cut me down?

I guess time will tell.

Until then, I write here and in other places. One in particular is Sean's memorial site.

This is what I left him today:

Well, Sean.

Christmas has come and gone. And, to be honest, I couldn't be happier about that.

We held our annual party. But it wasn't the same. The entire time I was entertaining (and doing a poor job of it at that) I was thinking about Cathy and Patrick, mom and dad, Keith and James, and the rest of the family in Charlotte. And you, of course. Always you. Sad isn't an appropriate emotion for Christmas Day, I know, but it was there.

I tried to keep your love for the holidays close. Hell, I even wore that stupid Santa's hat for a brief few minutes. But despite my best efforts, I couldn't help but feel bogged down by the reality of you not being there.

It's a reality that became infinitely heavier when I Skyped the family. After seeing all the kids and wives and mom and dad and our brothers, I was faced with that one question I'm constantly asking myself: Where was Sean? Where was your excited greeting: "Hey, J, what's going on?" Where was the brother who would get the rest of the family singing "Hava Nagila" in honor of Jill's family and in the spirit of the Hanukkah holiday that had just passed? Where was the critique of mom's cookies? And the tip on the best ones in the batch. Where was the anchor of happiness in the family?

We all know the answer to that, sad to say.

And I can't lie: I'm no more comfortable with you being gone today than I was nine months ago when it first happened. It still stings. It really does, little brother.

Today is New Year's Eve day. You can feel the excitement here in the city. Everywhere I go people are abuzz with a new rush of energy. I belief it's a sense of optimism, hope, and outright relief that this past year — with all it's bad news and bad times and bad everything — will be old news in just a few hours. And a new day and beginning will dawn soon after we see the old one off. Joy.

People are happier on days like today. I know you'd be that way, too. So I'm striving for that optimism. But I gotta be honest, I'm having a hard time getting there.

Maybe before midnight, just as the ball is about to drop, the worm will turn for me, eh? I will find a new sense of hope, renewal. Maybe.

In the meantime, I miss you more than anything.

Happy New Year, Sean. 2011, who would've thought, huh?

I love you.

j

2010-12-30T23:29:00.005-05:00

Metalkabout once you roll over, it's all over

You learned how to roll over the other day. Now you're a baby that's no longer stuck on your back, oh no, you do stuff. Like tricks. The kind that entertain your mommy and daddy for hours and hours on end. There's just one hitch: Once you perform your new trick, it's all over, because you can't do it again unless you roll back over. Problem is, you're like a baby turtle that, once it's rolled over onto its shell, it can't get back to its belly. Your fate at that point is to lay there, flailing your stubby little arms and legs, trying with all you might to turn back over.

But, try as you might, you can't seem to get that hip of yours to cooperate. When you throw it to the left, it doesn't move. Or when it does move, your upper body decides it likes where it is and fights back. So all day long now, you're constantly battling your own little body. One minute you're a turtle on its back, the next you're sitting on your belly smacking your face into the mattress, drool dripping everywhere.

Eventually, you always get tired, although that reprieve for both you and your mommy is taking longer and longer to happen. So you cry and wail, kick and scream longer and louder. And all the while you're being the crying, whining baby you are, your mom is minutes away from losing her mind.

2010-12-28T13:18:00.004-05:00

Metalkabout liquid meatballs

You're five months old today. And in honor of this milestone in your life, you get to eat strained peas. Yes, you've graduated from formula to real food (or as close to real food as you're going to get right now), and nothing's going to get in your way of chowing down.

Nothing!

Well, that is, except your eye/hand/mouth coordination.

None of it seems to be working right for you at this very minute. The spoon comes at you fully loaded with the green mash and your hand suddenly snaps up and into your mouth. Those five fingers you've been fully enjoying for the past weeks have betrayed you by getting between you and the sweet, sweet goodness of those peas.

Or your head goes left when the peas come in from the left, forcing you to trade a mouthful of delicious green goop for an earful of green goop.

And then there's your tongue. Somehow the peas get past all the obstacles on the outside of your sizable melon head only to find it's the biggest hurdle of them. No matter how that green sweetness is shoveled in — to the roof of your mouth, the back of your tongue, the side of your cheek — your tongue forces it up, forward, and out. No sooner is there a spoonful of peas in your mouth then it's running down your chin and onto the bib.

You're stuck sitting there thinking, This blows big time.

And you know what? You're right.

Chin up, little fella. In the next few weeks you'll have bigger things to complain about, like teething or the terrible twos.

2010-12-24T21:59:00.000-05:00

Metalkabout 'twas the night before Christmas ...

... and I couldn't be sadder.

Sean, my brother, is no longer with us. It's a roller-coaster ride of a feeling. The highs and lows are a constant. But regardless where I am on this ride, the reality of it eventually always gets me, and I say, "Fuck, Sean! I can't believe you're gone."

I wrote this on his Web site today.

Well, little brother, it’s just hours before Christmas.

This was your holiday.
You owned it because you loved it most.

The whole concept behind Christmas: The gift giving. The singing of classic Christmas carols (in church, on the porch, just about anywhere the opportunity presented itself). Eating mommy’s cookies. And, of course, that goofy Santa’s hat of yours.

When I think of you during Christmas, Sean, I think of you in that hat, a cookie in your mouth, the words, “Hey, ‘J’, what’d Santa get you?” flying out of your mouth, supported by bits and pieces of the cookie.

It’s never been a secret. What you enjoyed most about this time of year was the giving.

It’s who you were. It’s really all you knew.

And it’s one of the things I always come back to when I’m thinking about you: your generosity — and the happiness, love, and cheer that came with it.

Your tradition of storming the mall to make the mad Christmas dash is proof of this. From the moment you entered the South Park Mall (or any other), the holiday cheer quotient in the place would seemingly crank up to max. And no matter what shop you visited, you did so with more spirit than most people conjure up in a lifetime. Every “Merry Christmas!” you offered someone — a shop worker, a gift wrapper, even the guy behind the CinnaBun counter (you loved that place)— was genuine and heartfelt. Your greetings let them feel the love you carried in your heart. And I like to think it made working on Christmas Eve a little easier for them. Meanwhile, that proverbial Santa bag over your shoulder would fill up with gifts for all you loved: Cathy, Patrick, us.

They’ll miss you at the mall tonight, Sean.

But then, we miss you every night.

This will always be your holiday, little brother. And I will try to keep the spirit you had for it alive. I guess the best place to start would be with that goofy Santa hat, huh? Figures you’d find a way to get me to wear one (smile).

There’s really only one thing I want for Christmas this year, Sean. But you and I both know that’s not going to happen.

The twins blow their Uncle Sean a kiss. And we all wish you a Merry Christmas.

We love and miss you more than anything.

j

2010-12-20T00:20:00.000-05:00

Metalkabout ho ho ho

You trimmed your Christmas tree today. But before you got started, you tuned into 106.7's 24/7, month-long Christmas music marathon. All. Day. Long. They play "the sounds of the holidays" is how one deejay put it.

