Erectile Tryptophania

(Originally posted 11/26/09)

Cialis commercials are getting ever more disturbing. At this point I think we're all sort of numb to the veiled metaphors around the benefits of a stiff dick, just as we were earlier indoctrinated into the "menstrual pad as field of fresh flowers" mindset. I can deal with the knowing smiles, close-ups of embracing hands, and even those ridiculous tubs. Never mind that the guys in these ads are precisely the kind that probably should remain forever afflicted with "E.D.", if only to reduce the likelihood of them spawning offspring and propagating their insipid personalities onto successive generations.



But the spot I saw this morning really creeped me out.

The thing that dug into my spine was the manner in which the ad kept swinging back to a portrait of the family dog on the wall. The mutt is smiling. Winking. Like he was in on the gag, wise to the source of his master's new swagger. Or perhaps just relieved that Mr. Limp Dick wouldn't be taking his failures in the bedroom out on the the ol family pooch anymore ("Stop taunting me, you beast! Tail in the air - you think I don't know what that means! Take this!!"). Perhaps. But the dog's shit eating grin really got to me in all the wrong ways, digging into my psyche like nothing this side of those Charles Schwab rotoscoped monstrosities. Its metaphorical fingernails dragging across the chalkboard of my sensibilities.



At the end, the newly empowered Peter starts rattling off all of the unfortunate side effects of Cialis (marathon hard-ons, massive boils on your testes, loss of bowel control, elephantiasis of the nostril, stink eye, etc.). And in the middle of this "happy fun ball"-like disclaimer speech, focus switches back to the stairway with the family portraits, centering again on that damn dog. Or am I just imagining all this? If so, why?

This was to be my Thanksgiving post before I got so rattled by that ad from our friends in the pharmaceutical industry. It was to be a typical "happy, happy" tome. You know - one of those heartfelt "I'm thankful for my friends, family, health, etc." bullshit pieces of sentiment that folks haul out of the basement a few times a year as a break from the hard work of shoveling shit on one another. But I decided to put the kibosh on that nonsense. Perhaps I should be thankful I'm not afflicted with "E.D." (but it's more than counterbalanced by the fact that I wouldn't know it if I was).

My memories of childhood Thanksgivings are, like many things of that era, hazy. They were mostly pleasant, I think. I don't recall any major meltdowns or other high drama (we saved that for the other 364 days on the calendar). There were likely many levels of tension going on during those gatherings that I was (thankfully, blissfully) oblivious to. Once the food was eaten, Thanksgiving was over in our house: I don't remember us doing much afterward. We weren't a "gather 'round the TV and watch football" kind of family. Nor were we a "head out to the yard to throw the ball" brood. Chow down and veg.



Occasionally we had extended family members over. Sometimes members of Dad's booze crew stopped by. I don't recall anyone overtly smashed, though - no vomiting into the stuffing or falling face first into the pumpkin pie.

I often think my unfocused memories of events in my childhood home were more a function of the thick haze of smoke drifting like a London fog throughout the confines of that place. My remembrances aren't faulty - they're just nicotine stained. Maybe that's why smells don't trigger any sense memories for me (not like sounds - music takes me back to moments past every day). The smell of turkey doesn't remind me of childhood Thanksgivings simply because it's no longer enhanced with Camel and Alpine tar-based herbs and carcinogen-laced spices.

Anyway, back to thankfulosity and gratefuliousness.

At the end of the day, I'm not terminally ill (that I'm aware of yet, anyway), I've got friends and family I don't hate (most of them, in fact). I'm gainfully employed in a profession that often doesn't suck (not relative to a lot of other ones out there). I mean, I could be working in a slaughter house or as a sideshow geek in a traveling carnival, if I had the aptitude for such endeavors. Thankfully, I don't. At the very least, I lack the requisite drive and desire to excel in such rarefied environs.



So there's that.

By the way, I'm not looking down on those fine individuals pursuing careers in slaughterhouse management and executive geekdom: remember, without slaughterhouse workers, very few of you'd be enjoying your turkey this day (and without sideshow geeks, you'd have one less thing to be thankful you're not).

Well, better hit the hay - Black Friday awaits ... Americans at their best and brightest. I figure if I get to Walmart early enough, I can take advantage of the 'doorbuster' sales I'm sure they'll be having on their line of Caskets (such as "Dad Remembered" or the "Lady de Guadalupe" - steel jobbies both, guaranteed to be worm resistant). Order online and have 'em shipped to your home or the home of the lucky recipient. Oh, and be sure to order soon so that it arrives before Xmas; you wouldn't want to disappoint! Truly gifts that keep on giving.

