Strange Dreams

Last week, my secretary dropped references to the movie Secretary a half dozen times.  So, it's only natural that, being the pig that I am, my mind started conjuring up all kinds of scenarios to explain her sudden interest in the movie.

These images have seeped into my dreams.

Stripper Punishment

Last night, I got a call from a friend.  He was in the city and wanted to get together.  I agreed to meet him, and another friend, for a few drinks.

A few drinks was an understatement.  I feel like death.

Ouch

I feel like someone opened my skull, took a massive dump between my ears and screwed my head on backwards.

Floogin's Father

I work with my dad.  Well, I work.  He comes in and hangs out.  Yesterday, he called me into his office because he wanted me to see Ice Road Truckers.  The truckers were in the Himalayas I think.  Crazy ass shit.  Great show.  Anyway, the old man loves having my secretary help him with his computer problems, which he seems to have quite a bit of for a guy who uses a computer to access his AOL email and check his stocks.

Today I found out what the issue really is.

So Ya Thought Ya Might Like To Go To A Show

Roger Waters has been touring the country, playing The Wall, in its entirety.  I contacted a friend with connections and asked if I could get tickets for myself, my wife and, if possible, two more for friends. The show was on November 6th and I had been on the list for over a month.

This past Tuesday he told me I was on a very long wait list and, odds were, I wasn't going.  Friday after noon, my wife made plans for the 6th (Saturday) with another couple. 

At midnight, the email comes thru - two tickets for tomorrow.  House seats. 

At first, I was thrilled.  My wife and I were going to see an incredible show.  I've heard that it's life altering, incredible, insane etc.  I contacted my friend and told him we were so excited.  His response:

"It's you and me bud, I'm in."

Fuck Me.

NYC, You Suck

As is always the case, I wound up donning a costume of sorts to give the kids an extra halloween thrill and, of course, to allow myself the fun of the holiday as well.


In the past I've done all kinds of things. Pig nose and wings last year in honor of the Swine Flu (swing flew get it?), Bloody nail thru the head the year before that. Always something a little fun, a little odd. This year, with the kids getting older and the masks and whatnot no longer scaring them, I decided to go with something a bit more nasty. I slashed my throat.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My wife was with my daughter and her friend, getting manicures so, while the boy watched some tv, I locked myself in the bathroom with a fake wound, spirit gum and stage blood. I applied the wound across the neck, added copious amounts of blood to my neck and shirt and staggered into the living room telling my son I cut myself shaving.


This is how I looked:

My son looked up at me and gagged before telling me I looked gross and he didn't like it. He then asked if it was real. I told him it was not and he laughed and asked if I was going to wear it to soccer practice. I said I was.

So, we packed up our stuff and headed to the nail salon to pick up my daughter and her friend. On the one block walk, not a single person smiled, laughed, pointed, grimaced or blinked.

We walked into the salon and wandered to the back, where my daughter and her friend were drying their nails and my wife was getting her toes done. My wife looked up and said we needed a couple more minutes so the girls' nails would be fully dried. Not a word about the blood on my shirt, the slash across my throat. Then the woman painting her toes looked up. And screamed. Everyone in the salon looked at me. There were gasps, and laughs and my daughter looked up and told me it was disgusting and she loved it.

We packed up the kids and went out on the street. Two blocks walked to get a cab. Nary a nod or a smile at the slashed throat.

We got out of the cab by a hospital which is across the street from the entrance to the park. Nobody noticed.

At the soccer game, a few of the kids said something but, until they did, not a word from the parents or coaches. So sad.

After soccer, I took the kids home so they could get their costumes on and I ran out to grab some lunch for them. 4 blocks walked to a bagel store. Nobody noticed.

Went to a drug store to get a few things.

Nobody noticed.

What the hell is wrong with people? Are we all that cold, that detached from our surroundings, that we fail to notice a man with his throat cut?

Walking back to my apartment a small group of tourists notice me, laugh and ask if I will take a picture. Of them, not with them.

Head to the halloween party and, finally, a local adult notices the blood and gore. Have my picture taken a few times. Do the trick or treat thing with the kids and get a comment or two from the folks wandering the buildings, seeking treats with their kids.

After dropping the kids back off at the apartment with my wife, I head back out for pizza for the kids. In the pizzeria, the guy behind the counter asks what I'm having, doesn't register the blood and gore. As I'm paying, a japanese woman in front of me bumps into me, turns to apologize and screams. Upon seeing that I am, in fact, not dying, she turns to her companion and shakes him, pointing at me. They both say something in japanese, smiling and laughing and walk away.

On the walk back, again, nobody notices.

What's wrong with my city? Are we so afraid to look at people? Are we so accustomed to death and gore that, even if we do see someone, we don't register it? Are we afraid that, if we say something to a stranger, they might take it the wrong way?

I need to move. Find a place where people care. Where someone will notice a guy when he slashes his throat.

Here's another, better shot of the gore.

Seriously.  How could you not, at the very least, acknowledge that?

It's Tricky to Walk This Way in Run's House wearing My Adidas

A friend of mine recently took over the position of President for one of the myriad of cable networks available on most sets.  He's been involved with number of relatively well received reality shows, geared towards women, over the years and this new position is a reward for all his hard work with the other networks owned by the company he works for.  His first new show on this network is launching in a few weeks and last night they had the launch party to celebrate said launch.

I was there to soak it all in.

A New Kind Of Hell

Tax deadline day and this past week was a doozy.  Normally, 5 days before the deadline and I'm up to my ears in paperwork, phone calls, client visits and a variety of other hell.  This year was rather tame in that regard.  The larger, more complicated returns were done a few days earlier than normal and, thanks to my oddly proactive work ethic towards the end of the summer, a bulk of the work was completed earlier than normal.

So, by this past weekend, I was sitting around, calling clients, prodding them to get their shit in sooner, rather than later.  For the most part, it worked.  Clients sent stuff in earlier or ignored me.  By Wednesday, I was leaving at humane hours (9PM) and the work was moving quickly off my desk and out the door.

Then something happened, ruining the flow, destroying my mood and creating hell in the workplace.

Revenge, Floogin Style

I put up with a lot of shit, primarily because I can't be bothered with things but, from time to time, something done to me gets on my nerves enough that I retaliate.  When I do, it's usually childish and cruel.

So, this past week, I was pushed, once again, by an associate and the situation called for a bold statement.

I was happy to oblige.

The Tailor Crushes Me

So, I picked up a couple of suits a few months back and, thanks to a long summer of heat and lots of walking around, the pants are now falling off me.  I've got this incredible tailor who works out of an office where I work.  The guy does tons of work for movies, broadway and tv, along with making clothes, and altering clothes for normal folks to wear in normal situations. 

The guy's incredible and his prices are pretty fair so I brought my pants in to work today to let him fix them up for me.  Instead, I got my ego crushed.

She Just Can't Leave Me Out Of It

As I've mentioned plenty in the past, my daughter is very mature for 7 (soon to be 8) and talking to her is like talking to an adult.  She gets it, she's ultra aware of everything and she is very capable of making the proper assumptions and capturing the underlying emotions in people's comments.

So, when I found out my daughter went out to dinner, alone, with my mom, I knew I'd be dealing with all kinds of bullshit when I got home.

I'm So Tired

It's that time of year.  Deadline fast approaching and I'm working seven days a week, 12 or more hours a day.  Sure, the reward is good, money rolls in but I have to make pension contributions and pay taxes for the current year and my wife spends money better than anyone so the reward is really short lived.  To make matters worse, I miss out on all the fun shit my kids do each weekend.  Yeah, sometimes their activities can be boring and a total chore to attend but the athletic stuff is a blast.  I'm not one of those dads who gets into fights on the sidelines but I don't sit quietly on the sidelines, politely clapping when the kids do something good.

I enjoy myself at these things.  I help with the coaching if needed and, if it isn't needed I'm giving the kids tips and advice when the coaches aren't.  Even at 8am, it's still something I look forward to.

So, this time of year, I miss that fun and the random things that happen afterward.

Last Night I Joined "The Club"

25 years ago, a film came out that managed to hit home for kids all over the world.  That movie went on to become one of the defining films of a generation and, somehow, managed to continue to reach out and touch high school and college kids for the next two decades.  Last night, in celebration of the release of this classic, a screening was held in NYC.  In attendence were four of the five primary stars.  They were there to honor the man who created the film, and a multitude of classics before and after this film.  Kevin Smith was on hand to moderate a question and answer period after the screening and then, all those that ponied up for the VIP passes, were invited to a private party at a night club where the stars went to mingle with the guests.
The film?
The Breakfast Club.

A Great Way To Start The Day

I started physical therapy this morning.  I was expecting an agony filled hour of pain, sweating and suffering.  Instead, I had the most relaxing hour.

It doesn't hurt that the therapist is a rather cute young lady.

As The Thumb Turns

I had the stitches from the second surgery removed today and it was a total relief.  So much so that I actually watched as the blue thread was pulled from my skin, ignoring the icky visual and the stinging pain, all the while thinking "now I can enjoy the use of my left hand again."

