Pops

Father's Day came and went as it always does with very little celebration in the peanut shell mind of mine, but it is important none the less.  I always look at the tattoo on my arm and the memory/specter of my father flashes through my mind.  As a really young kid, maybe 6 or 7, I was deathly afraid of heights.  My dad, I guess you call him fearless or irresponsible, threw me on a roller coaster called the Jackrabbit at Kennywood park in West Mifflin, PA.  In my mind, West Mifflin is Pittsburgh, but in reality, it actually isn't.  Anyway, my dad tosses me, quite literally on this roller coaster that climbed 90 feet or so into the air.  The only thing holding me to my seat is a leather strap, much like a barber's sharpener, and my pop's arm.  He wore a smile the entire way.  I cried the entire way through the ride.  This coaster, not to sound super geeky here, included a double dip segment.  It was built in the 20s, I think and was made by John Miller....coaster god!  Anyway, it had this segment of track where the hill is interrupted by another hill, much like a rabbit hop.  My father, I swear, protected me from flying out of the car.  Therefore, I owe my dad my fear of "getting over heights" by force.  The ride ended.  I swear, tears in my eyes, balling from earlier, all I said was, "Let's do it again."

Thank you dad!

Win?

Cannot begin to state how great tonight was. Jud at Yankee stadium. Friends due. Nova pitching a gem.

Break Shit

All I wanna do is turn over the entire apartment.  I can't , but man how fun it would be to just pretend the entire apartment were bugged.  Every couch.  Every pillow.  Every tear.  Just gone.

Comanche

I have always lost something in my life, be it my parents when they got divorced, a dog I was given after my mom died and a cat, of which I chose on my own.  Comanche has seen me through so much.  Throughout my mother’s death and all.  He was the spirit who kept me going when I had little left to even think about hope for.  And, fucking hell, what do you think killed him?  The same thing that killed my mom.  Pancreatic Cancer.  He was misdiagnosed with Pancreatitis.  For most cats, that can be a death sentence if found too late, or a simple dietary change.  For Comanche, the evidence of his pain came from a simple belly rub.  He used to sleep with me with my arm draped over him.  I must have felt like a boa, but he loved it.  He settled in and got even closer until one night when he meowed when I touched his stomach.  Comanche was a pretty silent cat; he either purred or was quiet.  So, that meow meant something.  Off to the vet we go.  This is the same vet as the Comanche sagas of 2008.  Blah, blah, blah.  They said he was suffering from something, but they didn’t know what.  They gave him pain reliever, which worked, but at the same time he was starting to become reclusive.

.......And then a record skipped in my mind.  The above entry was written with careful words, poured over again and again.  They are a joke.  All I feel is anger.  Robbed twice in my life by some fucking disease no doctor can find.  By the time it is found, it is too late.  I am angry at myself for being in Florida dealing with family matters.  To return home and see your cat in exhaustive pain, ooze pouring out of his eyes due to dehydration, is just unbearable.  He was dying while I was gone and it makes me sick.  He had been there through it all with me in New York.  I got him in 1998 at the PetCo in Union Square.  His sister's story is something I will probably only write about when I'm near my own death, as I'm grappling with my own actions.  Yet, he saw me through many break ups, my mother's cancer, friends passing and going, a divorce, a new life in Ditmas Park.  

My hat always ends up on the couch.  These days, barely a week after putting him down, I keep imagining he is there.  But, no, it is just a hat.  

He was a perfect animal.

Bats Outta Hell

Restless nights come on like some fucking bats out of hell with vampiric nostrils flaring and fangs glistening while demanding to rob you of your sleep. They come on the first week of returning to work and with an early class full of bright eyed Asians eager to read English, beckoning to be taught. These bats implore you to rise from a partial slumber and consume Cheerios soaked in almond milk. After you are awake and unwilling to return to your bed, they gnaw at the wires hidden in your walls to dismantle your connection to the web. They laugh at your predicament and giggle while you type your overdue blog entry in Word, adding additional steps to a streamlined process. They haven’t made an appearance in several weeks, these soaring mammals of the night. But, alas, tonight, Wednesday moving into Thursday, the bats have flown into my evening and they will not let them be.

The first and most well known of them is named Christopher Leering. He is the silent type, yet he stares at you, fully aware of all you need to accomplish once the sun rises, determined to make you antsy with his beady, red eyes. You can’t really tell if they are menacing or not, they are simply focused upon you and will not turn away. A strange self consciousness begins to develop the longer these bloodshot pupils have time to feast upon your insecurities while sweating in plaid pajamas in an arid and overheated apartment. The longer Christopher looks at you, the more doubt creeps into your mind. You begin to wonder if anyone likes you at all in this world? What have you done to piss off so many people? What have they done to you to make you so pissed at them? Will things ever be normal again? Christopher Leering refuses to provide any answers to these questions. He stares for hours with an obtuse expression on his face. A bead of sweat forms on your brow and you continue typing, preferring to look at anything but the eyes of that thing.

Another diseased creature has flown in from the rafters. His name is Bela Lughostoflapasti. This is another winged beast who lets himself known as soon as he enters the room. He flashes photographs in the back of your mind and plays recordings over and over again until you wish to wretch. Bela never decides to replay home movies of positive memories. No, no! He brings along all of the sour footage. Scenes you wish had been edited out of your life and left on the cutting room floor for some intern (or a younger sibling) to have swept away into a dustbin and thrown into an incinerator never be seen again. Even if that had happened Lughostoflapasti would sweep in with gigantic wings flapping in fury to remove those pieces of distorted film and display them in vivid Stereoscope on the ceiling of your bedroom. If you turn away and face the pillow, a projector appears there, too. The window, with the orange streetlight glowing, suddenly turns white and shows you in awful situations doing awful things. Or Bela simply brings you back to a time you wish you could forget. Sometimes, you shudder and can’t believe you are awake. On some instances you fight back tears, only to see them become rapids on your pillowcase. Bela finds you and turns your sleepless eyes against you. He is a crafty bat indeed!

One of the kinder mammals in the apartment has seemed to have returned the internet to a functioning state. The modem is on and there are no ominously blinking lights. Alas, it works. Hopefully, the bats will return to wherever they came from. Tomorrow, oops, today is sure to be a long day.