It's beautiful, wonderful, enough to make a grown like you weep with joy. And you did. Even when Rudolph The Red-nose Reindeer came on. The part about Santa asking him to guide sleigh just about almost breaks your heart in two.

It wasn't until later in the day, once you'd composed yourself and stopped crying from all the music, that you began to trim the tree. You should be done at any minute now.

But until then, keep in mind one thing: at any minute the deejay could play that one song that stops you dead in your tracks and wipes you out for days – Charlie Brown's Christmas. It's an oldie but a goodie.

And they'll be playing it in 3 ... 2 ... 1 ....

2010-11-21T22:00:00.002-05:00

Metalkabout the real Mccoy

You, with your rosy cheeks, how super pumped the world is for you to revisit this Thanksgiving day.

You are the real Mccoy for any real meat-eating turkey lover out there.

Your rings of deliciousness, how they tell a story few can resist.

Your deep ruby hue of food coloring #45, 62, and h912.

Your preservative laden presence is welcome on tables everywhere this holiday season. And the next and the next after that and so on.

So, welcome, old sweet-ringed friend.

Make your way onto the cheap china plates around the world and grace us with your long-awaited flavor of the season once more.

Dig in!

2010-11-15T22:06:00.000-05:00

Metalkabout you

I have such a hard time remembering what you were like as a kid. Any of us, really. But it's important these days to remember you. And I can't.

I know your voice was high, like something you'd hear after a person inhaled helium. And your hair was unkempt and completely out of style. But then we all had bad hair back then, thanks to Mommy. She used to cut it in the kitchen, in those cheap chairs with the metal backs.

The walls in that kitchen were stuccoed. Dad said it was all the rave. It's only now that I know it was really just the easiest way to hide the imperfections. Dad would sit at that kitchen table smoking his Marlboro Lights and drinking whatever beer was on sale that week. Mommy would cut our hair, crafting the next fashion disaster. She was a beautician in training. We were her test subjects. It was a recipe for disaster.

I think you and I got it the worst back then. We were the middles, the second and the third in the family of four boys. It was our destiny to be dragged into uncharted waters like the haircuts. They were just one example. But ... when you're nine and eleven a bad haircut is traumatic enough.

Your death has me reeling right now, Sean.

It hits me harder each day, and I'm never prepared for the next day. I simpy don't understand this. And now I'm stuck trying to remember you and us and the life we lived growing up. The haircuts and the hanging out and the talks and walks and ....

Man this fucking sucks, little brother.

I miss you terribly.

2010-11-13T23:24:00.006-05:00

Metalkabout your 8x9 happy place.

You're a twenty-three-year old phyllo dough artist. It's your passion. It's what you were put on this earth to do. You know this to be certain because your mom, a Dunkin' Donuts franchise owner, told you so.

In fact, you just won the Phyllo Olympics, where you built an entire village of pilgrims celebrating Thanksgiving entirely out of phyllo dough. Even the turkey the phyllo pilgrims were eating was made with multiple layers of flakey dough. It's apparent that you take your art very seriously.

It certainly showed at the Olympics, where you displayed a degree of magnificence that took the judges' breath away.

And it's now taking you to New York City, the one place in the world where an artist with your skillz can be all he's ever dreamed of being.

As early as this week you're expected to be there. You're scheduled to do a live show on Rachel Ray and another on Martha. Then you're supposed to remake the pilgrim village for the guys at the Today Show. Al Roker personally asked to do the interview.

The one snag you've had is finding a place to stay while you're there.

You've been on Craig's List all night, only to find one halfway-decent place in Queens. The ad read: Single room with a partial view of a brick wall that's been spray painted white with a rainbow cascading off the side. And there's a hot plate for a kitchen. But NO cooking. It also said you share a bathroom, with seventeen other people. And it's on the fifth floor of a five-floor walkup. There are no pets allowed, either. So Franklin Thomas Jefferson Washington, your pet turtle, will have to stay with your mom. And she hates Mr. Washington — or as she likes to call him, "soup de jour."

So you've decided to take matters into your own hands. Right now, as this is being written, you're in Times Square making your house of happiness. It's your first-ever Phyllo shack, and you're pretty pumped about it. Mayor Bloomberg even came by this morning to say, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Your answer was, "Hey, Mayor, what's up? Listen I need a place to stay. And since I can't afford shit around here, I'm making my pad out of phyllo dough, the medium to which I plan to make masterpieces that one day hang in the Louvre and MOMA. Besides, if those two shitheads, the ones in the New York Times article today, can live in a tree in Central Park, I'm certainly entitled to build a phyllo dough house smack-dab in the middle of Broadway. So you cool with this, Mayor, or what?

He patted you on the back and, peeling off a section of the roof on your 8X10 phyllo abode and popping in his mouth, said, I'm cool with this, sure. But ... I'm going to have to charge you property taxes."

Your grandkids' grandkids' grandkids will be paying that shit back.

Long live the arts!

2010-11-07T00:05:00.005-04:00

Metalkabout Day Light Savings

You just arrived on earth.

No, you're not an alien — you're just really slow. So slow, in fact, that, although you're forty-eight years of age, you just woke up to what's happening in the world around you. Like, for example, this guy Obama, the president, he's not doing so hot right now. And if his losing streak continues, a lady like Sarah Palin could take the helm in 2012. You don't know much — in fact, you're a total fucking idiot — but you know with that nut case in the White House the shit would not be good.

So there's that, and then there's the Tea Party. Those loons are crazy. They're taking over the world. And, although you've technically been here for a long-ass time, you just arrived. And you're still impressed with the crazy shit you're seeing. Polygamists interest you. Atheists intrigue you. And ageists blow your mind. The whole world is full of "ists" of one kind or another.

But who gives a shit right now?

Because this whole thing about speeding up time is what's really blowing your mind right now. It's a pretty cool trick, though: At 2AM this morning it will really be 3AM. Just like that, an entire hour will be lost.

All day long you've wondered where that hour goes. And all day you've come up short for an answer. But it doesn't really matter. Because your interest is purely diabolical.

You see, you've figured out that if you can commit a crime at exactly 2AM this morning you'll never get caught. You're thinking ... if 2AM never exists, because everyone in the world switches their clocks to 3AM, you can't be pegged for the crime.

You'd be innocent at 1:59:00. But at 2:00:00, you'd be fucked.

2010-11-04T21:42:00.000-04:00

Metalkabout Sean

It's been 7 months since my brother passed. I never say dyed, that'd be too permanent. Besides, it feels like a curse word. When I think about it, though, there really isn't a proper word, or at least a word that feels good saying, so I guess it doesn't really matter what I use. "Dyed" is just as good as "passed" or "expired" or anything else you can come up with to describe something as fucked as a brother living without his brother.