Well, shocker, the thumb is stiff as fuck, swollen as hell and not very useable.

Reason #62 Why I Love NYC - Gratuitous Nudity.

Only in New York can you go to an art opening for a client and run into a naked, painted woman. 

Dealing With a Deaf IRS Agent

Ok, let me preface this by stating that this is not a knock on the handicapped in any way, shape or form but, rather, a knock on the hiring practices of those trying to help the handicapped find work in their preferred field.

A client of mine, an estate, has been having an issue regarding a refund.  Long story short, the IRS issued the refund in the wrong name and it was returned by the post office.  Then, when we tried to get it reissued in the right name, they said they needed proof that the executor was, in fact, the executor.  We provided court documents, letters testamentary, and figured all was right in the world.

We were wrong.

The Vacation, Bookended By Hell

So, last Sunday I packed the family off for our annual week in Montauk.  We started out by hitting my sister's house to say farewell to my niece who is headed off  to college.  While we were there a storm of biblical proportions moved into the area.  It poured for hours.  So, we decided to ride it out a bit.  Figured we'd hang at my sister's until it let up a bit.  Around 11 the insanity lightened up to a downpour and we set out for the next stop, my parents' house, where we'd crash for the night before making the trek to Montauk.

About 20 minutes into the drive, the ridiculous rain resumed and my wipers apparently couldn't keep up with the rain.  A blade came loose, the other blade overlapped with it and suddenly my wiper blades were bent and useless.

So, I called BMW roadside assistance and my wife called AAA.  Since we were on a highway, we had to be towed. 

3d Porn? The Next Rocky Horror?

That's right, three dimensional porn is heading your way and not just for the stupid fucks who purchased a tv for the home either.  No, right now a Chinese dude is directing a 3D porn flick for Imax.

Giant motherfucking pop off the screen porn. 

And I'm horrified by it.

Random Musings

My thumb is slowly mending.  I miss being able to use my cell phone with both hands and I am still suffering the humiliation of needing some assistance when buttoning my shirts and pants but all should be restored in another 3 weeks when the pin comes out, the splint comes off and I can get back to hitchhiking left.  In the meantime, the day's been an odd one.

Surgery And The Loss Of The Thumb

Friday was surgery day.  It went well.  Fast, painless, no big deal.  I left the hospital with a dead arm.  Literally.  It was hanging there, useless, swinging in a sling.  No feeling at all.  The surgeon told me it would regain feeling in about 12 hours and it would feel like a bad paper cut.

He was right.  Sort of.

My Left Thumb

Tomorrow is surgery day.  The first of two.  After about 3 weeks, I'll need to have a second operation to remove a screw that will be inserted to hold the thumb in place.  This means my vacation in Montauk is in jeopardy and I won't be able to get a waterproof cast for the first 3 weeks after the surgery.

This sucks but not as much as not being able to use my left hand in the manner I'm accustomed to.

Tuna Fishing and The Tale Of The Ruined Thumb

As detailed here, my son took me down and I wound up hurting my thumb.  How bad?  I'm having surgery on Friday to repair the damage.  Seems my fall resulted in my tearing a ligament in the thumb.  Class three tear.  If you're gonna do damage, might as well do it right.  Normally, this would be nothing more than a nuisance but I'm going tuna fishing tomorrow and the boats have been hauling in the fish so the odds are in my favor that I'll be working the lines and pushing my luck with the thumb.

Of course, to quote my surgeon "you already fucked the thumb up, can't do more damage to the ligament now so bring me some steaks."

Gotta love the guy for that.

The Jersey Show Is The Sign. The End Is Coming.

I've seen some bad shit in my life, horrific, embarrassing, reswallowing vomit type crap but nothing can hold a candle to The Jersey Shore.  MTV should be banished from the air waves for putting this crap on tv.  Even the State of New Jersey should be embarrassed to be associated with this tripe.  Seriously, the armpit of the nation, the only stretch of highway where, if someone farts in the car, you roll the windows up.

That's right, I said it, a fart's refreshing in Jersey and, still, this show makes them look bad.

Ruined Thumbs, Family Insanity and the Tie Dyed Dong

Lots of fun over a short period of time and my typing is is arduous thanks to a bit of horseplay with the boy.  End result, I managed to get blamed for more of my sister's insanity, I can barely use my left hand and my member looks like an extra from the show Hair.

The Girl On The Corner

An ode to the asian damsel in distress.

What Have I done?

So I had some server issues and, in the course of getting things fixed, I learned that my employees computers were all screwy thanks to their internet surfing.  So, I did what any good employer would do, I put in all kinds of security measures.

And, in the process, I removed my ability to surf for porn.

Floogin Andretti and The Peeping Tom

I went to my wife's college reunion this weekend.  20 years out of college.  Man she's getting old.  (Mine is next year, I'm a kid).  We took the kids with us for a weekend of fun with the kids during the day and college debauchery at night.  Boy did we over-estimate the fun factor.

He Pukes, He Scores

My son has a friend who's father has some serious connections.  Not only is he connected in the music world and the entertainment industry, he's extremely connected in the sports world.  So, when the father told me he was going to take a few of his son's friends to a Yankee game, complete with locker room meet and greet, I was thrilled.  I hate the Yankees but, a chance for my boy to meet Mo, Jeter, A-Roid et al is fucking cool.

Add to the mix, the guy's new wife is hot.  Megan Fox hot.  She's actually been stopped on the street by people thinking she's Megan Fox.  She's so Megan Fox hot that she's playing Fox's sister in an upcoming movie.

So, how did my son manage to destroy these connections in one fell swoop? 

He puked.

Sex Toys

I was out with friends the other night and one of them tells a story of his night in a Vegas brothel.  He went there for a bachelor party, no intention of actually doing anything with the hookers but, as the night went on, he was prodded by one particular lady, to accompany her up to her room.  Once there, she convinced him that a blow job would be a nice, simple way of getting off without spending too much money.  He agreed, pricing was discussed and the games began.

Grizzly McNoogin and Sex and the City

I grew a beard.  It wasn't intentional but the reaction has been surprisingly good so, for now, it stays.

On Being Vader and The Coolest Kid on the Planet

Friday afternoon a friend of mine offered to don the Vader costume for my son's birthday party.  This would accomplish several things.  First, it would allow me to witness the excitement as my son's favorite bad guy visited his party.  Second, it would allow me to spend more time at the party and less time in the back room getting in, and out, of the 40 pound costume.  Lastly, my son wouldn't start wondering where his dad was while Vader was in da house.  I was thrilled at the prospect of someone being so selfless as to come to a 5 year old's party to sweat his ass off and have a bunch of kids jump all over him.

The night before the party, I got sick. Bad chicken or something. I spent a great deal of time that night on the throne. I feared standing up. Every time I did, it was like gravity was laughing at me, pulling more burning liquid thru my ass. By the time I was brave enough to crawl into bed, my body was ravaged by the shits. I was physically exhausted, drained and dehydrated. I felt like death. I woke up the next morning weak and afraid to eat.  My body was rumbling, begging me to put something in it but every time I walked into the kitchen, my gut turned over and I swear I heard laughing from within. 

Fortunately, I wasn't going wearing that giant pleather jumpsuit, the helmet, robes, pads, codpiece, shin guards and electrical gear.

Then I remembered who the friend was.

One of life's mysteries.

I don't understand why women dress the way they do.  Don't get me wrong, I appreciate it but, still, it makes no sense.  It's in the 80's outside and the clothes are loose and the skin is showing.  It's a site that can rival the most majestic landscape.  Yet, for some reason, we aren't supposed to look. 

What's the point in showing off your legs, ass or cleavage if you don't want anyone to look?

Strep Strikes Again

My son's birthday party is this Saturday and he's got strep.  Again.  The poor kid has now had it five times in the last twelve months and the doctor said that, given that frequency, they think we should go see an ENT specialist to determine if, perhaps, the tonsils should come out.

He's a fucking champ.  Fever hitting 102 - 103 and he's cracking jokes and reminding to me to pick up a toy for him if he takes his medicine. 

As a result of his being sick, I had to pick up my daughter and bring her home.  Pain in the ass as I then had to come back to the office but no big deal. 

I walked into the apartment and I hear my son crying.  Not a normal occurrence for my son.  The only crying he ever does is the fake, tearless bullshit so hearing him whimpering was rather upsetting.

"I hurts when I breathe, I can't breathe" was what he was saying between gasping sobs.

Apparently, I'm Also Pathetic and Boring

Last night I had a dream. I have them often and, more often than not, when I awake, I remember them. Sometimes it's the whole dream, so vivid and fresh in my mind that I wonder if it wasn't, actually, real. Other times it's a snippet or moment from the dream and sometimes it's nothing more than a hazy memory, like I'd been out drinking the night before and I have a vague recollection of doing something stupid.