The Neighborhood Handyman

My Dad lay passed out in a neighbor's upstairs bathroom in the tub. His toolbox had been propped open next to him, a half empty bottle of whiskey poking up among the pipe wrenches and other equipment in it. I stood over him, frozen. What should I do? Run down the stairs and out the front door, pretending I never came back? Try and wake him up? This latter move might just be worse if he's as in the bag as his slobbering snore indicates. The choice was made then: I ran.

And thus ended my Dad's very short career comeback as the neighborhood handyman. But it all started a month or so earlier. Well, not exactly. Really it had been ongoing for many years.

Dad had steadily become unemployable to the regular nine-to-five rank and file over the years leading up to the tub incident. It wasn't all that big a town we lived in and he managed to drink his way into and then back out of pretty much all the companies that needed a plumbing supply salesman.

Even the alcoholics among Dad's sundry bosses had gradually thrown in the towel with him after a few dances. And by the second or third generation of Dad's career transitions, a high percentage of his hiring managers were raging alcoholics (that's bound to happen when you go job hunting primarily from the vantage point of a bar stool). Those whose boozing buddy loyalty instincts outweighed their fiduciary responsibilities eventually either drank themselves to death or at least out of any positions of influence that could protect Dad's ass from the boot.

Dad drifted into odd jobs and seasonal work after his chosen profession up and ran from him. The only one of these part time jobs I remember distinctly was his stint as a 'peace officer' with Northwest Protection Service (I can still picture his 'police' jacket with company logo and fake badge hanging up in the hall closet).

He got minimum wage to sit in a chair overnight next to the outdoor summer sale merchandise racked up in front of Kmart. There was enough shit that I guess it was cheaper to hire a guard than to haul it in and out of the store each day.

I'm not sure what Dad could have done had criminal types decided they wanted to make off with the inventory (it's not like he had a weapon; not even a club or mace). I guess he could have taken his lit cigarette, dropped it into his ever-present bottle of whiskey, and heaved it after the would-be thieves, Molotov Cocktail style. (By day, mild mannered couch-bound lush. But when night arrives, he is transformed into Whiskey Man: crime fighting Northwest protector of truth, justice and the American swing set.)

Regardless, Dad sat vigilant guard over bicycles, patio furniture and lawn mowers. Lt. Columbo, Sgt. Friday, One Adam-12, Serpico. The one incorruptible cop. Dum Da Dum Dum. That's my Dad! Couldn't wait for career day at school!

The truth is, I loved Dad's Northwest Protection job more than all the others, simply because he often brought his work home with him in the morning in the form of pilfered toys for me. I was on the receiving end of a pitch-n-catch trampoline-style baseball backstop along with a number of other items we otherwise couldn't have afforded. He was a fountain of ill-gotten gifts all around for the family during this summertime blue-light sentry duty. Likely the store would have suffered fewer loses had they simply left the stuff unguarded.

But that kind of work wouldn't pay the bills and didn't last long in any event; he needed something steadier. One of our neighbors, Austin, was a commercial artist and he volunteered to draft up some brochures hailing the "Return of the Neighborhood Handyman" in an attempt at a career revitalization for the old man. It was very nice of Austin and I really wish I had kept a few of those pamphlets around as a keepsake.

Austin's kids and I distributed these handyman leaflets like newspapers to doorsteps all around our neighborhood. The picture on the cover was a caricature of Dad, a tall lanky fellow, staggering under the weight of an overflowing tool belt filled with screwdrivers, tape measures, pipe wrenches, saws, etc. It was a bit like the picture on the left here.

Austin should have sketched in a couple of fifths of booze tucked safely away in Dad's pockets on the front of those pamphlets if he had adhered more strictly to the adage 'truth in advertising.' Whiskey topped Dad's list of the most essential tools of his trade and it didn't even make the cover! Sadly, he'd prove that out in this failed attempt as an independent business man, much to my embarrassment and his continued economic decline. Which brings us back to where we started. The tub. Almost.

The first customer who came calling was a homeowner several blocks north of us, a person we didn't know who had nonetheless been taken by the unique advertisement placed on his doorstep. The guy wasn't disappointed: Dad fixed their leaky faucet quickly and efficiently, with yours truly by his side as faithful assistant. (It was summer and this eight year old was either bored or goaded into servitude, I honestly don't remember which.)

The second customer was not so fortunate. These were neighbors we were friendly with, just around the corner. I knew the kids there, as did my sister. Theirs was a big house, they were fairly well off as I recall (the father was a physician). They had a complex job for the old man, something related to the installation of all new fixtures in one of the upstairs bathrooms. It was monotonous work and I wandered off to do kid stuff after watching Dad for a bit.

That was a mistake.