Funny thing is, even though I don't know exactly how to word what happened to him, a day hasn't gone by that I haven't thought about it. I sometimes write those things down. This was today:

At 3AM, when everyone's fast asleep, and when I'm nodding off after working at my computer for an ungodly long time, I snap to and realize what's happened to us.

And that's when I look for you.

I squint and stare into the reflection of a window or mirror or pane of cabinet glass in my kitchen. And, if I squint just right, if I let my eyes lose just enough focus, I think I see where I might find you one day.

It's a parallel universe of sorts. A place so magical that I can't even begin to comprehend a tenth of what's found there. But you're there. And that's all that matters.

Problem is, I've yet to see you. So I keep on squinting, looking deep into the still life of the city or apartment that surrounds me at these early morning pauses in life. And I can't wait until the day I do see you.

I miss you, Sean. Can't say this has gotten any easier. It's just one of those things in life that's constantly there. It's there and you're not.

I'll find you.

j

2010-10-31T11:48:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout your state senator costume

You thought it'd be fun to dress up like a no-name incumbent from Delaware.

You told everyone you shook hands with that your name was Clive Clester and your platform was to ensure every American was afforded the right to own his or her own George Forman Grill.

"Times are tough," you were heard saying to a bunch of drunk ladies from Trenton, "and comfort food is the key to turning this recession around. If we could all learn to love a hot pocket or two of, say, ham and Swiss or, my favorite, bologna, pickles, and munster cheese, we could start saving serious money by eating at home. And by eating at home, we'd rent more movies. And by renting more movies, everyone would be doing his or her part to flood the economy with much needed cash. And by flooding the economy with much needed cash, we'd get these naysaying pundits to stop talking about a supposed deflation. I mean ... how can we have a deflation if every one is buying deli meat and renting movies? We can't, that's why!"

Impressed with yourself, you stood back and looked at the five girls, who by now were mostly asleep or wondering how they got stuck talking to Mr. Rogers.

"So what do you think, ladies?"

One of the girls, the hot one you'd had your eye on, stepped forward and began to speak, only to barf seconds later all over your five-dollar suit from the secondhand store.

You deserved it, though.

You were pretending to be a republican.

2010-10-30T17:39:00.019-04:00

Metalkabout meatballs

A new restaurant opened up in your neighborhood. They specialize in meatballs — as in "Mama's homemade meatballs." You imagine an old Italian lady right off the boat from, say, Sicily working in the back mixing ground meatballs with her dirty, stubby, hairy-knuckled hands. She's got a mole, too. A hairy one. Its right above her lip. And when she kisses people it tickles their lip. Most people try to avoid it, going to her cheek if at all possible, but she insists on the lip-to-lip contact. Its customary where she comes from. Plus she's a horn dog. Her name is Sophia. And somehow she's related to a mobster who's backing the whole meatball enterprise with money he's made stealing and killing people. You think it's a front for his gambling racket in the basement. Or maybe the meatballs are made from the ground up remains of the guys he's whacked. Some bum owes him fifty large and can't pay, he's Saturday night's special: meatballs with a touch of deadbeat.

You're so tempted to try the new place out, despite the reviews that basically say the food is shit and the service is synonymous with how lepers are ignored by anyone who's never seen the disease. You're standing at the counter now.

But here's the irony. You don't eat meat. And you're ordering meatballs. But wait, no you're not, you just asked the waitress if they make vegetarian meatballs. She's laughing so hard right now that she's certain she'll pee her pants any minute. At least that's what she just said to you.

But come on, think about it: Meatballs. The operative word here being "meat". And you're asking for a vegetarian version.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Bet you're the type of douche who walks into a steak house and asks for a tofu t-bone.

Come home and eat cook up a veggie burger, will ya?

2010-10-24T11:38:00.002-04:00

Metalkabout Hair I am

Your grandfather's grandfather was known around these parts for two things: The first was a fine sweet tea, for which his secret ingredient was rumored to be moonshine mixed with deer urine that was stirred with the feather of a bald eagle (an old Indian custom he learned from his drunken chief friend down at the reservation).

The second was an infinitely better thing to be known for. You see, your grandfather's grandfather had the uncanny ability to sense when a woman was in desperate need of the love of a bearded man. Not a bald man, a rich man, or a well-endowed man, but a bearded man. He performed this peculiar feat using his highly sensitive sense of smell. And taste. And a Q-Tip. He needed that one. But he required little more than these three items, other than to say he needed the woman he was scanning to pass him while he sat in his favorite chair — an old bucket seat from the original version of the Subaru Outback — out front of Gator's gas & tow.

When women did unsuspectedly happen by, he would make this sound: sniff-sniff-sniff while curling the end of his long, black/white/gray, nappy beard and also saying, "taste-taste-taste", all while sticking his tongue out to catch the back draft their bodies had created as they whisked by. He looked like a lizard. Or a fool. And most times both. And several times was arrested for public displays of lunacy. A crime in these parts that's punishable by a week in the county nuthouse. It's not Holiday Inn, rest assured of that.

During his time, your grandfather's grandfather diagnosed seven hundred women in need of love from a bearded man. And he made sure each one received it. One of them, Tilly Von Henry, was the most desperate. So desperate, in fact, that she required special care, the kind that required him to give her one-on-one coaching. They married for a short while. And she was cured. They gave birth a bearded baby, naming him Gadzooka! in honor of all things odd in the world.

Gadzooka also possessed the uncanny ability to sense when a woman was in desperate need of the love of a bearded man. And so, for a short while in life, the two, father and son, worked side-by-side to help the desperate of the world find love.

Your grandfather's father — your father — is now the age his father's father was when this story began. And you, the next in line to possess the uncanny ability to sense when a woman was in desperate need of the love of a bearded man, have chosen to take the families power to the next leverl. Thanks to the reality show craze the world is gripped by, you have decided to work with Patti Stranger, the millionaire matchmaker, to develop a new reality show called Hair I am, a new show on the Bravo network that will, for the firs time ever, show the world how women desperate for the love of a bearded man can — and do — find it.

You are a reality show host as of this Monday. Good luck on your new show. Here you go on Hair I am.

2010-10-17T16:15:00.000-04:00

Metalkabout you give good head

You're the shampoo guy at the swank hair salon downtown. You've been asked not to name names, so that's all you're comfortable saying about that. It's swank. It's downtown. And you're the shampoo guy.

Its a job you take great pride in doing. Each customer is a unique soul that you're determined to make feel the magical ecstasy that runs through your veins and extends from each of your fingers to their head.

You're methodical, the way you gently lay your customers' heads down, caressing their scalps while heating the water to just the right temperature. "Too hot?" you ask. A pleasure-heavy grunt of "yes" or "no" always follows. If an adjustment is needed, you alter and adjust and make it happen.

Then comes the shampoo. You work from the front of the scalp to the back, always massaging the neck when once there. Sighs of pleasure — deep pleasure — often follow. Most woman melt; most men cross their legs or adjust the smock they've just put on for the haircut.