Dreams are often a window into the deepest, darkest recesses in our minds.  They are a form of release, a form of suppression, a means of therapy for a mind that is not working properly.  Other times, they're our central computer telling us what we should do, what we want to do and what we cannot do, no matter how badly we want it.  In our dreams, we do things good, and bad, with no repercussion.  We can kill, we can screw around, we can hit the winning basket, be millionaires, paupers and sex addicts.  We are supermen in our dreams.  We are zombies in our dreams.  We are anything our minds can conjure.  My mind, being somewhat twisted, very much over used and under utilized, has come up with all kinds of mental movies.

Last night's dream was the worst I've ever had.

One More Reason To Hate Obama

My garage managed to bang up my car, yet again.  So, after trying to get the garage to deal with the damage, I decided it was a waste of my time and I took it to get fixed myself.  This happens from time to time, they fuck up my car and ignore the claim and any subsequent attempts to discuss the claim.  I take it to BMW because it's far more expensive than taking it somewhere else and then I stop paying the monthly parking fee until I have recouped my cost for the repairs.  Anyway, I picked up the car yesterday and started driving across town to put the car in the garage.  I left work early so I could drop the car off and then pick up my suits, which I had bought a week or so ago and needed some tailoring.  I figured, leave before 5, avoid the cross town traffic, get it all done and be home in time to sit down for dinner with my kids.

One problem.  Obama was in town.  Fucking traffic nightmare.

I'm Old and Sad

I remember a time when I could eat anything, do anything, drink anything and, at the absolute worst, suffer a headache for a few hours the next morning.  Now?  Forget it.  I've got no tolerance for anything, including people.

What the hell happened to me?

Smell Ass Sweat

Smell + ass + sweat.  Those are the words that were put into a google search by an individual and those three words brought them to me.  That's right, if you goggle smell ass sweat, my blog shows up in the results.  How fucking sad is that?

I Lost My Ads

As is obvious, the evil ball sucking scumbags at google have, yet again, disabled my adsense account. Why? No reason. They just did. No email explaining that they are a group of shitheads sitting in a room sucking each other off. No email explaining that, in the last few days, I received nary a click. No email at all. Just blank fucking boxes where ads should go. When I went into adsense to check out the reason for this, I found nothing.

So, here's the letter I should have received from google. This is what I imagine is sitting in my inbox.

Dear Mr. McNoogin,

We are writing this letter to inform you that we have disabled your adsense account. Again. We are doing this because we are a bunch of prepubescent scum lovers with nothing better to do than sit around disabling adsense on blogs that would only earn us money, not you. That's right, your shitty assed traffic is so small, so pathetic that we would never have to pay you one cum covered bloody nickle which, by the way, we keep lodged in our employees asses.

Please don't sign up for another account as we plan on disabling that one too. Along with any other accounts you might attempt to have. In the meantime, we will continue to sit around our offices, taking 4 hour lunches, sitting on the opposite end of the cafeteria from the 4 women who work here. We will all wear our atari shirts on the same day, pretend it isn't gay when when jerk off to porn together and we will continue to pretend that we're fantasizing about bikini clad Princess Leia when we masturbate, all the while, knowing that it's Luke and Chewy that make our cocks hard.

Regards,

The cocksucking team at Google.
(yes, we swallow)

And Several Hours Vanish

I lost time this morning. I was messing around and came across a blog that piqued my interest. The first post was hysterical and, from there, I found myself reading backwards for a few hours. The woman who writes the blog, as well as her guest bloggers, are geniuses. They are porn store clerks and the blog is mostly musings from the spank booths.

Check it out, believe me, it's worth it.

www.pornclerk.com

Enjoy

I Used An Ipod, sorry Ipad.

Ok, so I was actually handed a maxipod, yes, that's what I'm calling it and you should too because that is all it is.  Was it cool?  Absolutely.  Do I see a market for it?  Sort of.  Do I understand why they're being gobbled up by mindless consumers?  Yup.

Check it out bitches!

I got advertising back.

Please, do not click anything unless you are interested in it. The last thing I need is to have google pissed off at me again.

I love google. They're less evil than Apple and only slightly more evil than Microsoft. Bill, if you still read my blog, you need to do some evil shit, you're starting to look like the good guy in all this and that's some fucked up shit man.

Seriously, enjoy the concept of my having advertising. Tell your friends how Floogin's site is even cooler now because there are ads for shit nobody cares about, like nuts and dildos. That's right, that's the kind of shit you'll get, once again because, let's face it, everything I write about devolves into a discourse on tits, ass, balls, shitting, farting, sex toys or some other unsavory shit that is currently being sold by 2109 different vendors on the internet, all arriving at your door in a discrete brown wrapper.

The Recurring "Friend"

There's this guy I met, several years ago, via a mutual hobby, has managed to reappear in my life every few months. We are both in the same field, we both took over our family businesses and, one would think, we'd have lots to talk about but, for whatever reason, I got nothing to say to him. He's a nice enough guy. Means well, cares about other people but, I'm guessing, doesn't have a whole lot of friends where he lives and, as such, he calls me from time to time. His first name is the same as a good friend of mine and, it seems, whenever I email my friend, this guy calls shortly thereafter so, when my secretary says "so and so is on the phone" I pick up, looking forward to the conversation.

This guy, somehow, doesn't detect the hint of "motherfucker" in my voice. I can tell that I sound annoyed and disappointed when I find out it's not who I thought it was. Why can't he?

Why does he keep calling back? I haven't seen him in 5 years, maybe more. I speak to him 3, maybe 4, times a year and each call is as short as I can make it without being a total douche bag.

I just don't get it. I'm not a huge phone guy. Fuck, I'm not a big email guy either. I have my friends. I talk to them from time to time but it's a rare moment when I pick up a phone and call any of them. I might do an email blast to my friends, telling them all the same thing at the same time but I rarely initiate a conversation to shoot the shit. I'm too busy, too disinterested. I'm guessing this is why other people use facebook and why I don't even bother with that. I care a great deal about my friends. I really do. I don't, however, think they want to hear about my mundane life and I certainly don't want to hear about theirs.

Is that so odd?

How To Ruin A Good Thing

It's been warm here the last few days. Fuck that, it was hot this weekend. Real hot. As mentioned, we hit the park and there were tons of people tanning in their skivvies. A wonderful sight, for sure.

So, today, I drop my daughter off at school and I'm walking to my office, somewhat happy that it's not raining that hard. Sadly, as a result, it's fucking humid. Sweat inducing humid. I hate this weather but, the one saving grace, is the way people dress. That's right, I dig checking out the ladies in their short skirts, low cut tops and skin baring outfits.

Sue me.

So, I'm standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change and, in front of me, is an incredible specimen. She's tall, well dressed, skirt just above the knee, great legs, heels. The whole package. Worthy of a slower walk. Watching this woman saunter will make the humidity far more bearable.

The light changes and, as it does, we start to walk. As we start to walk, an emergency vehicle comes blaring up the street, drowning out all noise (I forgot the music this morning, otherwise I'd have been oblivious to it).

I'm walking slowly, mesmerized by the swaying of this woman's incredible ass. My eyes are glassy as I watch the shapely legs move in long, sexy strides. The siren fades and then I hear it. What the fuck is that? Can it be? No. It can't.

She's clomping like a fucking Clydesdale. The coconut clop clop of her shoes distracts my mind. No longer do I see this lovely visage as something warm and fuzzy to ease me into the start of the work week. No, now I'm envisioning a saddle on her back, a long fuzzy tail and hooves.

While I am a deviant of biblical proportions, this image is not one that will make my McNoogin do the Floogin. It kills me. It feels like my penis is crawling in on itself, creating a mangina. I raced up to my office, plopped down at my desk and immediately started surfing for porn to see if I couldn't coax my cock out of its hidey hole.

No such luck.

I am woman, hear me roar.

So, here I sit, testosterone in flux, libido crushed. Instead of staring at naked women, feeling my little fella get all warm and happy, I'm pondering Glee. I'm wondering what song Kurt will sing this week. I'm wondering if I have the right clothes picked out for the movie screening I'm attending this Thursday. I'm wondering if these pants make my ass look huge.

I need help.

Badly.

Single Parent Time

My wife left us Saturday morning. That's right. She packed a bag the night before and, early Saturday morning, she split. We had a busy day planned and, fortunately, the weather was perfect for the outdoor activities lined up.

I got the kids dressed in their baseball uniforms and off to Central Park we went. My daughter's game was first and it was a blast. I coached first or third when they were batting and assisted coached them in the field when they were out there. My son spent the morning playing with the younger brothers of the players.

After the game we went home so my daughter could change, got lunch and headed back out for the afternoon game of the double header. My son's league is a bit less structured as the kids are, for the most part, incapable of hitting, catching and throwing the ball. My son can hit. He's upset that it's tee ball and he's been asking the coaches to pitch to him. They won't do it and, in this game in particular, it would have been impossible as the opposing team's coach decided the best way to win was to line all 20 or so players up, shoulder to shoulder, in a wall between the mound and the batter. They don't actually keep score so I'm not sure what the fuck this moron was thinking, other than he might get a nice youtube video of his team getting hurt. The first two kids hit the ball well and the opposing team dove all over the place, piling onto each other, trying to snare the ball. Of course, there's nobody covering the bases so getting the ball served only to stop the runner from advancing.

