Letter To My Dead Dad (part II)

(To read Part One, go here.)

Sometimes the dark comedy doesn't go over so well with the fam. Last time my brother and I were talking about you, I remembered how you used to walk around the house in your underwear - not because of any exhibitionist tendencies, but because you were obsessive about ironing your clothes and you didn't want to get them wrinkled until you had someplace to go. So you'd loiter around the living room or the kitchen in your tightie-whities. We eventually got used to seeing it, but it was a little more difficult to explain when we'd bring a girlfriend to the house. Did it seriously never cross your mind that this might be inappropriate parenting? Do you know what it does to a teenage boy's psyche when his first-ever special lady friend sees his Dad's junk - maybe not the real deal, but at least a fairly accurate outline - long before she ever gets around to seeing his dirty bits? There's something Freudian in there, I'm sure of it.



So I'm telling this story to him, and I realize I don't have a punchline. It's all set-up. He's looking at me like, "Yeah, yeah, yeah?" And I got nowhere to take it. That's it. Dad liked wearing his tightie-whities around the house. Aaaaaand scene. Not exactly something that's gonna win me any Pulitzer's. But I told it anyway, because it's one of those fragments that I'm afraid will disappear if I don't say it out loud. Maybe I'll think of the perfect ending someday and I'll finally have an excuse to write about it. I hate to fabricate anything about your life, but c'mon, Pop, you didn't really give me much choice.

KEEP ON READIN'! IT'S LIKE LOOKING AT SOMEBODY'S MAIL, ONLY NOT AS UNETHICAL OR CREEPY!

Am I being too hostile? I worry that these letters might come across as mean-spirited. I'm not angry at you. I mean, I was for a few years. What's that old cliché about the five stages of grief? There's denial, drinking, writing poems with trite existential themes, listening to a lot of Morrissey and Joy Division, having vivid fantasies that your Dad actually faked his own death and is living a secret life in New Orleans with his mistress, and acceptance. Wait, that's six. Did I just make one up? Well, whatever. I've been through 'em all. And as the hippity-hoppers like to say, "I ain't mad 'atcha." I'm pissed that you slipped away before the third act, but I understand you were just reading your lines.

I've been more aware lately about how our family remembers its dead. For my brother and I, it's all in the storytelling. For people like my uncles, it's a little more complicated. You heard about this, right? My Granddad, your father-in-law, croaked at 80 - yeah, I know, those extra years were wasted on that cantankerous prick - and his eldest son, Tom, decided he wanted his own personal tribute to his late father. So he nicked a handful of ashes from the urn when nobody was looking and buried them in his back yard, putting up a Burning Man-style effigy, and then conveniently forgot to mention it to the rest of the family.

A few years pass, and on one unlucky summer afternoon, Uncle Bob wandered out into his brother's backyard and noticed the makeshift gravesite. He asked about it, Tom said too much, and before any of us knew what was happening, it escalated into a bitter sibling rivalry.

"How come you got to keep some of Dad's ashes and I get nothing?" Bob asked.

"You should've taken some when you had the chance," Tom retorted.

"Maybe I still will."

"You're not digging up Dad's grave."

"Who's gonna stop me?" Bob sniffed.

"You're being immature," Tom shot back.

"You're being immature. Dead Dad hog!"

"Will you listen to yourself?"

"Stop bogarting Dad's ashes!"

Long story short, Bob asked me to drive him to the cemetery where Granddad is buried and help him retrieve his fair share of the remains. I tried to explain to him that this is technically grave robbing, but he insists it's all semantics.

"It's only grave robbing if you're robbing somebody," he explained. "I'm just taking what rightfully belongs to me!"

"It's not really the stealing I have a problem with," I told him. "It's the 'exhuming a grave' part. I don't want to be one of those people who sneak into cemetaries at night with a shovel."

"Those people? Those people? Wow, Eric, I never had you pegged for a bigot."

Don't worry, I didn't do it. That kind of trouble I don't need. There's just no way that would've gone well. Can you imagine if the cops showed up and we were sitting in an open grave, elbow-deep in Grandpa's ashes, our faces smeared with the corpus delicti like some kind of perverse Al Jolson impression? How could we have possibly explained what we were doing? "I know how this must look, officer, but it's actually a pretty funny story. Hey, you have any ziplock baggies on you?"

You see what I have to contend with? These people are out of their fucking minds. Maybe you had the right idea by cutting out early. At least now you don't have to smile your way through any more family reunions or Thanksgiving dinners that end in screaming matches. Then again, if you're not around to defend yourself, you kinda have to accept the legacy created for you by the idiots you left behind. I saw this firsthand at your funeral. Bob walked over to your open grave and dropped a Three Stooges 8X10 glossy in the hole.

"He loved Curly," he said, choking back tears. "More than anything, he loved Curly."

This was so fundamentally wrong on so many levels, but we were too paralyzed by grief to protect. We just stood there and watched in stunned silence.

I guess that's what keeps me going to the doctor. Because if I don't outlive them, I'm gonna get exactly what I deserve. They're gonna divvy up my ashes like poker winnings and invent elaborate, fictional backstories that prove how well they knew me. "It's so sad he never lived long enough to achieve his one big dream," they'll say. "Becoming a contortionist for Cirque du Soleil."

But who am I to point fingers? I've done the same, maybe worse. I found my old diary the last time I was at Mom's place, the one I started in my early teens before discovering that incessant masturbation was a much more fulfilling way to spend an evening. I wrote about you, y'know. You wouldn't believe some of the bullshit that came out of my adolescent brain. It's pretty obvious I was impressed by you, but... well, it's funny. Memory can be such a selective thing. I wrote about you like you were an intellectual giant. There are a lot of breathless passages about how you'd dominate family dinners with long, rambling lectures about Joseph Campbell and the power of myth. I guess that's true, but it's curious that I failed to mention your love of blooper shows. It's just an odd omission, that's all I'm saying. Is any summation of your life truly complete if doesn't have shades of both; a little archetypal mythology here and a few kicked-in-the-nutsack montages there?

Hmmm. Now I'm wondering if you actually did like Curly. Did I miss something?