One time, a woman of forty-three let out an orgasmic groan that baffled some, sickened others, but was all you the payment you needed to endorse what you firmly believe: You were put on this earth to keep heads clean.

At the conditioner stage, your customers are either in comma-like states or outright sleeping. For those still awake, this would be the time to snatch their purse or reach deep into their jacket pocket for a wallet. But that's not you. You are a saint. And you're on your way to becoming a manager.

After working in the conditioner and massaging the frontal lobe, you rinse them off, making sure not to lose the comma-like momentum. The towel goes over their heads, the patting process begins. And one final neck rub before you send them off the hairstylist.

And as they stand, they quietly, calmly turn to you and say, "You give great head."

And you do.

2010-10-09T23:06:00.004-04:00

Metalkabout you're no longer a chick magnet

You strolled through the park today pushing your newborns in their newly assembled City Select stroller. It's the choice chariot for all the cool kids who now find themselves parents of little snob-bubbling brats. Or so you've heard. A week ago, you were self-conscious about pushing a baby carriage anywhere outside your 50-foot comfort zone (in front of your apartment building). You wore a burka so none of the guys you play hoops with on Tuesdays would see you. Now, it's old hat, and you're out and about and ... everywhere.

You think nothing of walking up to the moms in the park trying to hang with them. They think of themselves as "The Mommy Gang", which, for obvious reasons (you, with the man-beef hanging between your legs and all, could not physically give birth and you're biologically unable to lactate, regardless of what that guy from England says he can do), keeps you at arms length of their inner circle. In a way, you are an outcast.

Today, when you walked up and greeted the mommies, they snidely greeted you back, saying, "Oh, hello ... Mike." Then they continued on, sipping their eight-dollar coffees in those nifty new "green" aluminum containers and talking about their husbands. Yes, guys just like you.

Carol King referred to her husband as a big, fat, needy dope. You know her husband. He's the pillar of your Indian Guides Club. "Needy" is not how you'd describe him. A whiney little fag, maybe. But "needy", not a chance. Dorothy Gourd chimed in, saying her husband is the poster child for abusive husbands. You know Hank, too. He's a passivist. Studied under Gandhi. And he's a wimp.

Here's the irony of the day for you, though: You banged all these broads years ago. Carol was a screamer. Dorothy was butt ugly and could only get guys to throw her a bone if she plied them with copious amounts of whiskey. Cost her $150 to make you blind that night. Of the seven women standing around the jungle gym talking about their men, you'd done six of them. You'd of done all seven, but Missy Drummer — the on-again, off-again nun — was pretty much into Jesus when you were on the prowl.

So six out of seven now stand in front of you and don't even acknowledge your existence. You are invisible to them.

Why?

Because you, sir, are a mommy-daddy.

And that's not sexy.

It's downright emasculating.

Congrats on the kids.

2010-10-01T19:58:00.003-04:00

Metalkabout how your soul is as soiled as a dirty diaper

Damned be you, man who is the absentee father. For you are the poser who is taking up space in the hallowed halls of daddydom. You know perfectly well you're not fit to stand in the footy-pajamas that represents everything that is wholesome and loving and warm and gleeful and joyous and stinky and life-fulfilling about fatherhood.

Go ahead. Stick to your TPS reports, your client reviews, your rewrites and edits and tweaks and never-ending pile of poo you're constantly using as an excuse to dodge your daddy duties. It's all drivel. Nonsense. And it will leave no lasting impression greater than the one you are ignoring at home right now. The babes of your loin. The greatest feats you've ever accomplished. The progeny that will utterly hate your guts one day for making mommy do all the work while you're at work.

Damned be the absentee father who sits in his ivory tower of dumb, waxing prophetic about the daddy he will one day be. The daddy who, right after this last project or late night or client meeting or conference call, will pay attention to all that really matters in the world: the babies that call us daddy. Liar!

Damned be us, the loser dads of the world.

Damned by our vacuous diatribes and empty promises and bloated proclamations for a brighter, happier, family-filled tomorrow.

Damned be us. Especially since we know we'll be bailing on that pumpkin picking excursion planned for next weekend. They will need us at work much more than our babies will need us at home. Believe that, you failure at fatherhood.

May we all get jumped and pummeled one late night in a dark alley somewhere in the daddyhood.

2010-09-29T08:50:00.004-04:00

Metalkabout your addiction to Country Crock

You grew up on a farm in northern Vermont, so getting dirty was part of your life, even if that dirt was mostly cow crap.

One of the advantages of living on a farm is the exposure to anatomy it affords a person. And you were no exception. Before you were ten-years-old, you'd squeezed more nipple than most men twice your age will ever have the pleasure of doing.

In that regard, life was good.

In the early mornings, before most normal people think about waking, you were up, already checking off your list of chores, which included milking the cows, feeding the pigs, cleaning the horse stalls, carving three walking sticks for your father's roadside "walking stick" business that he ran out of a shack on the front lawn of your farmhouse, staring at your neighbor, Sally, while she took a shower in the outside sprinkler behind her parent's trailer, fetching a pound of smoked bacon for breakfast, and making the butter.

You hated making the butter. What a wussy job. It was a task for girls, little girls, not a big, strong fullbacker-type guy like you.

Your high school counselor, Trey Bourbon, told you to stick it out, to make it work, because he, like everyone else in your rural town of 190 people, grew up on a farm and knew the importance of butter. Who made it didn't matter. Just as long as it got made.

You're living on your own now in the big city. In just fifteen years, you've gone from small-town hick to anonymous guy who lives over the Baby Gap off Broadway and 86th. And although you no longer have to do the chores, you do miss the rich, creamy taste of homemade butter. Nothing you've come across comes even close to tasting the same.

Yesterday, you got a fifty-cent off coupon in the Penny Saver for Country Crock. You think you'll try it. On their Website it says, Tastes Just Like Homemade.

Mmmmm ... homemade. You miss it back in Bumfucksville. You miss so much about it. Maybe the Country Crock will help warm the cockles of your heart, help take that sick, longing feeling away. Even if for but a minute.

Spread it on thick.

2010-09-26T12:02:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout you wanna be made perfectly pretty

You're four-feet nothing, weigh 345 pounds, bald, have a mole on your face that's shaped like a another deformed face, wear braces, can't walk in a straight line without falling over, use crutches because of an incident when you were five and accidently hobbled by your best friend Jan, have no thumbs, no pinkies, and half a middle finger, are hunchbacked, pigeon toed and chested, stutter, have buck teeth, are crossed-eyed, drool constantly because of a lack of musculature in your jaw, and ... you want the people at MTV to make you into the most perfect pretty person alive.

This is the request you sent in via email almost a year ago. And, as MTV celebrates its 200th Made episode with back-to-back Made shows all day today, you have yet to hear back from them.

Wait ... what's that?