When I came back to the neighbor house a few hours later to see how Dad was progressing, well ... he was tubthumping, but I already went over that. And then I ran. I'm not sure if the neighbors stumbled upon Dad snoring among the rubber duckies or if he finally came to and managed to slither away sight unseen. I do know that he never went back to the neighbor house to finish and never received any payment from them for services rendered prior to his siesta. The argument that ensued between Mom and Dad made it clear that no check would be forthcoming, and the phone never rang for his handyman talents from that point forward.

I felt guilty a long time afterward for leaving Dad to his own devices. On the off-chance I forgot, Mom made sure to remind me loud and often. I had left my post. That's why he got shitfaced and screwed everything up. Makes sense.

Thus became the Exile of the Neighborhood Handyman. A one hit wonder. We hardly knew ye

Shoeless Billy Mays

Originally posted August, 2009

Say it ain't so, Billy ... Coke? Meth, I could see (it's the people's drug, after all, and you were nothing if not a man of the people).  But elitist coke?

Could it be the rat-ah-tat-tat, slam-boom, loud and superfast patter was not nature's gift to you, Mr. Mays?

Man. Bummed.

This is for me like finding out Joe DiMaggio was corking his bat!

If Billy could be seduced by the dark side where does that leave the other pitchmen and women?

Are any of them clean?

ShamWow Vince?   The Snuggie Lady?   The Liberator Catheter 'Cath' Chick?  Billy's partner Anthony?

Do the television advertising executives need to institute mandatory drug testing?  (I mean apart from the ones already in place for legal drugs a particular shill might be hawking.  When the Viva Viagra men's glee club force down those blue pills like they were tic-tacs, that doesn't count.)

This Mays-as-cokehead revelation could be just the beginning.

Next thing ya know, pictures will start popping up in the scandal rags of all our favorite pitch people gallivanting at the annual Infomercial Players Convention in Vegas, caught-on-camera snorting lines off a dead hooker's ass using Liberator Catheters as straws.

And then of course cleaning it all up with the help of some OxiClean and a few ShamWows.

It would end up being like the old Chicago Black Sox Scandal, only now 'as seen on TV.'  'The scandal with sleeves!'

Grainy home movie footage will follow - Paris Hilton-style - going viral on the net:

[Scene: Some Vegas Hotel Suite, final night of the Infomercial Shill Shabang Convention. Vince, Billy, Anthony, Snuggie Lady, and 'Cath' are bent over the king size bed, all wearing multi-color Snuggies and snorting blow through long catheter tubes, the dead hooker sprawled out below them serving as receptacle for their illicit consumption.]

Zoom in.  Assume Les Stroud of Survivorman is operating the camera. What?  Hey, he's got lots of camera experience!  And he knows how to deal with snakes and jaguars and bears, which might come in handy here.

Shamwow Vince is rattling on at hypersonic speed straight into the camera, nude except for his red Snuggie and his headset mike, pacing around all crazy-armed wild-eyed energy and dilated pupils: "Look at that mess. That's blood running out of my nose, mixing with the grey matter oozing from that dead hooker's head there.  It's soaking right into the carpet - that's gonna leave a mess (and evidence). Ya gettin' that camera guy? But with some OxiClean - wanna spray some there Billy? .. and a ShamWow, it sucks it all out - no muss, no fuss, no cops."

Then Vince pulls out his SlapChop and an Eight-ball and proceeds to chop them up a few more lines of Bolivian Marching Powder.  But only after getting into it with Anthony, who wants to use a Smart Chopper for the job instead, claiming it wastes less 'product' and results in a 'finer' drift of snow, free from the 'rock' left behind by the SlapChop.  Toe to toe, fisticuffs at the ready.  Gotta give it to them, even ripped out of their gourd these boys are loyal to the brands they so proudly represent.

The Vince/Anthony tussle resolved (both Choppers would be employed), the gang hunkers down for a few more snorts of coke and - what the hey, it's a party after all - a line or two of the finest Afghani smack.

Vince stands up again suddenly and half struts/half weaves toward the camera - you awake, Les?  His TV rap tattooed to his psyche, ol' Vince can't help but let his buddies know that like all things, this party is time-boxed: "If ya hurry, ya can have a taste - for the next 20 minutes, or until this hooker starts to smell, cause we can't be doing this all day, people."

'Cath' is already agitated by the other pitchmen and their wasteful use of her catheters - why not use a rolled up $20 like normal people?  Vince's sharp tone and clock watching have put her over the edge. "All day?!? We can't be doing this all day?!?   It's only 5am, ya hooker beatin' Eddie Haskell-lookin' shithead! - Now, I gotta go 'Cath'"  Vince doesn't back down from her.  "Not in here ya don't - in the toilet with ya, Cath, ya urinary tract wacked bitch!'