I don't know, Dad, maybe getting it half-right is as much as anybody can hope for. I'm probably just wasting my time, dwelling on morbid thoughts and writing letters to a dead guy who's unlikely to ever read them. But as long as I'm stuck in navel-gazing mode, here's one more thought. If I snuff it out before I'm ready, I want Teddy to give my eulogy. Cause he won't bother with emotionally prosaic prattle that'll embarrass us both. He'd just look quizically at the crowd and shrug in that adorable Chaplinesque way he does, and then ask, "Noo-noo's?" And the mourners - whatever friends and family I haven't alienated over the years - will eat it up. There's something about a baby flaunting his Id that's just irresistible. And I'm not sure why, but that seems like a comforting way to leave. If you're gonna go, go out on a laugh line, even if it's somebody else's laugh line.

Yeah, whatever. I say that, but you know I'm just talking out of my own ass. I don't want to be forgotten. I'm terrified of being forgotten. When I'm gone, I want my family - whatever family I get stuck with - poking at their babies and saying, "Yeah, he's totally got Eric's chin," which they all know is horseshit but they say it anyway because not saying it means admitting to something they don't want to be true. Everything they are, everything they were, is hidden somewhere in that squishy head. You just have to keep running your hands over it, like a fortune teller on a crystal ball, until you find something that feels familiar.

Alright, I've said enough for now. I'll write again soon. Hope you're well, and keep in touch. I mean, not literally in touch. No apparitions in the bathroom mirror, unless you want me to soil myself. But, y'know, keep in touch as in... okay, never mind. I'll contact you, okay?

Love you, Pops.

Eric

Letter To My Dead Dad (part I)

Hi, Pop.

Sorry it's taken me so long to write again. I've been kinda busy. Y'know, the usual. Eating, pooping, checking my email. All the mindless busywork that comes with being alive. You remember what it was like to have intestines and a Yahoo account? It hasn't been that long, has it?

So where did we leave off? I think I was telling you about Teddy, right? My nephew, your... well, your almost grandson. Although technically, I think he still is, even if you never met him. Unless you have, but as I've mentioned before, I don't really want to hear about that. I get easily spooked and knowing that your ghost might be peering over shoulders or tiptoeing down hallways... you can't hear it, but I just made a high-pitched girlish yelp. Let's do us both a favor and stick to a don't-ask-don't-tell policy, okay?

KEEP ON READIN' AND TRY TO FORGOT THAT THE GHOST OF MY DEAD DAD IS LIKELY STANDING BEHIND YOU, READING OVER YOUR SHOULDER.

I don't know what it is about that kid, Dad. Whenever I look at him, my heart hurts. I mean, not in the way that, you know... killed you. The good kinda heart hurting. Without the shortness of breath or the arm numbness. I wasn't crazy about him in the beginning, but lately he's developed an actual personality. You know how during the first six months, babies are just big globs of pink flesh? You can't fucking tell them apart, and all they do is cry and crap their pants. It's not until they're one or two years old that they start acting like somebody you'd want to hang out with. I'm telling you, if I ever have a kid, I'm leaving it at the hospital until it learns how to talk and use a toilet. Babies are booooring.

Amyway, Teddy's reached the age where everybody in the family is trying to figure out his DNA. "He has his father's this, his mother's that." And of course, because you're not around anymore and we're all such sentimental saps, there's a lot of talk about how he looks like you. And it seems to change every couple of days. First it was he has your eyes, and then he has your ears, and then your nose and your teeth. I have no clue if that last one is even possible. Don't all teeth look generally the same? Unless you had really big chompers or an overbite or maybe fangs, but I don't remember any of that being true. Fangs would've been cool, though, especially when Teddy gets old enough to ask questions.

"Well, there's a funny thing called genetics, Ted. Because of your granddad's medical history, you may have a congenital heart defect and... there's no easy way to put this... you may need to drink human blood to survive. Either way, we've already bought you a very cozy coffin."

Teddy's almost 18 months now and it's becoming pretty obvious that he has more of his mother's family in his face than any noticeable Spitznagel traits. I guess my brother and I started to panic, and one of us - I forget who - decided that he has your head. Does that make sense? The shape of his head sorta looks like the shape of your head. I'm not saying you had a big melon head or anything. It's not the kind of thing where you look at him and immediately see it and you're like, "Oh, yeah, that's totally our Dad's noggin!" You kinda have to... feel it out. We've spent hours huddled around him - me and my brother and our respective special lady friends - groping Teddy's head like blind people reading a braille novel, running our fingers over every divot and soft spot, looking for something we recognize.



Hey, have I told you about noo-noo's yet? No? Okay, here's the deal. Teddy's still breast-feeding, and he's at a point where he can ask for it by name. His mom doesn't want him saying "boobies" in public, so she's given her breasts a pet name: noo-noo's. Personally, I think this is hi-lar-ious. And it's especially funny because Teddy is such a master of comic timing.

Just a few weeks ago, we were all hanging out in their back yard and Teddy was playing in the garden, as he's want to do. He comes running over to us and hands a flower to his mom, and she says, "Awwww, is that for me? Thank you, I love you, too." He smiles back at her and his gaze sloooowly drifts down to her chest. And then he says, in a leering W.C. Fields' drawl, "Noo-noo's?"

Ahhh, the timeless art of seduction.

We laughed, but you gotta hand it to Teddy, his methods work. I'm so convinced that he's on to something that I've started referring to the Dame's breasts as noo-noo's. I've even adopted his patented catch phrase. It's not just "noo-noo's," it's "helloooooo, noo-noo's," delivered with a tone that's somewhere between flirty and formal. He's showing respect, like a politician greeting a dignitary. But at the same time, his voice has a hint of naughtiness, as if he's saying, "I've got needs and you've got teats. Let's make some magic."

The Dame isn't quite as charmed as I am by this latest addition to our relationship lexicon. "You want me to think about nursing a baby every time we have sex?" She's asked me. "That is the sickest fucking thing I've ever heard!"

She makes a convincing case. But at least in public, I've found that "noo-noo's" is a great shorthand. I can say incredibly dirty things to her and nobody is the wiser. We could be in a coffee shop and I'll lean over to her and say, "I want your noo-noo's in my mouth," and it sounds perfectly clean. Well, maybe not clean. But not nearly as filthy as what I'm really saying.