Someone is knocking at the front door of your house in Clifton, New Jersey, where your family has been targeted by the neighbors as "that family" — the hoarders.

"Would someone get the god damn door?" your mother yells from the kitchen, which also has every newspaper ever written since 1983, the year your dad went off to prison for sexually molesting the cat.

"Got it, Ma," you reply, looking out over the piles upon piles of junk in your living room, including a backyard jungle gym and a plastic swimming pool, your peak out the picture window to see who's standing at the front door. You see a large gaggle of people standing on your small, brick, dilapidated patio with the plastic Christmas candy canes still attached the railing on either side. There are cameramen and reporters huddled together by the garden gnomes and news trucks parked in your driveway and on your rarely watered or mowed front grass.

"What the heck—" you begin saying before the doorbell rings again.

Your mother is fast to interject: "Get the god damn door, Catherine Anne Sperkowski! Now!"

"I'm doing it now, Ma," you fire back, ripping open the door and shouting, "What!?!"

A small, petite, perfect-looking woman asks,"Are you Catharine Anne Sperkowskil?"

"I am," you say, the bewilderment present in your voice and on your face.

"Hi. I'm Devon, and I'm your Made coach."

For the next eight weeks Devon will try her best to make you into a perfectly pretty person.

She will get your limp leg fixed, teach you how to walk and talk at the same time, have the mole on your face removed, your pigeon chest and hunchback adjusted, and get that drooling taken care of — all while Americans across the country watch in horror (and delight) as you become the train wreck of the week to watch. People will profess sadness for you, but they will never miss minute of your quick, sad dissent into total embarrassment.

Because no matter what Devon does, it won't be enough. By the time the eight weeks is over, you will look more like a child's poorly rendered noodle artwork than a perfectly pretty person.

Devon will say, "We tried kido. Truth be told, though, you're nowhere near perfect. You're actually quite butt ugly. But don't let that get you down, sweetie, because we are all perfect ... in our own minds. So lie to yourself when you look in the mirror. Reaffirm your perfection by saying your it, even if it's not true. And someday, one day, you'll see ..."

"See what?" you'll ask, the tears running down the check of the mole on your face.

"I'm not sure yet, honey. But let's just hope it's not how truly ugly you are."

"Oh, I see," you'll say. And then you will push the camera away, tearing at the hidden microphone under your blouse, saying, "I can't do this anymore. I can't do this."

And all the while, Americans everywhere will be saying, "Go on with the show, Catherine. Your pathetic life makes me feel so much better about myself. Don't quit now."

Sadly, you will.

2010-09-21T09:00:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout you, the ugliest winner of America's Next Top Model

From across the hospital room, you could see the little boy. His head was bigger than most, his hands tinier than anything you'd ever seen. They were hooked, like the claws found on a crab. He looked like a character out of a Mad Magazine cartoon, something you'd see in at a circus freak show ... or on the bottom of your shoe after walking through the 72nd street dog run. He was repulsive, an abomination, ugly.

He was your son.

And you, being his mother, should've been ashamed of yourself for the embarrassment you felt coursing through your body. When he saw you cry, even at the age of just a few minutes old, he knew you were disappointed in what you saw, and it would stick with him his entire life.

That day, he was swaddled in a purple cottony cloth, his massive head looking more pumpkin than little boy. You couldn't see past that. You couldn't bring yourself to love him. So he sat in the in the corner of the bleach-white room, in an incubator, his eyes filling with the first baby tears he'd know for the rest of his life, you turned away so as to avoid the pain of seeing him.

It was 2:30 when the nurse came into your room. She asked if you were ready to go home, if you were excited to bring your newborn to the place where family and friends awaited your arrival. You heard only some of what she was saying. But it was enough to make you cry. The tears filled your eyes, as you thought about how everyone in your life would be waiting for you and the baby at home. How could you bring that thing, your son, home to them? How could you crush their dreams of you having a perfect child? After all, you're a top model. You. Are. Flawless.

At least in looks department.

Because the ugly your son shows on the outside, the unsightliness that hangs on his face and around his big ears and even bigger head, you wear on the inside. You are ugly for not loving your ugly baby, even though you just won America's Next Top Model.

Way to go, ugly mommy model.

2010-09-19T17:41:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout "Thanks for getting me to the church on time"

We recently moved. And with the babies and all, I haven't had much time to unpack. So, last night, when all in the house was quiet, I decided to tackle the master bedroom, where most of the still-packed boxes were hiding.

As I dug through one box, I quickly realized it contained things I hadn't seen in years. It was lots of junk, lots of meaningless memories and keepsakes that I wasn't sure what I was thinking when I decided to keep them. Then I came across the the watch.

The watch, in its brown leather case, was a gift from my brother Sean on his wedding day.

Sean, the middle child just like me. Sean, the brother I hung out with most growing up. Sean, the one I protected, claiming all rights to being the only person that could knock him around. Sean ... the brother I didn't get to say goodbye to before he passed away on April 2nd of this year. Sean gave each of the members of his wedding party a watch, same one I was holding. It was a fine wedding-party gift. Yet ... I'd never worn it, never thought much about it, really.

Until last night.

Last night, as I dug through the box of discarded shit — old playing cards, pens and markers of assorted colors and tip type, countless ear buds to my iPhone, lip balm, buttons, matches from restaurants from all over the city, and so on — I kept thinking, I collect too much crap. And I do. But I wasn't prepared to see the brown leather case. The case that held the Eddie Bauer watch my brother gave me. The watch with the inscription on the back: Thanks for getting me to the church on time.

I couldn't help but think about walking his casket into the same church that he was married in. There it rested, at the head of the alter, exactly where Sean and Cathy, his wife, stood and recited their vows. There, in front of so many of the same people who just five years earlier had come to see Sean and Cathy be married, saw Sean laid to rest, Cathy sitting off to the side in the front pew, the remaining brothers (three of us) holding on to her ... and each other.

Thanks for getting me to the church on time.

We were there on time. For his wedding. And for his funeral. How surreal these past five months have been. How utterly unreal it seems right now, as I sit here writing this. How unfair. Really. How fucking unfair.

I've never been a big fan of that watch. Wasn't really my taste, I guess. I'm a Breitling man. Always have been. But I think I'm taking a shine to the Eddie Bauer watch, think I might add it to my everyday collection. Who know, maybe I'll be on time for a few things now myself.

I miss you, Sean.

2010-09-18T13:46:00.003-04:00

Metalkabout you're as cold as the steel of your stripper pole

Your boss at the strip club just smacked you on your ass and wished you a happy birthday.

After this next set on the pole, you're blowing out of work early to grab drinks and get your freak on with the first hottie you get your hands on.

You've been around the block a few hundred times, so you're not that particular these days. Your goal is to have some beefcake "stick it in" and make you feel tingly all over ... 'cause it's your birthday.

The only thing standing in between you and getting "stuck" is this last set. And your plan is to go buck wild on that pole, giving your fans all the fantasy their booze-blind brains can handle.