Every once in a while the Snuggie Lady pops her head out of the blue velvet 'Snugcoon' that envelopes her as she lay 'cross the sofa in the corner.  Just as quickly, she grabs another handful of pills from the candy dish and washes them down with a tug from the half gallon bottle of cooking sherry she keeps clenched in her fist.  The others know not to disturb her (or even to glance in her general direction). Oh, no - that wouldn't be wise: she'd been huffing Billy's Orange Glo all afternoon and is in no mood for socializing.

Enough fun and games, time to feed the hooker into the Magikan trash disposal system that Anthony and Billy had brought along for just this purpose. That'll tidy things up just right. Maybe a little 'energy booster' before cleanup - "Hey Liberator Chick, pass over another 'cath'!"

[End Scene]



Of course, this is all just wild speculation about a future that nobody wants. The consequences of falling down that slippery slope from high atop the Infomercial Celebrity Ego Mountain. I can only hope this scene remains firmly in the realm of fiction.

Consider it a forewarning - a cautionary tale, if you will, of the ultimate price paid when putting too much pressure on our heroes and taking away their P.T. Barnum-fueled innocence. For in so doing, our innocence shall be taken as well.

Vince and Billy have been tarnished by scandal, let's hope they don't take the whole ship down with them.

Bob and Ruth

Bob Douglas was all chest high plaid pants, wild eyes and eager ears, working the police-fire scanner knobs and his telephone dial with savage efficiency in the darkened room at the back of his house. This was his war room, his command center. The Information Station.

Hey, down there at 1310 Hoyt! Get ready for the fire truck! You, up there at 706 Grand! The police cruiser's coming your way! Yo, over there at 925 Rockefeller! Domestic Squabble just down your alley at 918 Wetmore!

He was wired into it all, hooked into the information grid of nineteen hundred and seventy. Everett, Washington's emergency dispatch signals surfing across his brainwaves, his thoughts tuned into their frequencies. Forever clearing his throat of the perpetual phlegm of ignorance, he thirsted for the knowledge that these crises and misdemeanors washed down into him. But it wasn't enough to obtain the wisdom, he was compelled to impart it onto others. And not gently either - no, this education was delivered to his friends and neighbors with a vicious ruthlessness. Mr. Douglas, you see, was a man both supremely impatient and utterly mad. He suffered neither fools nor the rational gladly.

A call would come over the scanner and his shock of curly hair shot straight up, his hairy ears throbbing with the details of this latest catastrophe. Incessantly tuning the signal to clear the noise from the necessary, Bob would focus, waiting - until, Bam! He'd catch wind of a juicy one through the static and hone in on the location. A picture would form in his mind's eye as he zoomed in for a close up. His gnarled fingers would then start clawing down the phone book white pages, mapping the dispatch address to a neighborhood and the 'hood to his acquaintances, however vague the connection. Match! Yes! Now he would make with the telephone dial.

Ring, ring.

Ignorant Acquaintance: Hello?

Bob: Ummmrrgghhh. Hey, down there at 1215 Colby, you got a heart attack one block down, 1314 Wetmore. Ummmeegghh.

Click.

With that said, Bob would abruptly hang up. He needed no reply from his pupils and had no time for idle chit-chat. They didn't even have names to him, his friends; he referred to them only by their addresses.  There was serious work to do, removing the blinders from the beleaguered citizens of this jerk-water town. How little they knew of these moments of consequence taking place right under their noses! But Bob, he knew. Strokes, heart attacks, burglaries, peeping toms. Bob had total coverage. He was the master of this knowledge. The great and powerful Oz!

This man was a god to me growing up, a giant. Fueled by Antabuse and aggravation, he was nothing so much as a raw nerve personified. All work and no play was not in Bob's vocabulary, though the definition of 'play' is subjective. For instance, he 'played' his long-suffering dog Wolfy into a quivering nervous wreck until the poor thing could take no more, finally succumbing to a fatal heart attack. Not satisfied with simply schooling his own pet, he worked the neighborhood animals into frenetic basket cases as well (they were unable to sleep for days after one of his visits). But unlike Wolfy, at least the neighbor doggies had times of relief when 'uncle' Bob went home. None of these unfortunate side effects were intentional, of course. Mr. Douglas was simply being Mr. Douglas. Wass a gooodd dooggg?!? yessyouare, yessyouare, wass a good dog!?!?! eh? eh?!?!? Was a good dog!?!?! Ehh, ehh, ehh!! On and on and on, he'd go. Bob would have them chase their tails, tug on rags, run down Frisbees, play chop sticks on the piano, clean his garage, mainline meth, and tear their own tongues out. And that was for starters. Waasss a goood doogggie!?!? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Errrmmmdddhh!!