Up walks my son. He's twice as tall as all the other kids. He's smiling. He loves the game. I'm standing on the third base side, coaching the runners. I shout out to my son, telling him to relax, keep his eye on the ball until he makes contact, and then run.

I then realize that there's going to be serious shit if he does connect. I shout to the opposing coach. I ask him if, perhaps, he should give the hitters a bit of respect. His response? "Limit them to singles and the we can win."

I explain that they don't actually record outs in the game. I explain that he's putting his kids at risk by sticking them 4 feet in front of the hitters. He tells me that, since the kids all hit dribblers, there's no real risk.

Then my son smokes a ball thru his so call wall of defenders. They dive out of the way. They all hit the floor. The ball shoots towards second base. Nobody there but another opposing coach. It hits him in the thigh and caroms towards the back of the field.

I'm waving the kids home. My son comes trotting around the bases, all smiles.

I pat him on the ass as he saunters home.

The opposing team is in a pile, all of them trying to grab the ball that has rolled all the way to the back field, disrupting the other game that was being played.

The league representative jogs onto the field and tells the idiot coaching the other team that he can either play the kids in positions of sit two thirds of the team while they play the field.

The moron decides the benching will work better.

While in the field, my son is placed in front of the pitcher, with another boy. Between the two of them, not one ball makes it to the pitcher. Their throwing is fair, at best, but these two boys are hoovering up every ball that comes their way.

So, in the next inning, one of my son's teammates is on third and my son is getting ready to hit and this tall woman comes over and asks me where my son learned how to play. I explain that he played in another "league" in the fall and that we play whenever we can. She's asking all kinds of questions and then she leans down and starts talking the boy on third base. Turns out that's her son. She then suggests we get the kids together for a play date so my son can play baseball with him. I agree that it should be fine with my son. She then tells me how it's tough for her, being a single mom, not knowing about sports, not knowing what they should do now, to learn to play the various games that boys like to play. I tell her I understand and I tell her that my son is big on baseball and soccer and that he takes classes and plays in leagues for both and she's asking about details etc when my son smokes another shot into the outfield.

As he rounds third, trotting towards home, the woman high fives my son and asks if he wants to play with her son in the park after the game. He says yes and I explain that we have other plans and that my daughter is roaming the park with another friend and that we'd love to get the boys together when we weren't so busy.

She agrees and says we'll talk when the game is over.

The game plays on in the usual manner. Lots of hitting, running and shitty fielding.

Towards the end of the game, the mother of one of my son's friends walks over, cracking up. She tells me that the woman I was talking to thinks I'm single. I tell her that my wife left me just that morning and, technically, I am single. She tells me that the woman wants a play date with me. I asked why she didn't tell her that I'm married and she said "more fun this way."

When the game ended, my kids made a beeline for the playground and we ran into other friends so there was no chance for this woman to ask me out. Next weekend will be interesting.

Afterward, my son got into a fight with a 9 year old who kicked him in the balls. Seems the 9 year old was fucking with my son's friend and my son, being the friend that he is, defending his buddy and wound up in a fight.

I found this out later that night when my friend, who was there with those boys, called me to tell me what had happened (his son fessed up). Couldn't be prouder of my son.

Sunday, my kids let me sleep late and we got dressed, went out for brunch, went shopping for some clothes for my daughter and then hit Central Park for some rock climbing, Carousel riding, baseball playing and general fucking around.

Some time Sunday evening, the kids were fed, bathed, and the apartment cleaned (they did it themselves, no asking, no suggesting), my wife returned. She was greeted as if she was coming back from the garbage chute. The kids barely registered her absence or her return.

Now, with mother's day coming, I need to make sure we all do something really special for her because, at the moment, she thinks we can, and would, survive like champs, were she not around.

Lego, Star Wars and the Rebellion in My Livingroom

My son is obsessed with Star Wars and he's obsessed with Lego. He's addicted to them both so, when he found out about Star Wars Lego, it was like a junkie learning about speedballs for the first time.

He's played the Wii game. Finished all the levels. Now he's replaying them as all the different characters. He also learned that you can buy Lego kits to make various Star Wars scenes and vehicles. He's been nagging me for a Millenium Falcon and a Death Star. No way in hell am I spending close to a grand on either one. More so since I always end up doing all the construction as he watches tv and ignores my pleas for assistance.

I know my dad wants to buy one of them for him and make it a summer project that they will work on. So, I figured, perhaps it was time to start the boy out on some of the smaller, easier kits. I picked up a couple of little star wars kits and some super hero kits and he, and I, put them together. Together. It was a blast. Of course, several hours after completion, they had fallen apart. He plays rough with his toys. It kills me when I spend money on something and see him playing with a broken down version of that toy after only a week.

Anyway, I took him to his baseball game on Saturday and he was incredible. Smoking line drives when he was at bat and sucking up balls like an all star in the field. He has his own little mantra on the field: Nothing Gets Past Me. Fucking brilliant.

Anyway, he was in such good spirits after the game that he agreed to go belt shopping with me, in exchange for a stop at a toy story. I complied and, once there, he made a beeline for the lego section. The kits he wanted were all way too complex for him and the easier ones were limited to the ones he had so we agreed to pick up Luke Skywalker's X-Wing and he agreed to work on it with me.

We picked up a belt, grabbed some lunch and headed home. He immediately tore open the box and opened each of the plastic bags housing the 437 pieces. Yes, that's right, 437 pieces. He separated them into piles of matching pieces and then he set out building the characters it came with. Luke, Leia, Chewbacca, Han Solo, C3P0, R2D2 and Wedge Antilles. Then he picked them all up and said he was going to play with them while I did my part, building the ship.

I explained that this was a father and son project and, after a bit of arguing, he begrudgingly sat next to me, helping me locate the pieces and snapping them in place.

It took us about two hours to finish. It was pretty fucking cool. The wings move open and closed by turning a little knob in the back of the ship. R2 fits in the back. Luke can sit in the cockpit. There's even a secret cargo hold for his light saber.

My son immediately grabbed all the other ships, characters, figures, books etc on the subject of star wars and a massive battle between the rebellion and the empire took over my living room. There were even a few super heroes in the mix, presumably helping the rebellion. The battle waged on, taking a break for dinner and then, it started right up again.

My wife and I went out to dinner, leaving my kids, and the intergalactic battle, in the capable hands of the sitter.

We returned home shortly before midnight to a battlefield at rest. There were figures on the furniture, on the window ledge, on the coffee table, on the tv and there was even one character hanging on the lip of the fish tank.

The sitter told us how wonderful the kids were, how they went to be early, on their own and how my son was distraught because his new ship broke.

I asked where it was and she pointed to the coffee table.

The X-Wing had lost an engine and a wing has popped loose.

So, I pick up the craft and try to replace the wing. This was a mistake. I had several drinks and was in no condition to be messing around with the lego ship.

By the time I gave up, all four wings were now off the craft.

My son woke up around 7 the next morning and came into my bedroom in tears. I told him that the battle waged on well after he had gone to sleep but he shouldn't worry. Luke and R2 escaped and the rebellion managed to take the ship, and all the broken parts back to their garage and a master mechanic would fix the craft.

So, my morning consisted of coffee, aspirin for the raging hangover and my shaky fingers taking the entire craft apart. Piece by piece.

I then went and picked up some glue. Not the elmers kind. No, I grabbed some cyanoacrylate. High end, fast drying, krazy glue type stuff.

My wife took my daughter to a birthday party and left us to the rebuilding of the X-Wing.

At first it was a breeze. Then I got a bit cocky. I was using more glue than necessary. Snapping pieces on far to fast and my son comes over and goes to pick up a piece to help and I snapped, yelling "no, don't touch it, it's very strong glue, I don't want you to get it stuck on your skin."

He says he'll be careful. I tell him it's best if he helps me locate the pieces. He does.

I'm holding a wing in my left hand, I grab the glue in my right, ready to put a few drops onto the next addition to the wing when I realize said wing is now a part of me. That's right, three fingers glued to the wing. I explain what happened to my son. He looks at my hand, tries pulling the pieces, I explain that the only way to remove it is with rubbing alcohol and we need to go to the store. We get dressed and headed out, my lego hand in my pocket, hiding it from potentially mocking eyes.

We head into the store and my son asks if this means I'm turning into a good guy or a bad guy. I ask him what he means and he says "Spiderman was bit by a spider and now he's half spider, sandman was half sand, electro is half electric and I am half lego."

He asks if I am good or bad. I tell him I am good and nobody can know that his daddy is Legoman.

He promises it will be our little secret. Then he tells me he still loves me, even if I am made of lego.

Paying for the alcohol was no easy task, with one hand attached to a wing but we managed to get it done and then we headed home. I soaked my hand for a good 20 minutes before the wing came loose. So did all the other pieces and I was back to rebuilding the damned wing, this time with much more caution.

The X-wing was completed (again) and the rebellion, led by Luke Skywalker and his X-Wing, were back battling the Empire before dinner.

