As an advocate of unmitigated expression, I have posted no so-called “trigger warnings” as introductions to pieces on this website.
This is a first.
ALERT! — If you are in the slightest way vulnerable to offense and upset, if you suffer a case of the vapors when you are made to feel uneasy, please do not read the essay that follows. Enjoy a cup of tea, nibble on a few cookies, stroke your cat, be patient and wait for the next piece, coming in several weeks. If you ignore my counsel, and dive into what follows, and find yourself disgusted and dismayed, don’t send a comment detailing your distress. You were warned, you chose to be triggered. Continue reading
It arrives at 11:14 a.m., Tuesday.
The doorbell rings and, since I am enjoying a cocktail as I recline on the couch at the front of the living room, I ask my 4-year-old grandson, Bodhi Valhalla King, to open the door and see what is up.
“If it’s a bunch of circus clowns with a van, slam the door. Don’t believe anything they say about candy.”
Who could it be? Continue reading
The problem shows up nine years ago when my longtime friend, Dr. McDigit, decides there’s something wrong with part of my plumbing — a part found in a corner of the cellar, far from the light of day.
“I feel things that concern me,” he says, whipping off his latex glove after finishing a less-than-pretty part of his work. “I have reason to suspect something is wrong.”
I, too, suspect there is something wrong: Doc McDigit seems to enjoy the exam. He giggles as he inserts a fat finger up my ass; he smiles as he mops up (more a smirk than a smile), then refers me to a specialist. Before he leaves the examining room, we decide to partner on a case of Vieux Telégraph and a case of Pigeoulet de Provence. It will be expensive. It will be worth it. Rectal exam and wine, both in a matter of fifteen minutes. A perfect day. Continue reading
It’s a lovely summer’s day. The Collegiate Peaks of Colorado rise abruptly from the valley below, just west of the brief commotion known as Buena Vista, a mountain town best known for mediocre restaurants and a state prison. The air is crisp and clean. Birdies are tweeting.
Elwood and his wife, Eileen, are happy.
Eileen changes the 8-track tape in the ancient deck. She slips in The Greatest Hits of the Platters.
As melodious and boring harmonies fill the cabin of Elwood’s 40-foot Discovery Fleetwood RV, he shifts down to second gear to negotiate a curve in the road. Elwood looks in his rearview mirror to check the auto trailer hooked to the back of the Discovery. He is toting his Toyota minivan behind the massive RV.
“. . . smoke gets in your eyes. . .” Continue reading