You approach it like a cougar to a felled baby deer, methodically putting one seven-inch heel from Payless Shoes in front of the other as you near the wounded baby fawn. Then you pounce! Jumping high and wrapping your arms around the skinny steel, twirling and arching your back as gravity pulls you to the stage floor. Your legs spread wide, you stare out into the crowd to see the sad faces of frustrated men staring back at you. These are your fans. And they go wild, filling the room with hoops and hollers that drown out White Snake's Here I go again and put to shame any of the other girls who came before you during the night.

Then the singles start flying. A blizzard of dollar bills blurs your vision, temporarily making you think back to the winters in New Hampshire and your childhood. It was a pretty fucked up time for you and your Barbies. You don't like to think about it. You bat the singles away, looking deep into the crowd to find a familiar face, a friendly face, anyone who can make the pain you're feeling go away.

And then you fix on Henry.

Mailman by day and barfly by night, Henry has been the closest thing to the man in your life for the past ten years. He's always been there for you, even after you told him last night that you were intentionally going out tonight to be stuck by someone else.

And if you don't believe him, just read the card you bought you. It's a Hallmark, which means he really cares. And there's a rose and a Win for Life scratch off ticket. He went all out for your birthday. And how will you show your appreciation?

You're going out to let some other dope "stick it in" tonight.

That's cold, birthday girl. Really cold.

2010-09-17T13:24:00.000-04:00

Metalkabout a blink of an eye

It all happened so quickly.

One day you're diving deep into the pond of life, splashing water in the face of anything remotely resembling a responsibility, and the next you're sitting on the beach changing diapers and burping babies while gazing out onto the pond as it passes you by.

Everything about your life has changed in a flash.

In the blink of an eye, you've traded your beer stein for a bottle of breast milk, your own vomit episodes after a night's fuck-all, balls-out bash for projectile spit-up and or pee ... and or poop, and you're now waking up at 3AM to watch your little ones eat, instead of rolling in at 3AM and diving head first into the 'fridge to feed your fat, drunken face.

Poor you.

But it gets worse. Because now that you've entered into that next phase of life known as parenthood, you're constantly being reminded by anyone who's ever been down this road before that you better not for a second think to let your eyes off of the babies because they grow up fast.

Perfect fodder to activate your OCD.

Since having them (six weeks ago today), you haven't blinked. Not a single time. You've always been good at staring contests, but this takes the cake. You sit ... and you stare down at them. Luckily your wife supports your efforts to not miss a single moment of your babies existence. She's even helped you duct tape your eyes wide open, making it virtually impossible for you to blink, no matter how badly you want to.

So, for six weeks now, you've sat by your babies crib and peered in, your eyes bulging out of your head, with your left eye looking at the baby on the left and your right eye looking at the baby on the right. You've split your vision for so now long that it's highly unlikely you'll ever walk in a straight line again.

What's more, you're scaring them. You may not know it, but they see you watching them. And they're freaked out by it! Because the duct tape has contorted your face in a way that makes you look more deformed than their daddy. Instead of exposing them to bright colors and geometric shapes, they're being subjected to the face of a retard — you, daddy.

Keep staring, pops. You won't miss a thing. Including watching your kids turn into tortured little monsters, thanks to the damage you're doing right now.

I see you.

2010-09-14T12:43:00.000-04:00

Metalkabout pray for us all

You took a step to being an entrepreneur yesterday.

It went down like this:

You walked into a bank, a mask covering your face so no one could identify, and yelled, "Everyone get the fuck down! Faces to the floor! Now! Now! Now! That goes for you, too, fatso fucktooth over there in the corner!" You said this to the bank manager, Lester Shorter, your father-in-law and the guy who'd recently turned you down for a loan to start your small business.

"No one is going to buy chocolate-covered praying mantis arms, Douglas," he said to you just days earlier, while continuing on with words that hurt more than his dream-crushing denial of your loan: "Why don't you get your head out of your ass and come work for me, Douglas? You see the security officer over there," he said pointing to a portly little man with a look of senility in his face, "he's ready to retire and I'm going to need a new guy to protect the bank."

Surprisingly, you maintained your cool, saying, "You know what, Lester, you're right: My dreams of starting the first-ever praying mantis confections business was a fucking pipe dream, a real dumb idea. Thank you for setting me straight by drop kicking my little inch of hope into oblivion. I'll take the job," you said while shaking Lester's hand. "By the way ... how much cash will I be protecting?"

Leaning into your shoulder, your father-in-law whispered, "Three million large. So you need to be vigilant at all times, just like Gus is over there," he said, while pointing to the senile old man, who was seemingly fixated on picking lint off the lapel on his polyester security jacket.

Turning and grabbing a grape lollipop off the nearest teller's counter, you said, "I'll guard it with my life ... dad," You popped the lolli' in your mouth and walked out.

That night, while watching America's Got Talent with your wife, Maureen, you plotted the most diabolical plan to ever take place in your small town of Wishbone, Washington.

"What are you doing?" Maureen asked, watching you slowly dip the arms of praying mantises into dark chocolate, 70% bitter.

"I'm practicing my craft, honey," you said.

"So daddy gave you the loan?"

"Not exactly. But, come tomorrow, he will."

"What are you planning, Douglas?" Maureen asked.

"I'm writing a business plan, honey, can't you see that?"

"So ... you're going to let daddy sample your chocolate-covered praying mantis arms?"

"Yes, dear ... something like that."

The next morning, while sitting outside the bank casing the joint, you watched as Gus, the old security guard, tripped on the front step leading into the bank. He fell backwards, landing on his ass. Dazed, he looked around to see if anyone had been watching. You ducked low in the seat of your Econoline van and continued to watch as he brushed himself off and slowly made his way into work. It would be his last day. And, in a way, you almost felt bad for the old guy.

But the world needed to taste the sweet delight of chocolate-covered praying mantis arms on its collective lip — and you would be the guy to make it happen.

So fuck Gus!

At 8:45AM, exactly fifteen minutes after the bank opened, you walked in, the mask covering your face, and yelled for everyone to get down. "Faces to the floor!" you shouted, watching all four customers drop like felled turkey at the annual turkey trot. Gus, on the other hand, not sure if he heard you correctly, approached, saying, "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to take a seat and stop shouting. A bank representative will be with your shortly. Perhaps we can get you some coffee. Would you like that, sir?"

As soon as Gus got close enough, you pistol whipped him to the floor.

"Lester!" you yelled, "Take your fat ass to the back of the room and get all the cash. All three million of it, fat boy!"

Lester, in shock, said, "I don't know who you are or how you know I have exactly three million back there, but I will do as you say under one condition: Stop calling me fat! I'm Six feet tall and weigh 156 pounds. I'm anorexic, not fat."

The butt of your pistol landed across his jaw, as you said, "Do not get wise with me, fatty! Now go do as I told you, chubsy!"