Lack of Motivation

I can't get a thing done. It's normal, post tax hell, for me to be restless, bored at work and unable to accomplish the ost menial tasks. I spent a whole week looking at the same piece of paper. I've taken to finding reasons to leave the office so I can go outside and enjoy the warm weather. I'll go down for soda and intentionally not hit the bank so I have a reason to leave in 20 minutes. I've tried playing games. I've tried surfing for porn.

Nothing piques my interest.

I need a vacation. Clear the head, get my shit together and get back to work.

The Facts of Life

The weather is (was) warmer and that brought out the best, and worst, of New York City. The short skirts, the shorter shorts, the low cut tops, the barely there tank tops. They were all taken out of the mothballs and worn. And it got me thinking. It seems that some folks simply don't understand the facts of life. I'm not talking about sex here, no, I'm talking about those basic facts that everyone should know, and understand.

for example.

Fact 1. Those really long nails are disgusting. That's right women. If your finger nails are inches long, you look like a whore. If they're so long that they curve and you can't do anything without having to reposition your hands to avoid breaking them, you're nothing more than an idiot whore. And if you waste your hard earned whore dollars getting them painted with streaks and sparkles and stars? Trailer Park Whore. It's really that simple. There's not a guy out there who sees you, with your nails that are longer than a cock, painted with stars and moons and thinks "classy lady, I should see if she wants to get a cup of coffee." No, he's got his hand in his pocket so he can see if he has enough quarters and dimes for a blow job.

Fact 2. If you're fat, dress appropriately. You want to show off some skin, do it in the privacy of your own home. When your back is so fat you have extra ass cheeks, you should wear a tent, not a form fitting shirt that resides above the second roll of blubber below your tits.

Fact 3. If you don't have the legs for it, don't wear short skirts or short shorts. Here's the thing. When fat women show off their legs and jam their pigs knuckles into some fuck me pumps, all that happens is men see your legs and those shoes and they are immediately reminded of Miss Piggy at a formal. No joke. Take a peek at a pigs leg and hoof and then check out a fat broad in a short skirt and heels. Same fucking thing.

Fact 3a. Do not wear fish nets or any of the other fashionable lacy hose/stockings. This is an addendum to the above. If you've got the legs for it, by all means, wear them but, if your flesh oozes through the lace or net, stop. Throw them out. Your legs will look like some perverted play-doh porn for chubbie chasers. Nobody wants to see that.

Fact 4. No belt clips or ear pieces for your cell phone. You look like a star trek wannabe. I don't care how hot you might be, if you have a phone clipped to your belt or an ear piece hanging on your melon, you look like an idiot. In the car, when nobody can see you, and it is required, I don't care if you wear two. On the street? Ditch it.

Fact 5. When talking on your cell in public, remember, it's a fucking phone call that nobody else cares about. Nobody gives a shit if you got blown last night or if some guy went down on you or your boyfriend's a prick or you made some money in the market. Nobody gives a shit about you, except, possibly, the person you're talking to so keep it the fuck down. If we wanted to know more about your life, we'd give you a reality show, call it Real Jackasses of the City and 3 people would watch it. You, the moron on the other end of the phone and the one loser impressed by your new found "celebrity."

Fact 6. Guys think your Ugg boots are awful. Not only do they destroy the image of a nice pair of legs, we know how fucking hot your feet must get and, now that it's spring, it's time to mothball them until the winter. I actually prefer a fat broad in a short skirt, fishnets and heels to a supermodel in a skirt or shorts and uggs. Why? Because I know that, when taking off her clothes, her feet will be sweaty and the stench from the boots and her feet will be enough to stop a herd of elephants in their tracks.

Fact 7. Have a Good One. What the fuck does this even mean? If I run into you as I'm heading for the shitter, are you telling me to enjoy my dump? If I tell you to "have a good one" as you head over to your ob-gyn, am I suggesting you get a good speculum? It's a stupid fucking expression. Stop using it.

Fact 8. If you email someone, and you leave them a voicemail, wait for their fucking response. We are so wired to everything these days that you can be sure at least one of the the voicemails, texts, tweets, emails, smoke signals and facebook postings has been seen. If we haven't responded yet, there's a reason so stop fucking adding to the shit we have to sift through before we can get back to you. If you haven't heard back yet, assume that the person you want to talk to is busy, or being held hostage by a gang of angry gypsies, or fell into a coma, is dead or simply doesn't want to talk to you. If they do, they'll get back to you.

That's it for now. I'm sure I'll find more and I'll add to them as I do. If you have any facts of life to add, let me know.

City of Dead

I'm sitting high atop the city. In the distance, the blue black sea stretches out across the horizon. A ball of tie dyed colors stretches up from the water, reds, oranges and yellows bleeding out from a fiery white center.

It's a gorgeous view.

Of course, I'm not looking at it. I'm looking down. 20 floors down. At the concrete below.

The dead are walking the earth. They don't see out human flesh. They aren't after brains. They shuffle along, feet dragging, as they move about the city. They mumble and moan, their stare, glassy and lifeless. They might say something to you. They might not. Their arms leaden and limp at their sides. Their legs feel like 500 pound sacks of grain. Moving them, walking, is a chore. Their eyelids droop, their black, dilated pupils, stare down at the pavement as they slowly wend their way through the crowded, shuffling throngs of people.

If you bump into the walking dead, their body will absorb the hit, turning them, spinning them but that's about it. They won't turn on you, shredding your skin, tearing your limbs off. If anything, they might utter a muffled complaint. They have no energy. They are dead.

I know this because I have become one of the walking dead. Movement is a chore. Rational thinking no longer exists. This is why I sit and stare at the pavement instead of the gorgeous day dawning on a dead city.

This is why I contemplate the wind in my hair, the feeling of flying, the feeling of life as I plummet.....

down

I....Am.....Tired.....

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Epic Hell

So, I'm mired in my work. Waking up around 5, working from around 6 until after 11PM every night. It's been brutal. I can't recall it being this awful in years. I can't even figure out why it's so bad, other than the usual bullshit. Clients coming in late, random must have immediately crap and the ever worsening issue of amended statements from brokerage houses. All that has managed to make my days far more miserable than I anticipated.

A client came in yesterday, took one look at me, shook his head and said "you look awful."

I do.

I feel awful too.

So, yeah. I'm exhausted. I can deal with that.

This past week also saw a heat wave in the city. We hit 92 degrees the other day. NYC was the hottest place in the country. If that doesn't suck enough, we don't have air conditioning and, somehow, there was no breeze on the 20th floor. This means the office was a fucking sauna. Sweating like a pig, I sat and worked, for about 17 hours each day.

I stank by the end of each day.

Still, I can endure all this. More so since, thanks to the opressive heat, a client of mine, who is a c list celebrity, came in wearing the loosest clothing she could without looking like a tart and I managed to be there when she had a mild clothing malfunction. I was graced with a celebritit sighting. Big win. Made the sweat rivulets crawling down my back like little spiders seem so inconsequential.

Floogin endures. I have to. My clients rely on me. They need me. My family relies on me. They need me. My father relies on me. He needs me. If I can't soldier on, his income stream will slow and he won't be able to dole out money to my deadbeat brother in law and he won't be able to fund my sister's new business, much as he did for her piece of shit husband.

I endure.

Until yesterday, I thought, stress, heat, exhaustion....bring it on motherfucker.

Then I went downstairs to grab a bite to tide me over for the night. Chicken salad. The deli next door has this awesome chicken salad. I've been getting a scoop every night this week.

So, I grab the meal, head up to the office, sit down and notice a large pile of new work dumped on my desk. Fucking work gremlins torturing me again.

I shrug my shoulders, smile at the pile, mumble a fuck you to the work gods and tell myself I am the lizard king, I can do anything.

And I eat.

And I get back to work.

I hammer out yet another "must finish by the morning" return and then, the oddest, strangest thing happens.

My stomach grumbles. Odd. I just ate. I can't be hungry.

Then I feel it. Like there's a hose down my throat, I feel some liquid moving back and forth across my abdomen. I can feel it turning back and forth making its way towards my.....fuck!

GET OUT OF THERE! NOW NOW GO GO GO!!

I bolt for the bathroom. Fumbling for the keys in my pocket, I stumble, my hand, instinctively reaches for my ass. I turn the corner, racing to the bathroom and, like in some lame horror movie, my keys go flying. Nooooooooooooooooooo!! I try to catch them, I stumble again, the keys skidder across the floor. On the run, I bend and grab them, fumbling with the ring, trying to find the right key.

My hands shaking, my ass clenching, I work the key into the lock, fly into the bathroom, slam the stall door open as I tear at my belt and my pants. I sit down just as it happens.

Now, I know nobody likes to read this but, well, it's my story and I'll shit if I want to.

Out it comes. No cramps. No pain. No nothing. It's like someone stuck a needle in a water balloon. A long, steady, never ending stream. I'm literally peeing from the wrong end. Disgusting? Yes. Relieving? So I thought.

Then the sweats hit me. As if I'm not hot enough already.

Sweat is pouring down my face.

The asspee stops.

A beat passes. I hear/feel another crazy surge of liquid in my gut.