Y'know, it suddenly occurs to me that I may be sharing too much. I'm all for honesty between a son and his dead father, but perhaps this is a tad more information than you wanted to know. I guess it's just because I miss you and I wish we'd talked more before you took off, so I'm not really holding anything back. I wasn't in any emotional shape in my 20s to have a meaningful conversation with you. I was kinda a mouth-breathing idiot, if you recall. But when I hit 30, I was a lot less self-conscious and arrogant and up my own ass. And you weren't around anymore. So whatever, I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you're not comfortable with me telling you everything - the good, the bad and the noo-noo's - I don't really care. You checked out early and gypped me of having an actual relationship with you, so you can just suck it up, old man.

Hey, have you heard that Mom's getting married again? Yeah, good times, right? That makes husband number three, if you're counting. I've had dinner with him and he seems nice enough, but I can't vouch for the guy yet. They've only been dating for six months, so he could have bodies stashed in his crawl space for all I know. You wanna guess where they met? Wait for it. Waaaaaait for it... A bereavement group! No surprises there, huh? We thought the last time was an anomaly, but apparently Mom uses bereavement groups like hairy-chested guys in the 70s used Plato's Retreat. If this latest suitor doesn't make the cut, I promise we won't let her go to another one of those things without a chaperone. 'Cause from what I can tell, there ain't a hell of a lot of bereavin' going on over there. Just games of grab ass.

There's been an awful lot of in-fighting lately about how the cottage should be decorated. It basically comes down to two schools of thought. There's my mother, your ex-wife, who wants to get rid of every trace of you. Framed pictures, photo albums, whatever. If your mug's on it, it's outta here. As she explains it, the memory of losing you is just too painful, so she'd rather just forget about you entirely. And then there's my brother, your son, who wants to cover every wall in the cottage with a collage of old photos of you, and perhaps even install a wax mannequin version of you somewhere near the entrance, dressed in the same clothing you died in.

As for me, I land somewhere in the middle. I want to find a compromise that makes everybody happy. But I'll usually take my brother's side, if only because he tends to be the most logical. Was Mom always this Orwellian about the past? Some days we feel like Proles. I really do expect her to say, "Your Dad has been vaporized by the State and is now an Unperson. We must never speak of him again." I get that our methods probably seem masochistic to her, but we're not doing it because we're gluttons for punishment. We're just terrified about forgetting you. And worse than that, we're terrified that Teddy won't care.

We've seen it happen before. There was that one guy - your father, ol' what's-his-face - he died when I was in my teens and now I couldn't even tell you his first name. I think he was a doctor or something. It's not like you or Mom or anybody in the family sat us down and said, "Who wants to hear a story about grandpa-pa Spitznagel?" Not once. Not even a story where he was a supporting player. We don't want you to become one those dead grandfathers that nobody talks about. We've seen how fast people can fade away. Drop dead today, and tomorrow you're just another strange face in yellowing photographs.



So we make a point of telling stories about you every summer. It's tough when your audience has heard the same material over and over and over again. You had a good life, but it's not like there's a lot of nuance there. It's pretty straightforward stuff. You can't really flesh it out with new details and suddenly make it seem fresh. It is what it is. But we've still managed to come up with the occasional forgotten nugget to keep it interesting. Just last summer, I remembered how much you enjoyed Phil Jackson - not for his coaching abilities but for his shoulders. "He's like a perfect triangle," you liked to tell us. You also dabbled in some of his New Age philosophies, and tried meditation for awhile. Didn't work out for you so much, did it? You'd just sit there and think about everything that'd gone wrong during the day and everybody who'd pissed you off, and your blood pressure would skyrocket. You were never the smiling, carefree Buddha. Your were Buddha's roommate, the one who paid the bills and answered the door when the cops showed up and said things like, "Just who the fuck is gonna clean up this mess anyway?"

We love stories about you losing your cool. Maybe it's because we know we shouldn't be laughing. It's gallows' humor. We'll tell stories about how you used to get so unreasonably frustrated at minor inconveniences that your face would go beet red and the veins would pop out on your neck. And then we imagine an invisible abacus hovering over your head. We'll slide another bead across the wire, like we're the Grim Reaper's accountant, and say, "That hissy fit cost him another three days of life."

Oh come on, you can joke about it now, right? It's all water near a bridge. Hey, I didn't give you the enlarged heart, Mr. Overreaction.

(To read Part Two, go here.)

I'm Not Nearly as Funny as I Think I Am

I wasn't technically invited to Michael's wedding. I was the Dame's "Plus One." She and Michael are old friends. They grew up together in a small town in Pennsylvania, and spent their summers at Camp Hugh Beaver. I've heard more than I ever wanted to know about their Hugh Beaver years, and though neither of them will admit it, I contend that it was a sex camp. Not just because it was called Camp Hugh Beaver - you gotta admit, that sounds like the subtitle of a Porky's sequel - but because most of their stories involve a gathering of teenagers in some state of undress, or misadventures in a coed shower with an alarming lack of adult supervision. I'm surprised when they don't end with a dirty punchline, like, "And that's how I got poked in the eye with a boner." Because honestly, that's where the plot always seems to be heading.

Michael's wedding was one of many nuptials this summer. We're in another cycle of weddings, where every couple we know who've been dating for longer than three weeks has decided to make it legal. I've always been puzzled as to why these things happen in waves. They're either getting hitched or squirting out kids, but it's always in the same few months and always en masse. I guess it's the lemming effect. If one person does it, everybody has to join in. But why can't it ever be something a little less banal and predictable? Why can't all my friends decide to get scrotal piercings, or start hunting homeless people for sport? At least then I wouldn't have to buy a gift.

KEEP ON READIN'! IT'S JUST LIKE ONE OF THOSE CELEBRITY GOSSIP SITES, EXCEPT WITHOUT THE CELEBRITIES OR GOSSIP!

Michael's wedding was one of those interfaith affairs. He's Jewish and she's Catholic, and rather than draw straws to determine which religion got to flaunt their god, they decided on a potluck of rituals. Actually, from what I saw, the Jewish contingent had the upper hand. There was a chuppah, a ketubah, a badeken, and a "shake it 'till you break it" hora. The Catholics just got the biggest fucking cross I've ever seen, mounted over the stage like a constant reminder of who was picking up the tab. Most of us tried to ignore it, but it was like a cold sore on a blind date. You try to be polite and avert your eyes, but you know it's there and it kinda kills the romance.