As Lester went to the back to do your bidding, you cleared off one of the desks and and began setting up a display of praying mantis arms, each one offering a different mind-blowing treat. There were praying mantis arms dipped in dark chocolate, praying mantis pretzel rods and chocolate, praying mantis arms holding M&Ms dipped in white chocolate, and so on. All told, you set out forty-three varieties of praying mantis arms across the table. Then you turned to the people still on the floor and invited them to help themselves to your samples.

As the bank takeover turned into a test market for your new praying mantis confections business, you yelled for Lester to come back out. "Please, Lester, you said, "try a praying mantis arm with rosemary and sage dipped in 90% dark chocolate."

"Douglas, is that you?" he asked.

"It is, dad," you said. "I just wanted you to see and taste the deliciousness of chocolate-covered praying mantis arms. ... Good, aren't they?"

"They are, Douglas. They are. And I'm sorry I doubted you."

"No need for apologies, dad," you said.

"You know, when you get out of prison for armed robbery and possibly murdering old Gus over there— who, by the way, hasn't taken a breath in over four minutes — I will loan you the money you need to start your chocolate-covered praying mantis arms business. The world needs to taste this delightful treat!"

"You will, dad?"

"Yes, son, I will."

2010-09-12T19:13:00.002-04:00

Metalkabout you're so out of the loop

You wrote this letter to the New York Post this afternoon:

Dear, New York Post:

I just found out, like literally this very second, literally ... no joke, that a bunch of Muslims are trying to build a mosque right next to where the World Trade Center used to stand.

Before I can even process the news, New York Post, I need to get over the fact that these so-called plans have been in the making for months — and you haven't mentioned squat!

Wtf, New York Post!?! Why haven't you been keeping my in the loop?

I mean, it's not like I'm not a daily reader. I religiously turn to you to keep me in touch with the world. Every single day, before I do anything else, I read Page Six. And every single day I feel like I'm the most informed person on the planet. But nowhere in the past months have I read anything about this mosque business on Page Six.

Don't even tell me, New York Post, that you've been hiding news of this importance on the front page. Come on! Who reads that fucking section anymore? No one, that's who!

Unfortunately, I am left with no choice but to point the finger and blame my ignorance on you, New York Post. Honestly, how dare you call yourself a Pulitzer Price winning paper, with journalistic prowess that's unmatched by any other newspaper on the stand today?

You can't. Not after what you've done.

I may have to reconsider my news choice on go back to the National Enquirer, if you keep this up.

But ... Page Six is the only bulletin of truth left in this country, and I depend on you. Yet you've neglected to keep those of us — your truly most educated readers — who read Page Six and nothing but Page Six informed.

Shame on you!

That said, I would like to say that Saturday's Page Six article on the MTV Music Awards was brilliant. A profound piece of journalism, if you ask this reader!

Sincerely,
Brenda Clark
Bronx, New York

2010-09-05T00:11:00.000-04:00

Metalkabout you boob

The words in the little starburst on the can of baby formula read: Just like breast milk.

For some unexplainable reason, you were aroused by this, which is kind of gross because you're a heterosexual woman who just gave birth to triplets and it supposedly madly in love with her husband, Dwayne.

Dwayne is a bank manager at the local Fidelity branch. He's been faithful to you since the day you got married some fifteen years ago, including that time at the Christmas party when Peggy Bumbo tried to ply him with party punch and seduce him. She is hot, unlike you. Still, he respectfully declined and came home to you ... with a fistful of grape lollipops he'd take from the "for kids only" box on one of the teller's windowsills at the bank.

Must be the hormones, this obsession with boobs, you keep telling yourself. Why else would you be fantasize about boobs?

Maybe it's because you've been in the closet for too long. Maybe, it's time you became the boob-chasing terror you've been suppressing all these years (your entire life). Except that one time in college band camp. Yes, 'this one time at band camp ..." Might sound like a joke to some, but to you and Chrissy Hynes, the guy who changed your life by feeling you up, the world stood still for a brief minute and has never been the same since.

You long for those days now. You—

Your baby is crying. It just shat itself.

Get in there married to a man gay mommy.

2010-08-30T08:18:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout it's been a long time coming

I haven't written in weeks. Babies have a tendency to do that to a man. Replacing the pen for the rattle or pacifier. But it's all good. I love the little ones. Deeply. If you don't have one or two of you own, I say run now and get yerself some. Yeah, I said "yerself" — so. the. eff. what! The English language is dead. Just ask Flava Flave.

So let me catch you up on life as seen through my bleary-eyed, 2AM and 5AM feeding eyes.

Typical day. Wake at 6AM (meaning I've slept a few hours at most). Stand in the corner of our room and watch the city come alive as I do the same. I have a window that faces north. It looks straight up Amsterdam Ave. I can see for miles. No joke. Often times, there's a homeless person somewhere down there. I always wonder how that person came to be that person and what type of person was he or she before being out on the street.

I stop staring and start getting ready for the day.

Shower first. A long one. Fuck water consumption. No, seriously, we have a energy efficient shower head. I could be in there twenty times longer than most and still not use nearly as much water as the average person.

After shower, it's put on some clothes. Always jeans. Always a t-shirt. Most always vans or chucks. I'm as basic as they come. Plain, understated, and fucking proud of it. Being free of fashion is a fashion statement in itself. And let's not ignore the buckets of money it saves. Chucks are still under $45. Beat that!

After I don the same thing I probably donned just a day or two ago, I go into the kitchen and grab a quick bite. Cheerios, with 1% organic milk. A veegan bar that's beginning to taste more like one of those energy bars from ten years ago. They were good when they first come out. Now they're slipping. Chalk for breakfast is not appetizing.

I check the news. Another bomb. More death. Stock market's still closed. Housing market is tanking. Oh look Don Draper one an Emmy. Now my day is complete. Fuck this. I'll read more of the sadness later.

Then I quietly walk into my kids' room and gaze at them. Right now we have them sleeping together. It's magical to watch. No matter how far apart we put them in the beginning of the night, they're always together in the morning. It's cute. It strange, too. Like some innate force pulls them together. I love that they're twins. Now all I need to do is hit the lottery.

I stare and I stare, until Ria, our 24-hour nurse for just four more days, tells me to leave her room. I pay the mortgage here but it's her room? Funny stuff. But I listen, 'cause, semantics aside, she's right.

So I leave ... and then I leave ... for work, where whole days seem to disappear. And while I'm there trying to solve some minor detail in a world full of bigger problems, the life I've helped given to two little gnomes is passing me by.

That's painful shit to deal with every day. It's not fun.

And it's why I post. Could be funny one day, sad the next. Deep one afternoon, shallow and insipid the next. Nonsensical or meaningful. It doesn't really matter. I sit, I type, I see what comes out.

Like this little ditty. I originally intended to give you guys an update and then go into some twisted third-person story (me talking about you) as I often do.