This was simply Bob's way.

His bright plaid pants weaving to and fro, manic voice booming and the constant gurgling of phlegm in his throat, Bob just couldn't stop, had no sense of boundaries or limits. Luckily he was clearing his throat so much of the time that you couldn't make out most of his psycho-babble. His affliction was Turrets Syndrome melded with an obsessive-compulsive disorder and manic tendencies all rolled into one fifty-something package. Or was he sixty-something? It doesn't matter: he was ageless, beyond time.

Bob would also visit upon children what he inflicted on the town's canine population. I cowered in terror upon his arrival at our doorstep. As I said, he was a god to me. Sort of like Loki, the Norse God of Mischief. Or Satan.

Bob stopped drinking years before I knew him, though it took a few trips through treatment before the "cure" took hold. His regiment of Antabuse and terminal psychosis remained the only vestige of a drunkard's past. I have no idea why as a child I was cognizant of his pharmaceutical intake, probably because my parents kept no secrets, as long as they weren't theirs. As though taking Antabuse was a scandalous thing, especially when compared to the unrestrained active alcoholism my folks reveled in.

I had always assumed that Bob and my Dad had been drinking buddies and that was how our families became friends. Those two may well have been boozing pals at some point; however, Mr. Douglas sold insurance back in the day - before he retired to his role as town crier - and that was how our families originally came together. (We had insurance?!?) A television commercial come to life with your broker as best buddy and trusted adviser. His friendship, though, was more akin to Jim Carey's Chip Douglas in The Cable Guy: you'd have to pry your relationship with him from his cold, dead hands. He mated for life in this regard.

Speaking of mating, Bob was not alone. He came as a package deal, wrapped up in a bow with his stubby chubby swinging 60s red headed whack job misses, Ruth. Ruth had the unfortunate habit of wearing skirts sans undergarments on occasion, but was not blessed with the body of Sharon Stone, nor was she of an age - she was somewhere north of fifty - when that behavior might have been viewed in a different light (a black light was too luminous for her particular horrors).

Mrs. D would readily cross and uncross her legs with a silly, knowing smirk as she visited with our folks making gabby small talk, always sounding and acting to me like Sue Ann Nivens from the Mary Tyler Moore show come to life with a dye job. I'd see red and go blind. The carpet matched the drapes, though neither of any shade nature could have conjured up. What nightmares these visuals would give me! ("Join me for a crimson bath! Red-dye #5 mixes well with Mr. Bubbles! Come on in, the water is fine!")

Errhhhhhh.

My Mom - also a Ruth - cut Mrs. Douglas's hair regularly, though she had no training or 'natural' talent in the tonsorial arts that I'm aware of (certainly the results bared that out). This ritual would take place in our kitchen, the two ladies enjoying a beer or two while my Mom took the scissors to that red fright wig atop Mrs. D's head. I had my first taste of the suds in this setting, though I'm not sure why I was offered (I couldn't place my age, maybe 10?). A first initiation into the alcoholic profession my parents saw as the family calling. I was strangely drawn to watching this beauty parlor ballet unfold, my Mom hacking at Ruth D's head while they both got toasted. I shutter when I think about this today. Now that I am thinking of it, my Mom's services to Ruth also included regular dye jobs (though they were, to my knowledge, all on the "up and up").

Bob and Ruth spawned one child, Lee. An odd kid who became a cop, he was by some accounts a sexual deviant. The girls in the neighborhood all dreaded Lee's approaching swagger, as he put his moves on them in his best 70s Disco Stu style.

Nature, nurture - Lee had both going against him and probably didn't stand much of a chance. But at least Father Douglas could follow his son's adventures from the comfort of his back room courtesy of the trusty police scanner. Sometimes his son would be dispatched, and sometimes his son would be dispatched upon. Sort of a one-man game of cops and robbers (or cops and flashers, to be more precise). Who would Bob call during these episodes? Himself? But the line's forever busy! I imagine that after episodes such as this, a confusion of sorts must have hung for a time over Bob's Rear Window lifestyle.

So these are my slanderous memories of just a couple of characters from my childhood.

An introduction. They will return. They were central to my upbringing in many ways.

It takes a village. Indeed.

[Postscript: my sister recalls once, back in the days when Bob had been drinking, he accidentally flushed his false teeth down the toilet. The mental picture of that event and the subsequent dental panic - Did they result in a clog? My dad was a handyman, did he break into the sewage pipes to retrieve the choppers? - was strong enough to me that I felt I needed to share.