And it happens again.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Where the fuck is all this liquid coming from.

As the second (literal) wave subsides I realize the automatic lights never went on.

Fabulous. I'm in the dark, pissing out of my ass and I didn't grab my phone so I could give myself a bit of light.

A third epic blast ensues and then, for the first time in the last 15 minutes, my body begins to feel as normal as it can. I finish up. Stand up and then the nausea hits me. No, it isn't the smell. The liquid flame thrower that was my ass produced an oddly odorless napalm.

No, this nausea is something else. A burp exits my mouth. Oh god. Chicken salad, coming right up!

Pants still around my ankles, I spin around and start to bend down. As I open my mouth to get that salad out I see my sunglasses slipping out of my shirt pocket. My first reaction, "why are my sunglasses in my pocket." My second reaction, reach for the glasses. My third reaction?

Puke all over my hand.

The splash of my projectile vomiting, masked the splash of my sunglasses as they hit the soupy, nasty mix of toilet water, shit and puke.

I look down.

I can't even see them.

My hand is covered in puke.

I've got no choice.

I'm going in.

I close my eyes, say a quick prayer to whatever demon is watching me, laughing his red tailed ass off, and thrust my hand into the mess.

I swirl my hand around, reaching as deep as I can. They're on the bottom, in the hole that leads to shit purgatory.

I'm not going in further, no. I'm practically up to my elbow in it and my fingers are grazing the edge of the frame. I manage to move them up a bit and then I grab them.

Now what?

I should abandon them. I know I should.

But I love them and I haven't the time to get new ones. Besides, what if they don't make them anymore. It took me forever to pick these out.

I slowly slip my arm, my wrist, my glasses clenched in my fist, out of the slop. Bits of puke and shit

The Long Walk Home

My route, each night, is unchanged. I leave the office, walk north on 7th Avenue until it merges and crosses over Broadway at 42nd Street. At this point I stick to the east side of the are, walking north along Broadway.

I do this every night after work, unless it's pouring. Then I take the subway or a cab (depending on the time).

Anyway, I did this last night, as always and I was somewhat surprised by the number of people on the street. Tourists everywhere. Fuck, people everwhere. It made my bobbing and weaving more difficult and I wound up with a few too many "I'm sorrys" after an errant elbow or shoulder bump.

As I exited the shower this morning, I turned on the news. The first story was about the 4 separate shootings on 7th Avenue last night.

2 people shot in Herald Square. That'd be the area around Macy's. Well, gee, that's across the street.

The other 2 were shot in the 40's and 50's along 7th Ave. In other words, right along my normal route.

Granted, the shootings ocurred after I had passed through but one of them was early enough that, on any other night, I might have been there.

That's fucked up.

On a side note, the desire to continue the drama with "the twins" is gone. I was going to take pictures of my hands, with gloves and without, post em for Trent, and talk about how my twins were refusing to let me go back to my normal life with my wife and kids but, well, to be totally honest, I just don't have it in me.

I've lost my sense of humor and my sense of fun.

The work and the stress of finishing this shit on time is, for the first time in my life, weighing down on me. It's an odd feeling and I'm trying to figure out how best to understand and deal with it.

Sometimes The News Is Good

I read the paper each morning, either before the kids wake up or on my way to the office. At least once, each morning, there's a story about some asshole beating his infant child into a coma or some drunk running over a kid on a tricycle or a kidnapped child found dead or some other horrific type of story. Real lump in the throat stories. You read them and you wonder, how does someone live through that kind of loss? How does someone stand idly by while someone else in their home molests or abuses their baby?

Well, this morning, for the first time in, basically, forever, there was a story that brought that familiar lump in the throat. Fortunately, this time, it was uplifting and that lump was one brought on by my pride in humanity.

I know, Floogin's getting a bit mushy and sentimental but, seriously, this was that good of a story.

Seems some family was checking out one of the old sailing vessels down by the South Street Seaport, working their way up the ramp to the entrance of the boat, when the dad turned around and realized his two year old daughter wasn't beside him. He looked around and realized that she had slipped and fallen, 20 feet, into the cold water below. Without missing a beat, he started running down the ramp, emptying his pockets as he went. He got to the dock, looked down, located his daughter under the surface and went, feet first, into the frigid waters.

Like a needle, straight down he went. When he popped back up, his limp child was in his arms. After a couple of seconds, the little girls started crying, indicating she was, for the most part, ok.

As this was unfolding, an unknown french tourist jumped over the side to help the man with his daughter. The father swam towards the Frenchman who helped hoist the child up to another man who was lying on his stomach, reaching for the baby. That man was being held down by yet another man. In all, there were 4 or 5 guys working to help get this baby out of the water and then they aided the man in climbing out of the drink as well.

All these strangers, from around the globe, reaching out to help one man. In and out of the water. Nobody hesitated, nobody looked around, waiting on others to take charge. Everyone acted. Heroes, all of them. The baby was taken to a nearby hospital and released a little while later. The father was fine as well. The Frenchman? He simply did his heroic thing and hopped into a cab, presumably, to head to his hotel for some dry clothes.

I'd like to think I'd be able to do this. I did it once before, heading into treacherous waters, to save someone. I didn't hesitate. I didn't even have the foresight to empty my pockets, like the father did. I ran head first into waters that had taken the life of a father and son several months earlier, not just drowning them, but smashing them to pieces on the rocks as well. I did it for my wife, the mother of my infant daughter. Could I do something like that for a complete stranger? Could I jump into icy waters to help a man and his daughter?

While I hope I never have to find out, I sure hope I would.

Would you?

For the whole story, complete with pictures of the rescue, head to www.nydailynews.com

Floogin McSnappin

I am so close to snapping. Between my clients and the morons in the office, I swear, if I don't kill someone or turn and leap out of the window, it will be a fucking miracle.

Not So Alone Anymore

So, last night, I worked until close to ten and then walked home. I was all set for a quick bite and some couch time to catch up on all the shows I missed this week.

The twins wanted some fun but I was tired, not up for it at all. I told them my plans for the night and they said they understood but wanted to hang out with me so, stupidly, I obliged.

No sooner had I put my dishes in the dishwasher, did they start in on me.

I explained that I wanted to watch Fringe, they promised to obliged.

Two minutes into the show, they're all over me. Moving over my body, trying to find their way into my pants.

I managed to fend them off during fringe but, when parenthood was turned on, they protested. After a lengthy argument about my needing rest, needing some down time, they asked me why I even asked them to hang out with me. I reminded them that I wanted nothing more than to watch tv and sleep and then they got weird on me.

You need us, they said.

No, I don't

Yes, you can't live without us, they told me.

I think I can.

I told them that I had warned them that this wasn't going to be anything more than a little fun while the wife was out of town. They told me they can't do that. They told me they want to be by my side, always.

I told them that was impossible.

Getting rid of us impossible, they said.

Seriously, I cannot walk around with you two hanging by my sides, practically attached to my wrists.

But, yes, you can they said. We will always be there. We won't go away.

So now I have these two sex craving nutters refusing to leave.

They're here in the office with me now. One on either side of me, telling me to shut the door so we can have a little play in the office.

I need to get my work done. They are insatiable. They are crazy.

Oddities in the Home

Ok, so, as I mentioned, the family is out of town. They left on Wednesday. I came home that night, picked up the mail and the monthly box from Tassimo (coffee pod things). I put the mail on the dining room table, the box on the coffee table by the entrance. Had my fun with the twins and left for work yesterday morning with the box still on the table. Also, it should be noted, I made the bed but I left the 49 decorative pillows in a pile next to my wife's closet. I don't understand the need to have all these pillows and, to be honest, I have a fear that, on my death bed, I'll have a moment of clarity where I realize I wasted 3.8 years taking those fucking pillows off the bed and putting them back on.

So, anyway, I left for work with the coffee on the coffee table (how apropos) and the pillows stacked up next to my wife's closet.

I left work a little after nine last night. One of my college roommates was in town so I was going to stop by my apartment, drop my shit off and head to the bar where he was waiting for me, with another friend of ours.

I open my apartment door, toss my jacket on the chair, my bag on the floor next to it and then the mail on the pile on the ....where's my mail?

Odd. I don't remember moving it to the kitchen counter.


I turn around, head towards my bedroom and I look down at the coffee table. Something isn't right.

Where the fuck is my gigantic box of coffee?

To say I was confused would be an understatement.

I walked over to the fish tank. Clean as a whistle. Are whistles clean? You blow spit and stink breath through them. I'd say they're actually pretty fucking filthy but, I digress.

The tank cleaners were here. Did they steal my coffee? As I'm walking back towards the hallway leading to my bedroom, I see the box. It is placed, neatly, at the bottom of a bunch of other boxes, to the side of the entrance. Did Kiwi (my tank cleaner) straighten up my living room? I know she, and her husband, are meticulous and neat as hell in and around the fish tank but this box was nowhere near the tank. Could she have been bothered by my placement of the box? Could it have been so annoying to her that she felt compelled to stow it neatly in the corner?

Oh well, no time to consider that. I was late.