The rabbi and the priest worked well together. The rabbi pretty much ran the show, and the priest just stood on the sidelines, ready to fling out the occasional "amen" when necessary. It reminded me of a Señor Wences routine. The rabbi would say a few prayers in Hebrew and then turn to the priest, who'd just nod silently. The unspoken dialogue was obvious. "S'awright?" "S'awright."

During the reception, I drank a ridiculous amount of Ketel One. I was like an alcoholic squirrel stocking up for the winter. I wasn't really intending to get pixilated, but it was free and I never say no to free booze. And beyond that, I was enjoying an unusual freedom, as nobody expected me to make a toast. I'm the guy that friends and family like pimping out for wedding speeches, if only because I actually enjoy public speaking. The isolation of my day job has made me crave human contact, so talking to a banquet hall of strangers is sometimes my only interaction with the outside world. And I've gotten pretty good at it. I can improvise a heart-touching monologue about just about anybody, even if I barely know them. I'm known for taking unnecessary tangents, segueing into topics with seemingly no relevance to the bride and groom, and then whammo, I'll tie it all together. Sometimes, if it's a tough crowd, I'll slip in the name of the nearest town or subdivision for cheap applause. I'm just that shameless.

But I had no responsibilities at this wedding. I could just sit back, relax, and maybe find out how many crabcakes I could fit in my mouth. (As it turns out, the magic number is six.) When it came time for the toasts, the bride's father was the first to speak. I knew right away he was in trouble. He went on and on about the virtues of marriage, and how making a relationship work is a two-way street, and blah blah blah. Everything that came out of his mouth was so sugary-sweet that it should have been accompanied by crude drawings of naked children with no genitals. "Love is... letting your dad ruin your wedding with a bunch of half-cooked clichés." If you're going to bore an audience because you're too lazy to have an original thought, at least throw in a few laugh lines to break up the monotony. That's all I'm asking. It doesn't even have to be a good joke. Just something that isn't intended to make the crowd fake an orgasm. (That "awwwww" you're hearing? They don't mean it. They just want you to finish so you'll roll off and let me get some sleep.)

At some point in his dreadful speech, the dad opened it up to the audience. "Let's give the happy couple some advice," he said. "Let's share with them from our years of experience. Come on, help me out, people. What's the secret to a successful marriage?"

"Don't get a divorce," I shouted out.

Well? Is that not accurate? Seems obvious to me. You want to stay married, don't sign those divorce papers. Duh. And the best thing is, it's funny and it's true. I was hoping for a big laugh, but I got nothing. There was a smattering of applause and some muffled giggling, but most of the crowd just glared at me. The dad's face went ashen, and he was momentarily unable to control his jaw muscles. "I-I suppose... that's, um," he stammered. "Yes, that's a, uh... good point."

I was baffled. I hadn't said anything inappropriate, nothing like what I could've said. I was this close to yelling, "Always cup the balls." Given my history, the "no divorce" comment was refreshingly G-rated. But during a break, the Dame dragged me outside and explained exactly why I had made such a faux pas.

"Well nobody told me he was divorced," I offered. "It's not like I said to the bride, 'Try not to fuck up your marriage like daddy did.'"

"Just go easy with the jokes tonight," she said. "And if you can, try not to talk to anybody, okay? Do it for me?"

I was happy to help out. And we learned the hard way that when I'm doing more drinking than talking, it's only a matter of time before a golf cart gets stolen and crashes into a water hazard. Good times.

* * *

Growing up in northern Michigan, I didn't know much about Alan. I knew that he was a few years older than my brother and I, and that he lived down the block from us, with a family of fiercely heterosexual Italians. His father was the kind of guy who delighted in aiming a riot hose at trick-or-treaters on Halloween. Alan had two younger brothers, all as dark-haired and annoyingly buff as he was. They were the guys at school who asked questions like, "You got your tickets?", to which you were expected to ask, "For what?", and they would say, "The gun show!", and then flex their muscles with exaggerated intensity. If you didn't want trouble, you'd cower in fear at their mighty tendons. I never wanted to give them the satisfaction, so I pretended to take them literally. "Gosh, no, I don't have tickets. Are they still on sale? It sounds wonderfully educational."

I got beaten up a lot.

Alan was the least obnoxious member of his family. He didn't get laid as much as his brothers - which I suppose was a good thing, as his brothers seemed incapable of talking to a woman without the police becoming involved - and he wasn't quite as comfortable in his own skin. Like just about every male over the age of sixteen in the late 70s, he grew a mustache. But his mustache never worked on him. It looked like Groucho Marx greasepaint. And it only got worse when he grew it out. He was like a creepy Civil War reenactor - somebody who wears a "Free Mustache Rides" t-shirt under his military uniform.

I only got to know him because he used to come by my house and hit on my aunt, who was just five years older than me (don't make me explain the math - yes, my grandparents really, really liked fucking, well into their senior years). His idea of seduction, however, left something to be desired. He mostly loitered on our front stoop in a tank-tank and short-shorts until she wandered out, and then dazzled her with his arcane knowledge of Elton John b-sides. We didn't know enough at the time to realize that he had about as much chance of bedding our aunt as Rock Hudson had of getting Phyllis Gates pregnant.

Twenty years later, my brother and I returned to our hometown for a visit. The conditions were less than ideal. Our father had passed away, and we were feeling weak and achingly sentimental. We walked through town, searching for any trace of our past, anything we could cling to and forget how quickly adulthood had been thrust into our laps. We saw Alan out on the street, dragging his trash to the curb, and ran over to him like we were afraid he might be a desert mirage. He looked exactly the same - scraggy and mustached, like John Holmes if he'd reached middle age - and as single as the day he last put the moves on our (now married) aunt. Turns out, he didn't leave town after graduating high school, and bought the house right across the street from our childhood home. He offered us a tour, and we jumped at the chance to see the inner sanctum of a perennial bachelor.

"Wow, Alan," I said after stepping into his bedroom. "You sure do love penises, don't you?"

Alan swallowed hard. "Excuse me?"