My sister also recalled for me Bob's love of the pornographic (which explains his wife Ruth). For example, Bob liked to keep his extensive collection of Playboys piled high in plain view on top of his living room coffee table, in order to give all visitors the chance to peruse the interesting articles. He often left the mags open turned to the "article" spread. He went so far as to send my then teenage sister a fold out of a playmate pic because he thought it looked like her. He ratcheted up creepiness several notches in his day, claiming the word as his own. ]

Leave It To Bitcher

Maybe it's the nostalgia jag I'm on with Mad Men, maybe it's memories of the thrill I had as a kid getting my first typewriter (I was a wannabe writer geek as a boy, still am), but the thought of these obsolete machines brings with it powerful recollections.


I wish I'd kept at least a few pages of the reams of shit I knocked out on that thing. It was a little plastic-encased jobby, still a manual but not nearly so onerous to use as the 1950s metal Underwood monstrosity my Mom had.

I pecked out numerous "episodes" of a family sitcom entitled 'Leave it to Bitcher' on that little machine. My alternative 'Leave it to Beaver' universe had June turning tricks, Wally selling smack to Lumpy and Eddie at the local high school and Ward as an end-stage alcoholic (but ever the ham, he never quite leaves the stage). The Bitcher - Theodore - was a pyromaniac who was being sexually molested by Miss Landers. It was a merry romp, to be sure - shot through innocent eyes, framed in the Eisenhower age of the nuclear family. With a healthy dollop of my twisted worldview melting down its core.


Now to be sure, my mother was not a prostitute, though she always gave me the impression she wouldn't be opposed to the idea, liking to brag that her paternal grandmother was thought to be a turn-of-the-century hooker in Norway. The truth is that my maternal grandfather did not know his biological mother - it's just speculation, rumor, gossip. But the point is made. Anyway, my sister didn't sell black tar heroin at Everett High (at least not that I'm aware of) and I neither set fires nor screwed any of my grade school teachers (from what I recall of them, thank God for that).


That leaves dear ol' Dad. He was the real deal and a model for my Ward in the Bitcher series. But Ward was mainly a supporting character in my teleplays. Sure, he'd stumble in and out of scenes, vomit caking his 'business suit,' always with a slur and a "honey, I'm home, ya goddam whassa, don't tell me, Christ! Blahhh." Still, he didn't generally stay conscious long enough to figure into any of the main story lines.

Ward did have one memorable scene attempting to show the Bitcher some fatherly concern and support upon hearing the news that Miss Landers was pregnant and the fire marshal was gunning for the boy. The old man leaned over his son for a pat on the head and a hug, but he mismanaged the distance and lost the delicate balance of his equilibrium, weaving to and fro. The next thing you know, up came his liquid lunch all over the Bitcher's face. Whatta mess!

And Ward always seemed to be involved indirectly.

For example, there was the recurring 'coda' bit that took place in the boys' bedroom after June walks by the door with a john and pauses to remind the Bitcher to do his chores "or there will be no 'fireworks' for you tonight, young man" before heading off to the 'working' bedroom to ply her trade.

The Bitcher then usually turned to his older brother for advice, complaining about one chore in particular. Wally would be measuring out his baggies of heroin as he provided some perspective to 'the Bitch' during this Taster's Choice moment of brotherly affection.
Occasionally Eddie or Lumpy were there, having stopped by in need of a fix. But they were simply background fodder here, tying off and shooting up quietly or already on the nod in the corner.

The sappy Leave It To Bitcher theme music softly, slowly plays in 'there's a lesson to be taught here' style:

Bitcher: "I really hate emptying out Dad's vomit bowel, Wally"

Wally : "Gee, Bitcher, I know it's kinda nasty but shucks, I had to do it when I was your age. Just breathe through your mouth and look away from the puke. You're lucky, back when I was a little squirt like you, Dad could actually eat food and the stuff he heaved up was way more disgusting. I'll dump it out for you this time, I have to go down stairs anyway."

Bitcher: "Gosh, Thanks, Wally!"

Wally: "Sure. I remember what it was like to be a little goof your age. I gotta run down to the park now. Your pal Larry wants a taste and looks like he might be a potentially good customer of mine in the years ahead. Watch Lumpy, will ya? That's some potent stuff he's mainlining and Mom will clobber me if we have another O.D. in the house and have to call Dr. Bradley again. Remember that mess when Mary Ellen Rogers shot a speedball up here laced with fentanyl and died? Gosh, the medical examiner raised a stink and ol' Dr. Bradley almost lost his license!"

Bitcher: "Sure, Wally. Ya know, for a degenerate drug dealer, sometimes you're an okay big brother."

Wally : "Gee, thanks, Bitch."

Wally tassels his kid brother's hair with the usual goofy look on his face.
Roll Credits.