I walk out the door, head downstairs and walk the block to the bar. The night was fun. Drank a bit too much and spent a few hours catching up with the friend. Good stuff.

Asked the twins if they wanted to party, they did so, home I went.

I stumbled into my apartment with the twins and made a beeline towards the bedroom. On the way, I explained to them how the coffee and the mail moved and nobody had been in my apartment and I told them I might have a cleaning ghost. They told me I was crazy and they started removing my clothes.

We collapsed onto the bed and as we started getting into it, I realized something was wrong.

The pillows were all back on the bed.

I sat up, startled.

What the fuck?

This was like the kitchen chairs in Poltergeist (for the young'uns - a classic haunted house movie from the past). I move em, they move back.

Now I'm fully convinced I have a ghost that likes a tidy home.

When I left this morning, the pillows were piled up next to the closet. Yesterday's mail was on the kitchen table and the coffee was where the ghost left it. We'll see what happens tonight.

As for the twins, I'm sensing a problem with them. I think that they might be getting too into all this fun. I was extremely clear about this being a temporary thing, only possible while my wife was out of town but, the one that likes to be to my left asked me last night, in the middle of it all, to remove my wedding band. Something about it making them uncomfortable, physically and emotionally.

I might have to end this before it gets too far out of control.

Flying Solo

The wife and kids left yesterday. Ten days in Florida. The kids are out of school and I'm not around much these days, so it makes sense for them to flee to warmer climes.

I got home around 10:45 last night. Empty apartment. It was freakishly clean and quiet. The lack of clothes, suitcases missing, made it feel like I'd been abandoned.

So I celebrated.

I dropped my shit off and went to the restaurant down the block. I brought my nook so it would appear as if I was not some loser sitting alone, drinking alone.

After the second, maybe the third drink, I met them. Twins. They were sweet as could be. Friendly, great listeners, great sense of humor. We had a few drinks and then I did something I never thought I'd do. I brought them back to my apartment. I tried sneaking them past the doorman but he saw us so I drunkenly explained that they are cousins or some such slurring bullshit. He looked at me like I was insane.

I don't recall much but I do know that they live near me so I had to explain that I am married and a father and this was a temporary thing. I explained to them that, upon my family's return, we shall go our separate ways. They agreed. They understood completely.

And then, after another drink in my apartment, I had sex in my bed. I never thought I'd do this without the wife being there but it happened and it was incredible. I'm not going into details but we were up until the wee hours of the morning, doing it every which way possible.

Woke up after 7 this morning. about 2 hours later than normal so I had to wake them up and they joined me in the shower for one last romp before heading off to work.

I'm hoping I'll see them again tonight. I'm supposed to have dinner with some of my college friends and, obviously, I can't let them know what's going on so, if they're still willing after a night out with the boys, I'm hoping they'll come back tonight.

Before you ask, yes, I do feel a little guilty about it all but my wife is out of town and I need this to relieve the stress and tension of all this work.

No Right Answer

Have you ever been asked a question that you know cannot be answered? You know, questions like, "does this make me look fat?" If you say no, you're lying, if you say yes, you're an asshole.

Well, I had me a doozy yesterday.

I'm walking home, enjoying the end of an incredibly nice day. Of course, I didn't enjoy the day as I was working but the walk home was my only chance to take in the first truly gorgeous day this year. And I was loving it. Sound cancelling ear buds set firmly in my ears, music to walk to was all I heard. Sunglasses on, I'm bobbing and weaving through the overly crowded pedestrian section of Times Square and I come to a red light. I'm standing there, waiting for the light to change when I get tapped on my shoulder. I turn around and there's a dude standing there, staring at me. I slip a bud out of my ear and say "what can I do for you?"

"Yo, you checking out my woman?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me motherfucker, you checking out my girl?"

"Um, no."

"What? She ain't worth checking out?"

"Um, seriously man, I don't know what you're talking about, I'm just walking home."

"I asked you, she ain't worth checking out?"

"I don't even know who she is."

"She right here"

"Very nice, yes, sure, she's worth checking out."

"Motherfucker, you checking out my woman"

A small crowd is gathering. The light changes, I start to walk away, he follows.

"Hey, motherfucker, don't walk away from me."

"Sorry, I need to get going and I wasn't checking out your girlfriend but, yes, she's a real looker, you should be proud to have her on your arm"

"thank you"

"Don't you talk to him, bitch. Yo, don't be making fun asshole, I asked you if you checking out my girl. I don't need you eyeballing my lady."

walking and talking

"I wasn't, I didn't, I'm blind to my surroundings, I'm listening to music, heading home from work, I really don't pay much attention to other people when I'm walking."

"You paying attention to me now, asshole."

"You're talking to me."

"That's right motherfucker, I am talking to you."

"Well, like I said, I gotta run but, seriously, you should keep an arm around that girl, you spend too much time talking to me, she might start looking for someone else to keep her company."

"What the fuck you saying?"

"Nothing, just saying you don't need to worry about me, you should pay attention to her, she deserves it."

"Why that?"

"Look at her, she's very pretty."

"So you was checking her out."

"No, man, you pointed her out to me. I'm just saying, she were mine, I'd spend my time looking at her, not at other dudes to see if they were checking her out."

"You saying I'm checking you out?"

"shit. No. I'm saying you should spend less time worrying about other guys, more time devoted to looking at her."

"Don't you tell me how to treat my woman. she happy, I treat her just fine motherfucker."

"Then why are you still walking with me? She's back there somewhere, stopped at a light."

Turning, running the other way....

"Fuck you, motherfucker, we ain't done. I'm coming back after I get her lazy ass.

"Ok but I think you'll understand if I don't wait for you."

"I'll catch you motherfucker. You won't be happy when I do."

"Probably not."


And then, as soon as I saw him melt into the crowd, I turned off the street, heading east.

She was pretty damned hot. What she was doing with this half pint gangsta wannabe, this 10 cent (certainly no fitty cent), is beyond me.

Oh, and yes, I was totally checking her out.

Poor Sandra Bullock

I'm not such a huge fan of hers but, after seeing her accept her Oscar, displaying such raw emotion over winning and then, being almost incapable of speaking when gesturing towards her husband, you really have to feel bad for her now that news of her husband's homosexual affair is out. It's shock enough to find out your significant other is running around, screwing someone behind your back but to find out the other person is a dude? That's really gotta sting.

To make matters even worse, the guy's a washed up goth shock rocker. He's Jesse James. He of the cool, outlaw name. I figured, that kind of name, a tv show, an a-list oscar winning wife, he should be able to get all kinds of tail, male or female. Instead, he opts for Marilyn Manson?

I really can't say more than that. I used to dig some of Manson's work and I always understood that he did what he did, dressed the way he dressed, as a means of self promotion but, seriously, messing around with Sandra Bullock's husband? That's a new low. I don't even think he has a new cd that needs to be promoted. The guy's just scum.

Hopefully, I'm not the only one who finds Jesse James and Marilyn Manson's tryst to be degrading and repulsive.

Sandy, if you're reading this, my sympathies go out to you. I can't even begin to imagine what's touched Manson's dick which, now, by proxy, has touched Jesse's. While I can't imagine you'd take him back but, if you do, I strongly recommend a complete battery of tests on the guy.

St. Patrick's Puke

Today's St. Paddy's day. I don't really understand the holiday in the least. Here's what I know. Kids cut school from all around the city and the surrounding burbs, get drunk and make asses of themselves. Adults do it too but the kids are the most obvious. Today, being an incredibly gorgeous day, brought em out in droves. By 9:30 they were streaming out of Penn Station, beers in hand, wandering towards the parade route. The concept of underage drinkers getting hammered before I've had my second cup of coffee is frightening.

I went downstairs for an afternoon break of the tobacco kind and I'm standing on the corner, facing the entrance for the Long Island Railroad, watching the crowd of swaying, staggering kids, soaking in the glorious, warm sun when I see two girls across the street. One of them is holding a green yard glass (those long crazy ale glasses) in one hand and a tether of about 20 green and white balloons in the other. The other is holding a yard glass and waving. I casually look around me to see what she's waving at but there's nobody near me. The girl with the balloons, who's wearing a form fitting print dress that seems to stop just below the pubic hair line, assuming she has any (she looked like the full shave type), is now pointing at me with the yard glass. I take a closer look and realize that, sleazy outfit aside, she's hot. Real hot. Her friend, on the other hand, is real not. She, too, is wearing a too tight dress that barely covers her ass. Problem is, it reveals every roll and crease in her oversized body. Now they're both waving at me, pointing at me and the fat one motions for me to come over.

I laugh, smile and shake my head, indicating I'm not coming over. What the fuck do I need that for? The hot one throws her hands up in the air in disgust, the balloons smacking some guy in the head, and starts to cross the street. As curious as I am regarding what this young lady might say to me, I'm really not in the mood to have my short break co-opted by her. 34th Street is a wide street, two lanes in each direction and, as she gets to the middle she looks up, does a little jog of sorts, smiling at me, points and then pukes. That's right, pukes. Big foamy spray of puke. She stops, pukes again, looks up and smiles. She starts to walk towards me and now I'm in a panic. I look to my right, Starbucks. It's crowded. I might not get in and thru the store before she reaches me. I look to my left. Mass of people waiting to cross the street. Tons of St. Paddy's drunks milling about.