"You like cocks, right? Big, throbbing, veiny cocks? I'm just guessing here, because your walls are covered with them. You want to wake up every morning and see an army of stiff choads pointing at you. Hey, I'm not judging. You want a bedroom full of erect grissel sticks, that's your business. Don't ask, don't tell, I always say."

I was just teasing Alan. I meant nothing by it. I just thought it was funny that his bedroom walls were decorated with Ninja swords. It's not something you see every day. And c'mon, you mount half-a-dozen swords over your bed, you're just begging for somebody to point out the overt phallicism.

When we left, my sister-in-law slapped me hard across the chest. "Why do you have to be such a jerk?" She said.

"What? What did I do?" I asked.

"You just accused a closeted gay man of decorating his home with cocks. Do you not see how that might be embarrassing for him?"

"Wait a minute, he's gay?"

This was news to me. I had no clue that he might be into fellas. Even my brother feigned ignorance.

"How do you not know he's gay?" she asked, laughing at us.

We just shrugged. "We knew he was eccentric but..."



All the pieces started to come together. 40-something guy who lives alone. Bedroom full of swords. Framed Henry Scott Tuke prints in the living room. The way his jeans fit just a bit too snugly. The now not-so-innocent memories of Alan hanging out with boys several years his junior, and how he was always the first to say, "Hey, why don't we take off our shirts?"

"Dude," I said to my brother. "Alan is totally gay."

Sometimes a sword is just a sword. And sometimes it's an excuse to make an adolescent joke about phallic imagery, opening a Freudian window into the latent (but in hindsight, pretty fucking obvious) homosexuality of your childhood friends.

* * *

I don't know what made me think to bring her a pumpkin instead of a corsage. I guess I just didn't want to go to her damn sorority dance, and this was my small show of protest. And besides, I think there's something antiquated and silly about pinning dead flowers to a woman's boob. What exactly does this ritual even mean? "I believe in the awesome power of your breasts to grow and sustain plant life. One look at your areolas and I knew you had high phosphorus content. Why look, even now your nipples are sprouting flora. It will be a good year for the harvest!"

A pumpkin just seemed more... practical. And it didn't hurt that there was a pumpkin stand on the side of the road, just a few short miles from her dorm. When she opened the door and I presented her with the handsome gourd, she could not have looked less impressed.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" She snarled, staring at the pumpkin like she suspected it might bite her.

"I don't know," I said, flashing what I hoped resembled an innocent smile. "We could carve it up, paint George Hamilton's face on it, whatever you want."

"You're just being difficult."

"You can make a pie," I suggested. "You think any of those girls tonight are gonna be making pies out of their corsages? Not likely."

We went to the dance anyway. And she ditched me for a frat guy in a bandana and a "Coed Naked Lacrosse" t-shirt. He walked up to her and said, "You must be Jamaican, because Jamaican me crazy." She laughed so hard I thought she might give herself an aneurysm. I considered pointing out the absurdity of confusing a blond and pale white woman with a Jamaican immigrant, but considering the pumpkin debacle - in its own way kinda absurd - it seemed pointless.

Notes From the Road

Last month, the Dame and I set out on a cross-country trek from the West to the East Coast, armed with little more than a few change of clothes and a credit card that could've been used as a prop for a Shakespeare soliloquy ("Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous interest rates, or to take arms against a sea of service fees"). We were determined to take our time and see as much of the country as we could squeeze into a few weeks. I documented our journey for prosperity, as I knew this would be a road trip for the ages, a historic event to rival the legendary voyages of Jack Kerouac, Lewis and Clark and that Oliver Stone movie about the redneck couple that drives around the country shooting up diners. You remember that one? Is it just me or did Robert Downey Jr. look like he was on coke? If he wasn't tripping balls, something is wrong with his brain.

Anyway, now that the dust has settled, I realize that my log-taking abilities leave something to be desired. I've found scrawled notes on receipts, the backs of matchbooks, and any other flat surface I was able to find. Much of it is illegible, and some of it, well, some of it sounds like bullshit. The Dame insists that she remembers it as I do, but she is what we like to call in fiction an "unreliable narrator." I don't know who or what to believe anymore.

So here you have it. I've devoted much of the weekend to piecing together my scattered memories and high-falutin' tales from our slow, financially-and-emotionally draining journey across the taint of this great country. Enjoy!

KEEP ON READIN'! WHAT, YOU GOT SOMEPLACE TO BE?
* * *

Our first stop is Los Angeles, which we're only visiting to see a few friends before bidding farewell to California. Weirdly, we seem to have more friends than I remember. How do we know so many people? Have they been reproducing by meiosis? In all honesty, I would've been fine with just seeing one or two of them, but just like the McCarthy Trials, they squealed on us, and now everybody knows we're here and wants some face time.

None of what we discussed with our old acquaintances would interest you. Here's the short version: People who were once sleeping with each other are no longer sleeping with each other and are now sleeping with other people, with hilarious consequences.

* * *

On the 10 freeway, 160 miles outside of LA, we stumble upon the George Patton Memorial Museum. We're informed that the tank exhibit is closed because of rattlesnakes. There are signs everywhere warning us that it's rattlesnake season. (Seriously? Rattlesnakes have their own season?) So instead we check out the gift shop, which has lots of jaw-droppingly inappropriate merchandise devoted to the soldier-slapping general. As I soon learn, the gift shop employees do not share my sense of humor about Old Man Patty. While the Dame surveys the vast selection of key chains made from .50 caliber machine gun bullets, I ask the cash register lady if they have any mugs with a quote from the General's "Blood and Guts" Speech, specifically the line "We are not interested in holding onto anything, except the enemy's balls." Turns out, they don't. Have you ever gotten an icy stare from an old, grizzled lady who works at an unironic war museum? The kind of glare that says, "I have a knife hidden in my boot, and if you make one more crack about how our country likes bombing nations of poor brown people, I will not think twice about cutting your hippie liberal throat." You remember that there are a lot of places to bury a body in the Nevada desert. Needless to say, we left in a hurry.