I'll admit, that particular scene wasn't taken whole cloth from my imagination - I have to tip my hat to Dad for some real life inspiration there. Thanks, Pops, I couldn't have done it without you.

The main story lines usually revolved around Bitcher's fires and trysts with Miss Landers or with June's burgeoning prostitution business. And boy was business booming, so to speak. Fred Rutherford served as her pimp and pretty much every other character regularly passing through Mayfield ended up as a client whether they be male or female, young or old.

I was 14/15 or thereabouts when pounding out these masterpieces. I miss the thrill of whacking the return/paper feed lever one last time and pulling the final sheet out of the machine, the mechanical moves putting an exclamation point on completion of my handiwork. Lots of strike overs and whiteout editing remained, of course, but still. I'd be all warm with either pride or the start of what became a peptic ulcer, my bare feet curled up under the desk in my room, toes lost in the orange shag carpet (hey, that was styling in the day and besides, I inherited the room and carpet from my sister).

I have no idea as to the quality of this shit. Somehow back then I was sure each piece was pure Gold, Jerry, Gold - goddamn genius in the eyes of this beholder. At least once I was done with the incessant editing, which I did to the point where you couldn't read the thing, with more whiteout visible than there was plain paper. Man what I could have done with a word processor.

Still, brilliant for sure. Had he started Inside the Actor's Studio (for you non-believers, not for actors only) back in the early 70s, I'm sure James Lipton would have killed for the privilege of asking me my favorite curse word. But alas, he was toiling on soap operas and I was a prodigy without a pedigree, destined not to be discovered.

Given I was the only one to ever see these masterpieces, and they are lost to the world now, we'll just assume I was right as to their worth and move on.


Lots of bad Dylan and Costello knock-off "lyrics" or "poems" also came off the Buzzard assembly line on the rat-a-tat-tat machine in the late 70s as I perfected my touch typing skills. I guess that typewriter and the work it produced represented my Ignatius Big Chief tablets through that period. The 'wisdom' of a teen locked in his thoughts, barricaded in his room, blasting out Costello and the Clash on the eight track, fingers emptying onto those clacking keys work that would rock the world. Or something along those lines.

In the end I'm pretty sure it was all pure dreck, but that's sort of beside the point.
BTW, if you don't get the 'Big Chief' reference above, shame on you: go out now, purchase a copy of A Confederacy of Dunces and read it at once.

Sense memory is a strange thing. All this from a glance at one of them sleek cling clang machines.

Camelot on Hewitt

I'm a bit slow.

Slow to learn, to latch onto new ways of doing things. And slow to come to grips with unpleasant realities. Which makes me a notorious procrastinator with a see-no-evil set of blinders on my psyche that you had better not fuck with.

I have, I think, finally accepted that my boat's already 'round the bend of middle age, driven by an unyielding current, try as I might to row against it (I had more success stemming the tide with the aid of my Dorian Gray complex but I haven't seen it much lately).

Of course, if you go by average life expectancy, I made that turn into the mid-life crisis several years ago. After all, I'm in my late forties now and though I'd love to live into my mid 90s, the oddsmakers say it's not likely.

But, Christ, there is some hope. My mother's still hanging on at age 80, a life-long dedicated smoker and drinker.  Somehow preserved over in the far reaches of western Ireland, perhaps with the help of the boys back east at St. James Gate. A woman of full-blooded Norwegian descent, yet with a single minded determination to be Irish. If that keeps her going, more power to her. Could that work for me? I've tried being who I can't and it nearly did me in.

And that's contrasted with Dear ol' Dad, who missed seeing his 53rd birthday by 19 days when he came down with a touch of Cirrhosis (it was going around - I think he caught it off a contaminated bottle). Were I him sharing his fate, I'd have five days shy of six years left. He was clearly a more accomplished alcoholic than Mom, try as she might. She drank beer and cheap fortified wine - he indulged in that kind of 'soda pop' only when he 'wasn't drinking.' Sadly, that is not an attempt at exaggeration or humor but simply how it was: he occasionally stopped drinking and when he did, he drank beer. She's become a willy veteran who can beat you with experience, but he had pure God-given talent, he didn't even have to try.

My Dad had a gift.

He was a local legend. The Prince of Hewitt Ave, regaling the denizens with tall tales of sorrow and shots of relief. The rest of us passed through that world but only he belonged; more than that, he ruled - as long as a paycheck lasted, after which he came home into temporary exile to rule again once the means allowed.

