I think the holocaust made being naked really complicated
for everybody. It was like national geographic, as a kid, watching those documentaries
in class or late night History Channel or wherever. You’d always see the piles
of bodies and, as a child, my eyes would zero in and look at each man’s penis. Breasts
and vaginas were there too I guess. But the penises I remember. And they were
penises, not cocks really. Cocks started in 1974, I’ve decided after reviewing
the footage. It requires a lot more leisure and nutrition than was available in
those times to grow a proper girthed and manually practiced cock.
Honestly, I don’t think cocks really exist anywhere except
in our heads. What I mean is cocks are the idea and fantasy, but the piles of
3inch flaccid penises are the reality. Looking at those black and white people was
kinda like the high school gym showers, but more like the YMCA. The universal
penis on display and it fucks everybody up. We can handle cocks, they blend
into the scenery much easier. But I certainly ain’t the first to say penises
are a bummer.
I grew up around here, outside the city I mean. Right on
that line where they forgot to keep building shit. So there used to be trees and
rocks and stuff like that. The woods would just take over, man, fellas with
chainsaws would be out every summer weekend hacking that shit back to keep
their yards from turning into savages’ playpens. Out back as a kid, right past
the tree line, kinda swallowed in brush and leaves were these disintegrating
tarpaper and twine chicken houses. Big ol’ crummy sheds to keep the little
fuckers in, you know? Being a naturally stupid child I broke the rusted-over
locks and would sneak inside. Then for whatever reason I’d dig down into the
dirt floors—for treasure? Treasure, yes. I finally hit the jackpot one day,
broke through that boring dirt barrier and got to the mounds of dog skulls,
tuna cans and chicken rib cages. That’s a special day for a young man, to hold
his first dog skull—probably some prized whippet from the 1890s county fair. Being
a stupid child, who never really thought before doing shit—I remember kissing it
on the teeth. Why not! But then I freaked out realizing what I did and just spat
and cried and ran and washed my face out with detergent and just kinda shivered
like a Mongoloid.
Haha, that’s stupid. So anyway, somebody once said that half
of all problems start by ascribing lots of complicated reasons to something in
order to avoid the very simple things at the bottom. You know, okay, suits me.
Let’s try it. Maybe daddy drinks because of a bad accident he once saw on the
highway? Maybe Robbie is such a shit because his grandmother found his 13year
old thai murder porn stash and the old dame refused to rat out her own grandson? Maybe
General Electric makes cars because Teddy Roosevelt had night terrors unless he
was snuggly tucked in the back seat of a Model T with three or four gentlemen
companions? Maybe airlines are terrible because cabbalist monks saw forty seven
feathers descend from the Giza
pyramids one Walpurgisnacht in 1963? Or maybe shit ain’t really that crazy, we
just desperately need it to be. Like some hick 12 year old fucking a pig by
candlelight, we just need her to be real and daddy not to catch us.
Whatever, it’s all stupid. I like cars, anyone else here
like cars? God, I can’t do this. Sorry the car shit is over—I have a really
intense memory of shame from being ten years old. It was the magic summer of masturbation,
where one month before it was hot wheels and another later it was the hot heels
in Spanish music videos. It was right then, the weekend after the first jerk
session that actually meant something, that my Aunt decided to take me camping
with her boys. I was a pig in rut. I ran to the little outside wooden shit trench,
propped the door closed and beat off every twenty minutes. It was something. I
remember my cousins banging on the door—Just a minute! I’d have to start from
scratch, paranoid and sweaty. Finishing a half hour of tears later, only to
desperately pretend all was normal when I got back to the campsite. There was a
plastic port-a-potty by the beach and that was my castle. I took a pocket knife
and cut a little hole, and just rubbed raw watching the ladies swimming—finally
thought to use the hand sanitizer(wink) . That was a magic summer.
G’night Ladies and Gents, you’ve been great. Ricky Thomas is
up next! Thank you.
The Comedian speaks, and he is heard!
ReplyDeleteThe Holocaust made being naked really complicated for (not everybody) everyone circumcised in the hospital, as opposed to the traditional Briss. The zeroing in on the penises (I should know as my eyes did the same) was/is always on circumcised members. The mounds of carcasses became piles of cut penises.
Cocks are technically, the males of the domestic fowl or chicken i.e. The Rooster. All the Merriam-Webster technicalities aside; the observations of the colloquial cock not beginning until the 70’s is correct. They do also live in the Mind. For some reason ‘cock’ in the colloquial sense has a very WASP tinge to it. Something about not having a cock until you have your very own table, stall, and yacht at the local Yacht club warrants the ‘possession’ of a cock. We can ‘handle’ cocks, but penises cut or not tend to bring heavier connotations.
I grew up in a difference place outside the city, where they never forgot to keep building shit and Landscape architecture was the Law of the land. Without rusted over locks to break, ‘ventures were not the same but not without overlap. One summer, between 3rd and 4th grade, I attended Eagle Hill Summer School. During the school year they ran as a school for the learning challenged, but during the summer opened their doors to all students willing to attend. I had a Very hard time with memorizing Times Tables and they gave me all sorts of little word play devices to help them Sink into my brain. I vividly remember the word play games at the end of classes where we would have to figure out what word the person with chalk in their hand had in their head. They would write ‘issues’ ten times on the board, and the wise alec would (raise their hand) realizing that they were thinking of tennis-shoes. Another class I took was an English course where we studied Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. We would read the text aloud to engage every student and be captivated by the idea of treasure hunting. Then the teacher, every Friday, would take us out in the back woods of the compound and let us dig for our very own treasure, in what I know realize was some compost/trash-dump for the prior inhabitants of the compound. Either way, it was magic to me. Armed with a little sand shovel and my two hands I dug for what HAD to be there. And lo and behold one day I found it. An empty perfume bottle, un-scratched chipped or broken. At the time, it had to be a bottle for Rum or Port or some such spirit, but it was just perfume bottle. I took it home with great Wonder and amusement until I forgot about it and it was thrown away.
Memories of shame are of vital importance. I have one where my neighborhood friend and I, after pouring over his mother’s stash of Elle magazines and big brother’s hidden Playboy Wet Summer issue, realized the house hold dog would lick anywhere we pointed. Now don’t worry we hadn’t yet reached the summer of masturbation but curiosity was there. We were able to have Monty lick (momentarily) *oh the Shame* the crown jewels. No climax achieved but sensation felt. It was ticklish. And of course, the parents found us in the act and reprimands were dealt.
“Like some hick twelve year old fucking a pig by candlelight, we just need her to be real and daddy not to catch us.”
I believe it is equally important to invent guilt realities that may or may not be even true. At the Rothko art exhibit, being moved by all the maddening use of color, I wonder ‘who sent it?’ Angry/Hungry I retire and start jerking off in the art museum john until my dick hurts. Covered in sweat, I get off the porcelain throne and go back to the wooden bench in the exhibit as if nothing ever happened.