* * *

Stayed at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Not only was it the cheapest hotel on the Strip, it also has a lion habitat in the casino, so when you get bored losing money on the slots you can look up and see the testicles of one of the most depressed and drugged-up creatures on the planet. I didn't realize how much I didn't want to see a lion's junk until it was forced into my sightline. Another highlight was the lazy river, a 1000-foot-long pool where you can float in lukewarm baby-piss water and drink over-priced cocktails. The experience was entertaining only because the Dame and I repeated the river's name as often as possible, usually in the baritone southern drawl of an old black man. "You, sir, are a lazy, laaaazy rivah. A puddle has more get-up-and-go than you, Mr. Rivah. I am disgusted with your lack of ambition, sir. Do you not want to betta yo'self, Mr. Rivah? You have made your dear mutha cry, you are so very, very laaaaazy." And so on.

* * *

We can't sleep so we decide to try the slots. The gamblers are much friendlier than we're accustomed to. (The slot junkies at Indian casinos are all business.) Many of them want to share their "tricks", and we're just fatigued enough to take them seriously. One old dude insists that the only sure-fire way to make a slot machine pay out is by creating static, running your fingers across the screen like you're playing an invisible piano. His method makes absolutely no sense, but we try it anyway and I actually start winning. Our new friend notices that a casino worker is loitering dangerously close, and he immediately tenses up. "I think they're on to us," he whispers to me, motioning towards the worker who is paying absolutely no attention. I assume he's kidding, but he grabs my hand and forces me to stop. "These casinos have cameras everywhere," he warns me. "I'm not going to jail again." I do what he says, but the Dame, who is sitting at the far end of our slot island, doesn't realize what's happening, and she's winning big. "This static thing really works," she yells over to us. The casino worker moves closer, and the old dude is visibly shaken. "Tell your lady to be cool," he stammers, his forehead drenched with sweat.

* * *

Somewhere outside Surprise, Arizona (which, much to my disappointment, is not pronounced with an exclamation point), we stop at a gas station to fill up. We park next to a huge semi truck with four differently sized doors and a clown face painted on the side. The Dame figures it out before I do. "They're carnies," she whispers to me. I'm both terrified and fascinated. After pumping our gas, I take my time wandering inside to pay, hoping that I'll catch a glimpse of a freak. The driver - a completely bald 60-something redneck with a snake tattoo on his neck - opens one of the doors and shouts inside, "You guys okay in there?" I hear a guttural sound, but maybe it's just my imagination. I want to believe that somewhere inside, a dog-faced boy is playing poker with a bearded lady. After taking a piss, I see somebody near the snack aisle that I'm convinced is a bona fide carnival freak, but the Dame tells me he just has scoliosis. "A real freak wouldn't wear a back brace," she explains. The carnie semi is pulling away just as we walk outside, and I swear to you, the license plate reads: "Bwah-ha-ha!"

* * *

I hate New Mexico - it's probably the most miserably boring state in the Union - so I'm not tolerating any unnecessary stops. If the Dame has to pee, there's an empty Red Bull can that has just enough room for anything in her dainty lady bladder. I make an exception, however, when we spot an antique store just off the highway that promises plenty of kitsch. I end up purchasing an old Mattel doll from the 70s which is called simply "Old Man." We rename him "Beardie," which is only funny to somebody who watches The Office obsessively (and maybe not even then). I'm not sure why I'm so fascinated by him. Maybe it's because I think Beardie is me from the future. Seriously, take a look:



Give me another 40 years and that's exactly what I'm gonna look like.

* * *

The west half of Texas proves to be as boring as New Mexico. The Dame and I come up with a new game to pass the time. It's called "Magic 8-Ball iPod." We ask our iPods a question and then wait for the shuffle mode to give us an answer. Sometimes it works (Is El Paso really as white-trash scary as it seems? got the response "Keep the Car Running" by The Arcade Fire) and sometimes it doesn't (Where should we stop for lunch? resulted in the profoundly unhelpful "Lover's Spit" by Broken Social Scene). We eventually give up when my iPod answers three consecutive (and unrelated) questions with Wesley Willis' "I Wupped Batman's Ass." It would seem that even electronic devices can get slap-happy when a road trip drags on for too long.

* * *

I'm stopped for speeding somewhere in Texas. This strikes me as ridunkulous, as I'm the only one on the highway doing under 100mph. As the cop is writing up my ticket, I ask him a few perfectly harmless questions, like whether he would've pulled me over if I'd been driving an oil-guzzling SUV with a "God hates faggots" bumper sticker. And this cop starts snarling at me like I'd just told him about the time I got a handjob from the Bush twins. I don't know what crawled up his ass. He ends up writing me a ticket for speeding and being a smart-ass. I am so not kidding! Is that an actual law? Can you really be fined for reminding a police officer about the moral hollowness and inherent hypocrisy of his chosen profession? Or is that just in Texas?

If you're reading this, Lone Star State, don't expect a check from me anytime soon. You want my money, you come get it. The bills will be wrapped around my swollen pecker.

Sorry for the hostility. I just really, really, really don't like Texas.

* * *

You learn scary things about people on the road. For instance, I learned that the Dame has a compulsion to throw pennies into any and all large bodies of water. Lakes, rivers, ponds, a puddle near the highway, it doesn't matter. And she finds nothing irresponsible about digging for change on the floor after noticing that we're approaching a bridge, and after nearly swerving into oncoming traffic, hurling a coin in the general direction of water, where it will either land safely with a splash (and, as is my understanding, result in the awarding of any number of wishes) or kill a truck driver who was unlucky enough to be traveling behind her when her hastily discarded currency came plummeting at him like a tiny metallic spear and shattered his windshield - not that she'd notice either way, as she performs this entire ritual without ever easing her foot off the accelerator, because I guess wishes don't come true if you're not moving forward at an alarming speed.

To be fair, the Dame has learned a few disquieting fun-facts about me. Most notably, my inability to crap in public. My ass has never come close to touching the splintery seat of a gas station bathroom toilet, and as long as I have anything to say about it, it never will. My colon could be making grumbley, menacing sounds, or even singing "Feeeeeeeeed me, Seymour," and it still ain't gettin' no satisfaction. Not on my watch. At least part of my anxiety is easy enough to explain. I'm afraid of diseases. My need to defecate cannot begin to compete with my need not to get herpes. "Uh, Spitzy," you're likely thinking right about now. "You do realize that you can't contract STDS from public restrooms, don't you?" Oh yeah? Have you seen the toilets in Ozona, Texas? You could get the Plague if you sat on those things long enough."