The Sport Center Cafe and Lounge usually stood in for the Prince's royal palace, Dad's Savings and Loan and the Port in his Storm. It was, to my vantage point as a child, a foul place. The only 'Sport' was hard drink in the Lounge, though they served food in the Cafe, required to rate a liquor license. "Booths for Ladies" in the window just to the right of "Paychecks Cashed." One sign unnecessary, the other essential. And cashed they were, his crown restored and a coronation celebrated all around once again. I see that the "lounge" portion of the Sport Center is now a biker heavy metal bar/club offering 'Booze, Grub and Rock-n-roll'. Indeed. Not so different, it all depends on how you define these things. The "cafe" portion is now The Whammy Bar, a name much more apropos, don't ya think?  The Sportscenter might have served as Royal Palace, but this Prince had several other estates from which to rule when the mood struck, the The Bel-nes further west on Hewitt, the London further east, and the Townhouse on Broadway being ready standbys.


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But then the paychecks slowed, finally stopping for good. Hewitt and the bars became Broadway, the State Store next to the B&M.  Liquor store booze outlasts the stuff in the dankest of dives, it was the simple economics of the dole.

After Dad's reign, Hewitt sometimes came to him, the possibility of free spirits leading them to our door. The Prince with no kingdom was still a soft touch.

Our door. Our little middle class house on the 1300 block of Hoyt. The folks somehow kept up payments while living on Food Stamps, Government Cheese, Booze, Pills and Smokes. It mystified me then how we managed. But I didn't know what I didn't know and blocked out the rest. My sister kicked in, other family members too. The folks meanwhile successfully mined various social security, 'disability', and unemployment loopholes, squeezing the last drop from those sponges into our coffers. My parents rolled their own smokes, made their own beer, Mom even braided the living room rug from old coats. Frugal and budget minded in their own twisted but inventive way.


Our clothes and toys were often secondhand chic, even when Dad was gainfully employed (he was an early adopter of direct deposit, into his Sport Center Lounge 'savings' account). Back then, we made the Saturday thrift store shopping rounds while he "cashed his check." The shopping invariably finished long before Dad was done cashing his fill.

I remember what should have been terrifying rides with Dad to the state store, usually one of his free loading subjects at the controls, their contribution to the cause. Occasionally
Dad drove, at least back when he still had a car. Until a motorcycle broadsided him while he was passed out at a stop sign, signaling the end of his days behind the wheel. After that, usually Leonard drove, sometimes Hal - every now and then Darrell or Olive tagged along. A vague Night of the Living Dead tinge clung to them, which was ultimately I think their bond. You knew the clock was ticking.

Why was I privileged to join in their reindeer games? I'm not sure - perhaps I asked to. I was 8, 10, somewhere in there. Doesn't seem like something a prepubescent guy would aspire to circa the early 1970s but my motivations and memories of that time are fractured. I do remember I was the only sober one along for the ride, indeed usually the only one not completely blind drunk. And I have hazy images of us weaving through the B&M supermarket parking lot, scrapping shopping carts and pedestrians, practically plowing into at least one patrol car, before defiantly skidding to a halt in front of the promised land of big clear glass bottles and little brown paper bags.

These were carefree days before drunk driving lost favor with the public and the law. Back then, just "Tis. tis. tis." Sad smile/shaking of the head. "Everett's royal rummies are out and about, for shame." Then back to their lives, leaving us to ours. Hey, speak for yourself, pal. They weren't rummies. Unless that was what was available. Whiskey was the preferred stuff - 'you know what kind - the cheapest.'

For the last several months of dad's motoring days, you could hear him coming at good distance - mufflers were not foremost on his mind in those days: when it finally fell off, he didn't bother replacing it, or perhaps didn't even realize it was gone.

Sometimes he drove me to Carver Middle School on the way to his bottle/bag promised land - Rrrrgghh!, Rrrrggggh!- my dad the race car driver, muffler perhaps still hanging by a thread being dragged behind us. Once or twice I was greeted at lunch recess by the sight of him slumped over the wheel George Michaels-style, his snoring a distant echo of the car's unrestrained combustion. Hey, isn't that your Dad? Oh, um, yeah - he races at all hours - it's tiring work, clearly. My appetite for school, at one point my sanctuary, really started to diminish from then on in.

I was born into a lubricated lineage and given a craft, a calling.



Mom and Dad were, in their own way, like the Barrymores of inebriation (come to think of it, the Barrymores had that market cornered as well). A fermented dynasty. Long shadows to escape, big shoes to fill.

I didn't and don't have the gift. I have no kingdom or subjects, no Hewitt Ave and no Booths for Ladies. There is a dive near where I live now that has a bit of the Sport Center's royal majesty, and I fashioned it as a surrogate for years. But I didn't and don't have the gift.

I'm slow to come 'round to things, it's true. But perhaps now there's still time for me to be middle aged.