Just so you know, most of the time when I write about "you" — it's about me. Or it's about someone like you. But it's rarely you. Because I don't know you. Or do I?

I'm out. The relentless pursuit of happiness in life is on the back burner as I go punch the time clock.

I miss you, babies. See you later. A lot later.

No, people, go get a life and stop reading this droll.

2010-08-16T08:35:00.002-04:00

Meatalkabout an update since the twins' arrival

One would think I'd have written volumes by now about all that's happened these past few days.

Sorry, been so insanely busy.

As if bringing two new babies into the world wasn't enough, we also tackled a move, going from our cozy one bedroom to a grander two bedroom jut a block away.

This happened on Friday and entailed hiring five guys from Moishe's who, like mover ninjas, disassembled our old place in four hours, putting everything (even a bag of stale toast) into boxes and labeling them with generic descriptors — "kitchen" or "hallway", only to find anything but items belonging in our kitchen or hallway.

They then sprinted over to our new place, tossed the questionably-labeled boxes in or close to their respective places, then took off. Gone. But, with more than seventy boxes to contend with, definitely not forgotten.

But there's more.

Along with the two babies and the move, Jill has been having an incredibly difficult time recovering from the C-section. (I honestly must say, considering the pain she's in, she's a bigger man than me.) I don't know how she's doing it. Between the pain, discomfort, and lack of any real sleep, she has these two little creatures demanding food every three hours. By the time she's done feeding them and collecting her thoughts, it's time to feed them again. And if she's not feeding them, we're changing them, or holding them because they won't go to sleep, or spending time with them because, well ... we're in love.

This past week has been madness. Pure, unadulterated madness. At times, I've felt like I was walking around in a dream. Even now, as I sit here in my new room looking out onto an old, stately, circa 1800s co-cop, I find myself in disbelief that we've accomplished so much in such a short amount of time.

But then, it's amazing what a person will do when something new is introduced into their life.

In my case, it was a simple, six-letter word: Family.

And now that I have one, there's nothing I won't do to make sure they're safe and sound.

metalkabout the Twins coup

2010-08-07T05:43:00.000-04:00

Baby A and Baby B were due to be delivered yesterday. But after several delays and a epidural that didn't take effect, the delivery was rescheduled for today.

Well played, twins. Well played indeed.

But your hours of hiding are coming to an end. It's only a matter of time now before we meet face-to-face. And when we do, I will bury my face in yours and say, "Cootchy-Cootchy Coo ..."

Daddy's ready, little dudes.

2010-08-03T18:22:00.001-04:00

Metalkabout Dr. Dickbag

You’ll be a mommy any day now. You’ve dreamed of this moment your entire life, planning extensively for it the past two years. And now you’re standing at the precipice of … parenthood.

You. Are. Ready.

Or at least you thought you were.

This morning, when Doctor Know-it-all, Douche bag, Jerk-boy stopped by to check in, he thought it best to show you the new, highly-graphic birthing video to help you understand how a C-Section is performed.

As you sat through all stomach-churning twenty-two minutes, becoming more faint with every montage of a strange lady showing how her vagina could open to be the size of a manhole, you kept thinking, This can’t be happening to me. I was supposed to give birth naturally. It was supposed to be prefect.

Then you vomited.

Way to fucking go, Dr. Dickbag.

2010-07-25T16:09:00.004-04:00

Metalkabout a real-life moment

My wife and I are having babies. Yes, babies as in more than one. In our case it's two, so no Kate Plus 8 opportunity here. Still, two babies is more than one ... and one always struck me as enough of a stressor.

So here we are, slogging through and trying to prepare for twin parenthood. It's like the blind leading the blind. It's hilarity, if you can stop long enough to see it. And as the time for delivery draws near, so, too, do the things on the to-do list, which at this stage of the game have been put on the "Oh shit we're getting close" list.

This was today's small victory.

Slightly neurotic about how to properly install the twins' car seats. Convinced I've done it exactly right after the sixth time of doing exactly what the manual says I should do. Life continues to change at a rapid, beautifully mind-blowing pace.

2010-07-24T15:35:00.004-04:00

Metalkabout how Prince Albert and the monkey wrench saved your life.

The interview was scheduled for 3:15.

To ensure you'd be there on time, you arrived ten minutes early. Problem with your plan was this: Your watch was eleven minutes slow. So you were actually a minute late, not ten minutes early. News to you when the receptionist announced, "You're late. And Mr. Dickman is all about punctuality. Good luck in there."

While leading you down a long, dark hallway towards a large office door, you thought you heard her mumbling "dead man walking." As you got closer, you began to make out the words etched in the glass that took up two-thirds of the door: Ronald P Dickman. Plumbers are sexy fucking beasts, bitch! She opened the door, motioning for you to pause, and stuck her head in. "Is that prick here yet?" a low, smokey voice barked.

"He is, Mr. Dickman," said the receptionist, opening the door wider so you both could see each other.

"Get the fuck in here, you little prick," he said.

You immediately extended your hand and walked towards the fat, little, Italian-looking man sitting behind a large, cluttered desk. "Terribly sorry I'm late, sir. My watch must be a slow. I actually thought I was early."

"Yeah, well I ACTUALLY thought I was getting someone competent this time, a plumber who could ACTUALLY plumb and ACTUALLY show up on fucking time," Dickman fired back. Now sit your ass down and impress me. You've got five minutes.

You sat in the chair across from his desk and rifled through your head what you could say or do in five minutes that would impress him. You'd studied the Plumbing for Dummies books all month, so you were pretty sure you knew your shit, even for an out-of-work English teacher. But you dared not try to show off your book smarts about snaking a clogged drain to the master himself.

So you continued searching, as the little man behind the desk continued glaring in your direction.

Then it dawned on you: It was only a week ago yesterday that you'd upgraded the jewels on your Prince Albert. And in honor of your newfound love for the trade of plumbing, you had a golden monkey wrench made. So you stood up, unzipped your trousers, and yanked them to your knees, saying, "Voila!" as you proudly curved your pelvis towards Mr. Dickman to show off the golden monkey wrench hanging from the tip of your dick.

In your mind, you'd done in four minutes what he'd asked you to do in five. You'd impressed him by showing off the bedazzled beast in your pants, one that flew the plumber flag high, bejeweled as it was. Points in your book, if you didn't say so yourself.

At first, he didn't move. He just sat behind his large desk stoic, fierce, dumbstruck. Then, without ever taking his stunned eyes off of you, he slowly opened the top drawer, pulled out a gun, and shot you in the dick.

You immediately fell to the floor, the sharp pain racing through your manhood. The thought of being shot consumed you. Being shot in the dick consumed you even more. Afraid to look down for fear of what you'd find (or not find), you slowly tilted your head in the direction of the pain. But instead of seeing your man meat blown to bits, all you saw was your monkey wrench was missing. The bullet hit the monkey wrench on your Prince Albert. It acted as a shield to save your dick.

The monkey wrench saved your life.