My other reason for not making #2 in public is a little more embarrassing. Let's say, just in theory, that I did take a crap in a gas station restroom. I probably wouldn't flush, as this would involve touching far more of a toilet than anybody not wearing a hazmat suit should ever consider. And if you're forced to leave your dookie-doo unattended, you're just giving the government free license to steal your DNA. Yeah, yeah, I know. Go ahead and laugh. But I've read enough Philip K. Dick to have a healthy fear of nanotechnology and genetic engineering. Do I honestly believe that the government has any interest in building an army of Spitznagel clones created entirely from my poop? Well sure, it sounds silly if you put it that way. But as I've always said, better safe than sorry. When your doodie doppelganger comes a-knocking, don't say I didn't warn you.

* * *

If a state can be judged solely by its billboards, there are an awful lot of Texans who've had vasectomies they'd like reversed.

* * *

When you've been in the desert for as long as we have, it's not uncommon to be impressed by things that wouldn't normally impress you under more sobering conditions. Like real cherry flavoring in a fountain drink. The Dame and I discovered this tasty concoction at the last rest stop, and given our over-the-top reactions, you'd think we'd just been given a huge endorsement deal. Earl Dittman doesn't use this much hyperbole. We just talked about it for the last two hours, and have only stopped because we've run out of enthusiastic adjectives.

The horror... the horror...

* * *

Are we still in Texas? Seriously? Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ and his black bastard brother Harry, how big is this fucking state? I vaguely recall visiting the Alamo in San Antonio, but that was mostly to purchase a floatie pen for my sister-in-law. And somewhere around Houston I had an epiphany that this state is just a Don DeLillo novel waiting to happen. (I swear I saw Dylar for sale at a Chevron.) Otherwise, the last few days have been a blur. The only thing keeping me awake are the bugs. As we get further from the Pacific Ocean, the flying insects get exponentially bigger and more ominous. Something hit our windshield this morning that I think might've been Mothra. It left a stain that looks like a carton of raw eggs, and no amount of scrubbing can wash it away. My mind wanders, and I find myself wondering, is this what the middle of the country is really like? Part Japanese monster flick and part William Gibson Sprawl? The only difference between this and a coffin is that you have a little more room to stretch. Even Beardie doesn't like it here. We would've stopped long ago, but the last time we stayed at a Texas hotel, Beardie had night terrors and kept us awake till dawn with his constant screaming.



* * *

We finally made it to Louisiana. It might just be wishful thinking, but the world seems a little brighter here, a little less daunting. I just overheard the following conversation at a gas station:

"Is that Jimmy's truck?"

"Sho' nuff it is."

"Jimmy ain't got no truck."

"He got one now."

"What? You crazy, woman. If Jimmy got a truck, he woulda told me."

"Look for yo'self. Ain't that look like a truck?"

"It's a truck alight. But is it Jimmy's truck?"

"Go ask Jimmy, you don't believe me."

"Is that Jimmy?"

"Who it look like, fool?"

(Long pause.)

"Wait a minute, Jimmy is black?"

I don't know why that makes me so happy, but it does.

* * *

I've become acutely aware that we're in the South. Apropos of absolutely nothing, I'm now beginning every sentence with "I'm fixin' to." As in "I'm fixin' to get something to drink" or "I'm fixin' to exceed the recommended speed limit because I just looked at an atlas and we are a long, long way from the Atlantic Ocean and I'm so tired I'm starting to hallucinate." The Dame has developed her own Southern quirks. She now responds to almost everything with "Mama got to get right with this." I'm still not sure what that means, or why she considers it a witty rejoinder to any topic we happen to be discussing.

Also, this may have nothing to do with the South, but the Dame and I now think it's endlessly hilarious to misuse idioms. For example...

"I need to pull over and take a piss."

"If you say so. But if you ask me, you're just throwing the baby out with the bathwater."

Is that funny at all? I don't know anymore. I'm like a zombie in a George Romero movie. I'm good at staring vacantly into space, but if you're looking for intellectually stimulating conversation, you're barking up the wrong tree.

* * *

The Dame and I just had the worst fight of our trip, and it was all her fault.

Here's how it went down. While she was taking a short nap, I noticed several billboards on the side of the highway advertising a Live Tiger Exhibit. I thought this was an unusual roadside attraction, especially given its location at a Conoco gas station. Later, when the Dame has roused from her slumber, I tell her about my sighting and she mocks me, claiming that I was thinking of a subplot from Prince of Tides. I remind her that I've never read Prince of Tides, and besides, the Pat Conroy novel featured a tiger, not a lion, and while both large cats were adopted by gas stations (ostensibly to boost sales), to the best of my knowledge the lions on display at the Conoco had not eaten the flesh of any convicted rapists. And if she needs further proof, I tell her, she's more than welcome to review my notes. I'm like Dian Fossey when it comes to highway research. I show her the evidence scrawled on the back of my hand in sharpie: Grosse Tete, Louisiana, exit 139, Conoco. This set her off on another tangent, and she yells at me for writing while driving, which she thinks is "dangerous" and "stupid." I find this curious logic coming from a woman who uses loose change as projectile weapons, but she won't hear it. She reminds me of those six times when I accidentally - "accidentally" as in "it was an accident" - swerved off the road because I just had to write down an idea before I forgot it. And then there was that one time - well, I think it was once, but she seems to believe it's happened repeatedly - when I almost got into a head-on collision with a truck because I was scribbling in my notebook and didn't realize we were in the wrong lane. "Yes, but did we die?" I ask her. "No, we didn't. So what's the problem? I finished a few more pages of my novel and we're still making good time. It's win-win. Why are you coming down on me for being a multi-tasker?"

We're just gonna have to agree to disagree.