She's getting closer. Stagger stumbling towards me. No shame with this one. She must think I didn't notice the massive, technicolor, yawn she let loose on the street. People are edging away from her, fearing another explosion. A few look at me, pity in their eyes.

What to do? What to do?

Then it hits me.


Citibank.

Behind me.

YES!

I wheel around on my heels, grab the door, toss my smoke and enter the bank.

I move thru the second set of doors and head towards the other exit which is on the other side of the atm room. As I grab the door to leave I hear "wait, I want to ask you a question."

"Got gum?" would be appropriate about now but I don't even want to turn around and say it. I don't want to smell the vomit. I don't want to be around her when she pukes again. I don't want her to come near me.

I exit the door, make a left and head for my building.

Being too drunk to follow me, she opts, instead to walk along the windowed wall that leads in the same direction. She's saying something to me but I can't hear her.

Fuck!

Another exit.

She sees my eyes move towards the door and she picks up her pace, hoping to cut me off.

I pass the door as she is pushing on it and then she pukes again.

It sprays out from her mouth against the glass and back onto her.

It's fucking nasty and, normally, I'd probably puke myself but I start to laugh instead.

I hear her friend yelling to her from behind me as I enter my building and jog towards the elevators. The last thing I need is to have these crazy puking girls chasing me into my place of business.

To be safe, I jump in the wrong elevator and jam the door close button like I'm in some crazy chase scene in some cheesy movie.

The doors close. The elevator rises and I'm safe.

Of course, when I go home tonight, there will be twenty times more of these drunkards wandering the streets.

Birthday Fun

So I went out for my birthday last night. Nothing special planned, just dinner at a new burger joint. Really, it's all I wanted. No family, no big gathering of friends and fringe friends. Just me, and my wife. The burger sucked. Shocking because this place was opened around, and the menu was based upon, the Five Napkin Burger from a restaurant called Nice Matin. I've had the original five napkin burger several times, always amazing. So, when last night's burger was dry and somewhat flavorless. My wife's burger, on the other hand, was everything she'd hoped it would be.

During the course of the meal, my wife explained to me how she fought with the theater manager over her attempt to get replacement seats for a show that we had tickets for back when we had the last big snow storm. She said they wouldn't let her use the tickets for a weekend so she decided to try other shows and, she told me, she couldn't find something that she thought I'd like. Then she says "then I found this, I think it might be fun" and she handed me a Ticketmaster envelope. Inside were two tickets to BB King's and the band was The Radiators or, as we called them back when I was in college, the Rads. Fucking awesome. I didn't even know they were playing. They are a fair band, at best but, back in college, they were one of three bands that you went to see whenever they played. They might play 2 or 3 nights in a row and, if they did, you were there. They'd play 3 sets (later it was only 2) and it was an endurance night, starting the partying around 8 and getting home some time after 4 am. Tons of booze and, more often than not, plenty of X to go around.

So I was kind of psyched about this. Then my wife told me how she found out about the show. My sister. Seems she's going to be there, with that piece of shit husband of hers. Oh well, maybe I'll see some of my friends, or some folks I haven't seen in a while. The band will still be fun. Not like I'll be hanging out with them.

So, off we go. We get to the show just as the band is tuning up. Run into a friend of my wife who I went to school with and then we hit the bar. Hanging around by the bar, scanning the crowd for familiar faces, I start seeing my sister and her friends. Ugh. They all come over. Hugs, kisses and well wishes abound. She's with a large group of friends. Some are cool, others, not so much. I deal. I'm nice, I laugh, reminisce. Then I see my college roommate's old girlfriend. This girl manages to get better looking every time I see her. She's one of the few people from school who I can honestly say is just very cool. Great sense of humor. Always a pleasure seeing her. She informs me that none of my friends are there. Bummer.

Then it happens.

I get grabbed in a massive bear hug. I turn around and I'm being accosted by a guy I haven't seen in close to 20 years. He grabs me again and hugs me one more time. Then the normal talk begins. What are you up to? Kids? Mistresses? The usual. He winds up calling one of his friends to tell him he's with Shaggy. I get on the phone and say hi to the friend. This guy was in another fraternity and my friends and I ran into a bunch of them in Mexico one year and spent the better part of our trip hanging out with them. At some point, one of them decided I was not me but, rather, I was the spitting image of Shaggy from the scooby doo cartoons. I was tall, very skinny and I did, at times, have that chin fuzz thing going. Didn't help that I can do a frighteningly accurate ZOINKS! when needed.

So, this friend brings his wife over and introduces me. I introduce them to my wife. Good times ensue. Numbers exchanged, cards swapped. Then he leans over and asks if I saw Jane (not her real name). I tell him I hadn't seen her in 15 years and that last time was in a restaurant, she was on the other end of the room, walking out and I didn't get a chance to say hello.

I didn't even have a minute to look for her. She saw my sister, heard I was there, and came running. She gives me this huge hug, huge kiss, is holding me tight, telling me she can't believe its been this long, she always asks my friends for updates on me and she cannot believe we don't talk anymore. My wife is standing there, looking at us like we're reunited lovers and she's about to lose her man. I pull back from Jane and introduce her to my wife. Jane then tells my wife how we were the best of friends her senior year (she was a year older than me). She asks my wife if she knows Jim (not his real name) and my wife says yes, she does and she had met his brother as well (his brother died in the WTC). So, Jane says, "I was dating Jim my junior and senior year and he graduated a year before me and he asked Floogin to keep an eye on me." What she didn't say was "floogin was the guy I trusted enough to help me count pills when my shipments would arrive."

So, I wound up hanging out with two old friends. Had a fucking blast. Drank way too much. Barely recall the band actually playing, although I do know they played Da Nang and I vaguely recall a hearing a few other songs.

A total surprise. A total blast. My gift is in Jersey, my wife's license expired on her birthday and it's pouring outside so she won't be driving to her sister's to get my gift. No biggie. Last night was all I needed. Although, I could do without the spinning nausea I'm now suffering from.

Oh, and no, I'm not going to go into any detail about what went on when we got home. A gentleman never talks. Of course, I'm no gentleman.

Sign of the Apocalypse

ok, so I joined face book. I know, I've railed against the stupidity of the site and how I don't understand it and I don't have time for it and I think it's just for people to find old flames, see where they made mistakes, see if they can't cyber cheat on their significant others and see if their lives are better than their childhood friends.

I didn't do it for myself. I didn't do it to see where my ex girlfriends are. I didn't do it to see if I am married to a prettier woman than my childhood friend or if my kids are cooler looking than my ex's.

I did it for work. I did it to be a part of the business I am involved in and to help further the reach of said business.

And what have I managed to get for it? Well, lots of spam about farm critters and other people's activities at the moment so, here's my plan with all of this.

I am going to tweet that I got a facebook account. Then I'm going to write on my facebook wall that I tweeted about my facebook account. Then I'm going to tweet that I am going to update my facebook account and, after I update it, and everyone gets the update blasted out to them, I'll tweet that I did it for good measure.

I'll post on facebook that I'm taking a break from posting on facebook but I'm still going to tweet and then I'll tweet that I'm no longer going to tweet, opting to update my facebook page instead.

Then I'll have lunch. I'll tweet and update facebook with each bite so everyone will know what I'm doing at that exact moment.

then I'm going to call all of my friends, one at a time. I'll ask them what they're doing, at that exact moment, and then, when they tell me, I'll hang up and tweet and facebook it so everyone knows that I am up to date with my friends and my own tweets and facebook. Then I'll update my friends, via the phone, to tell them I'm going to tweet some updates but I'll only tweet that I'm updating my facebook and then I'll update facebook to say that I've had enough and I'm going to kill myself.

Then I'm going to tweet that I will update facebook right before I off myself. I'll post this on facebook and then I'll tweet that the facebook update was not my final update before offing myself.

Then I'll have a smoke.

I'll tweet about it because, well, everyone wants to know that I'm sucking on a small stick of dried plants and paper.

Then I'll post my final words on facebook and I'll tweet that I've posted the final words on facebook.

Then I'll update facebook so that facebook gets the last word, and not twitter.

Then I'll tweet that I am going to try and post a final comment on both, simultaneously.

Then I'll take a nap.


Then I'll come here and write about how fucking stupid facebook is and how fucking ridiculous it is to update every minute detail of your boring lives so that everyone else can wallow in your misery.

Seriously. We don't give a shit. You want to tweet or post something in real time on facebook? Here's what would be interesting.

tweet: I'm going down on a woman right now.
tweet: she's wrapping her legs around my head. think she's gonna cum
tweet: squirtz. damn, bb is wet. might break

or facebook update something like:
robbing a bank
holding gun in one hnd nd typgin wit otter. gettign cassh nd takig offf
cops heer i in trubl

We should all go back to writing letters. Using proper fucking english.

gotta run. facebook needs an update