Oh, Indeed Mr. Omar

Saw this picture of Michael K. Williams, aka Omar Little from The Wire, and all my memories from the show came flooding back. I'm not usually one to publicly proclaim the genius of a particular TV show, because I don't enjoy hearing about people's TV boners, but The Wire is the best show ever made. And Omar is the most bad-ass character ever created. He's cooler than the Fonz and has more heart than Braveheart.

If you haven't seen the show, watch it now. Maybe you haven't gotten around to it, or perhaps you think it's just some shitty urban-police drama. Well, what if I told you that Omar Little is a gay gangster that robs drug dealers, and gets grumpy if he doesn't have a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios in the morning? Yeah.


"The cheese stands alone."

"I robs drug dealers."

I'm Sick Of It

After my latest stint in illness prison, I got to thinking about how many times I've come out the other side of sickness a little weaker physically, but with more perspective on my mortality.





Now, I wasn't gonna die, nor do I believe I will ever die, but when I get sick, I think about how I wouldn't have made it if not for medical science, antibiotics, and anatomical research. If I had lived in the 19th century, I would have died at 22 from unclean drinking water or a bad case of candle-hand. But I'm alive in the present day, so the point is moot.





The mind/body connection is fascinating to me. I usually get anxious at the start of an illness, observing the indicators of imminent despair and panicking about how long I'll be fucked. I purchase the provisions I'll need once the symptoms go full blast, and worry about whether or not I'll need to see a doctor. But once the sickness takes hold of my body, I accept it. Like most things, the buildup is worse than the event. All I have to do is medicate myself so I'm not terribly uncomfortable, and just wait. That part has become easier over the years, and I wonder if that's how old people cope. Health-crisis-cruise-control kicks in automatically after having been through enough rough shit to know what to expect.





Sometimes I think about the number of weeks I'm out of service in a typical year, and how many more sick days I'll spend during my lifetime, knowing that I'll get through them all somehow, until I don't. It's rather amazing, the amount of time spent nursing this carcass back to health.

But then, as a typical neurotic Jew, I worry about my body's elasticity. My eyes are getting worse, same with my stomach, but my brain is getting sharper with experience. Or at least more adept at pattern recognition and getting a better grip of what to expect. That's the trade off, I guess. People seek the advice of the village elder for a reason, and it's not to admire his wrinkles.





Lately, I've been imagining a scenario where I've been shot and about to die. When I think about how I'd like my last moments to go, what would comfort me is the presence of a person, any person, whose eyes I could look deeply into, hold their hand, and let go. I'd reach out to anyone at that moment. It could be my worst enemy, or a bum, or the guy who shot me. Any human connection would be welcome.

I have a fear of dying alone in a car or having a heart attack late at night on the sidewalk, without anyone around, clutching my chest with one hand, reaching out with the other for contact. That's probably why people believe in Jesus - so they won't have to worry about dying alone, even if they do. Once again, the buildup is worse than the event itself. They assuage their fears about death by believing that the Magical Emperor of Sky World will take their hand and guide them into paradise.




What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I'm Jewish and I had bronchitis last week.

Built Cosby

I received the lovely gift of bronchitis via our lord and savior Bill Cosby the other day. What a generous man. I feel guilty for all the things he's given me. All I do is take take take. So I've decided to throw some love his way. Ladies and gentlemen, Built Cosby...





...It's been weird around here. The antibiotics I'm taking are making my farts smell like dead chimps fucking in a sewer. And I've been sleeping at least 10 hours a night. And my energy level has been fluctuating hourly - from "Yeah! I'm gonna do sit-ups while researching cold fusion!" to "Nurse! Put them sweatpants on my legs. I'm cold."

I'm tired. More later.

The Larry Chronicles: Part II

II.

Looking back, that was the turning point in our relationship. Call me a fuddy duddy, but I don't think it's cool to shake your dick at a Rastafarian. I'll admit that his behavior was often unpredictable, but the things he ended up doing were usually harmless and whimsical. For example, when we were staying at a hotel in Atlanta, he rubbed chocolate syrup all over the TV and complained to the front desk that BET was coming in blurry. We almost died laughing when they sent some poor schmuck to replace the soiled television.

But boner exposure? That's some gross pervert shit. People get locked up for less, and Larry's not built for prison. He's barely built for bookstores.

The Larry Chronicles: Part I

I.

Larry and I used to do everything together. At night, we dreamed about the same things. We hated Puerto Ricans and mustard because they both ruined hot dogs. On the weekends, we would play Battleship with dread-locked homeless men by the lake. Well, we played Battleship while they played chess. They gave us shit about it one time. Called us "fuckin' idiots" for playing a strategically inferior board game. Larry responded by pulling out his rock-hard boner. They received his gesture poorly, and we had to surrender a perfectly good Battleship set.

Prologue to The Larry Chronicles

Hello all. I've been quite sick in the nose/head/throat/body department for a few days now. I kinda burned myself out with 3 consecutive nights of partying over the weekend, which is something I rarely do, setting the table for an oozing virus to feast inside my skull. I usually follow a personal code of never doing the same thing two nights in a row, because something that was splendid one night almost never carries over to the next one. I'm talking about sex with someone new, smoking drugs, drinking booze, or burning down a motel with my imaginary friends. It's never the same a second time around, let alone a third.




By Sunday night, I was physically exhausted. But due to certain obligations, I had to project my weird videos all night long at a beauty parlor themed bar...No, your eyes don't deceive you, I said beauty parlor themed bar. I gambled with my health, and lost, all at an establishment I wouldn't use as a shelter during a Mongolian Death Worm attack.

But I take full responsibility for my mistake and for the war currently being waged in my sinus cavity. On to other matters...




I'm gonna try something new. I'm gonna write one long story in multiple posts, serial style. A paragraph or two every other day. It'll give me some focus and a point to start from each time, because I never know what the fuck to write about, hence the sporadic nature of my posts. Oh, and I'm calling the story...

THE LARRY CHRONICLES


Until then, here's an Asian kid doing a mediocre bike trick...

Beard Growth Profit-Loss Projections

The problem with facial hair is the maintenance it requires. It becomes another obligation to grapple with, another source of anxiety. I thought having a beard would simplify things, and it has to some extent, but I still have to trim the bitch, otherwise my mustache starts advancing on my upper lip, and it feels like I'm being tickled with bear grass. And the urge - THE URGE! - to shave it all off gets overwhelming after a while. I met a girl with dreadlocks who said she thinks about cutting 'em off all the time. I told her she should go with her gut and 86 those dirty skull tentacles.




Whenever I plot my shave, I look 3 weeks into the future for any important event in which having a beard is necessary. A Jewish holiday, a job interview, or a hot date are taken into consideration, as they all require minimal facial hair experimentation. I have neither a job interview nor a date in my near future, and Passover was last week.

So I shaved my beard off yesterday, but left the mustache, as a fail-safe - because my mustache grows at a slower rate than the rest of my face hair - and some sideburns for good luck. I look like this now...




But back to my original point about constant maintenance... There is never going to be a time when everything in my life is organized, cleaned, and taken care of. I have to realize this basic fact more often, and learn to let go. Perfection is bullshit. I don't know how it became a goal of mine to have everything the way it's supposed to be. It's impossible. Getting things in order is mostly busy work masked as progress. I'm never gonna figure it all out, and sometimes I'm totally cool with that, but other times it grinds my potatoes. I'm content when I'm hanging out with people I like. Time flies and I don't care. It's wonderful. But, when I'm by myself, I get frustrated with all the chaos I perceive... I need to stop hanging out by myself all the time, and start hanging out with this lady...