* * *

The moment we cross the border into Mississippi, I make a proclamation. No more fast food or chain restaurants. I want to eat where the locals eat. I want all of my food to come out of a shack, the way god (or at least the Southern god, who I assume looks like Aunt Jemima) intended. Luckily, that seems to be our only option. We pull over to a place called Cajun Tales, which wouldn't look out of place in a shanty town. It may be because the food is so cheap or maybe because we haven't eaten since that BBQ place in Texas that resulted in a Bay of Pigs Invasion on our small intestines, but we order far more than we can reasonably eat. Jambalaya, gumbo, red beans and rice, crawfish, it's all good. Midway through our meal, the waitress points out the graveyard across the street, which she jokingly informs us contains the earthly remains of other overenthusiastic eaters like ourselves. An hour later, we're back on the road, and we're both convinced that we're having a heart attack. The Dame complains of chest pains and difficulty breathing, and my heart is racing like Jim Fixx after a marathon. We ignore the symptoms, mostly because we don't want to undergo coronary surgery in the bayou, and they eventually pass.

"We're Southerners now," I tell the Dame. She understands completely. I burp up something that smells like dead fish and cat litter. She high-fives me. This feels significant somehow.

* * *

I'm not sure how it happened but the Dame and I are arguing again. It started when she mentioned, completely out of the blue, that she knows a guy with Assburger. I asked her what the hell she was talking about, and she said it's actually a very serious condition. I said, "You mean his ass looks like a burger?" And she said, "What does his ass have to do with Autism?" And I said, "You tell me, you brought it up." And then she started getting defensive, because I accused her of making up diseases, and pretty vile ones at that. When she wouldn't stop going on and on about it, I finally threw up my hands and said, "Okay, fine, you win. Your friend has Assburger. And I've got a bad case of Scrotum Pie. You happy?" So that's when she told me she'd actually said Asperger, not Assburger, which you gotta admit, makes a lot more sense. But the damage is done. It's been two hours and she's still not talking to me.

* * *

The Dame has forgiven me, partly because we're too tired to fight and partly because we just noticed that Beardie is wearing a hat made out of aluminum foil, which he thinks will stop the government from reading his mind.



It's hard to stay mad when Beardie's up to his lovable hyjinks. Right now he's muttering something about the moon landing being a hoax, and how the whole thing was filmed at a soundstage in Hollywood. There's no point in arguing with him when he gets in one of his moods. We just smile and shrug. That's our Beardie!

* * *

I need to have a heart-to-heart with the state of Mississippi.

Listen, if I need to purchase a condom, and I decide to purchase it in a gas station bathroom, I don't need a lot of extras. I don't need the condom to come in a variety of colors and flavors and shapes. Because the odds are good that I'm gonna use it in the bathroom. You know what I'm talking about, Mississippi? If you're buying a condom in a gas station, you're in a big hurry. You're probably getting ready to blow a homeless guy or fuck the attendant for free gas. You're already doing something kinda crazy. It's not gonna get crazier if your cock glows in the dark. And while we're on the subject, do you realize the irony of advertising condoms "for her pleasure" in a gas station? I'm sorry, Mississippi, but that's just wishful thinking. There is not a "her" in this equation. If you're fucking in a public bathroom in the South, it's pretty much a given that both partners pee standing up. You understand what I mean, Mississippi? They're gay as a March Hare. Add a few condom vending machines that promise to "tickle a trucker's prostate" and you'll make a fortune. Trust me on this, Mississippi.

* * *

I've always heard that Southerners were overtly religious, but I had no idea just how funny it could be. We just passed a van with this written on the doors: "Grace Martial Arts: Training Spiritual Champions Since 1970." And it was accompanied by a crude drawing of Jesus, who looked not unlike Chuck Norris, delivering a vicious karate chop to a sinner's ballsack.

We've also noticed that the billboards promoting Jesus and Christianity have become increasingly hostile as we get deeper into the "pure" Southern states. Eastern Texas and Louisiana had plenty of billboards of Jesus hanging on cross, looking despondent and forlorn in a Charlie Brown sorta way. But in Mississippi and Alabama, Jesus got his groove back. His hands and feet are still nailed to the cross, but he's now glowering at the highway with an expression that screams, "Don't make me come over there and knock that dick out of your mouth!" It's difficult to miss the judgment in his eyes, but I guess that's what Jesus does, right? Still, it's not like San Francisco is filled with billboards of drag queens pointing accusatory fingers and saying, "Put down that bible and get back to the glory holes!"

If nothing else, the South's in-your-face religious pandering has inspired us to come up with the official motto for our road trip: "Jesus is Harshing My Mellow."

* * *

How drunk does an Alabama biker have to be to stand on top of a picnic table and dance to "London Bridge"? From what I've seen this afternoon, two beers drunk.

* * *

We don't really have the energy for any more sightseeing, but when we spot the billboards for "Christmastown USA" in Mobile, Alabama, we just can't say no. As it turns out, our instincts were correct. This is Christmas as only the South can do it, with twice the religious symbolism and none of the irony. This place looks like Las Vegas threw up on a gay pride parade. There's a life-size manger scene (with a baby Jesus sporting some Elvis-style sideburns), leering Santa figurines that look like mugshots from a pedophile watchlist, and my personal favorite touch, a flag of Pope Benedict XVI hanging over the register, and I kid you not, he's giving a thumbs up. If it was for sale, I promise you I would've purchased several flags, enough to surround my next apartment. Instead, I used the few remaining dollars in my wallet to buy an ornament of Pope John Paul II (the Walt Disney of Catholicism) holding hands with Jesus and Santa. I can't look at it without giggling. I'm afraid my brain might explode with pleasure. The Dame takes me aside and warns me not to laugh quite so loud. This isn't a joke to these people, she tells me.

"They actually believe that the Pope is in heaven with Jesus and Santa."

"Santa's dead?" I gasp. "When did this happen?"

"You know what I mean. Just don't make it so obvious that you're making fun of them. I don't want to get lynched because you want to be a smart-ass. Remember what happened in Texas?"

I did. So I paid quietly for my ornament, gave Benedict a thumbs up, and we fled to our car before they could bring out the noose made of tinsel and holly.

* * *

I have no memory of the last six hours of our trip. There was too much adrenaline pumping through my system to fall asleep, but the mental fog brought on by sheer exhaustion made any cognitive activity impossible. Like, say, driving. The Dame swears she wasn't driving either, which means there are only two logical explanations:

a) Neither one of us was actually operating the car, at least not in any conventional way, and we somehow managed to coast to Florida.

b) Beardie realized that we were in bad shape and took over navigating duties.

No evidence exists, but I still suspect it's option B.



Call it a hunch.