A Sad Remembrance

Years ago I was 24 years old. I was riding this commuter train and I saw this guy I recognized. I saw him from pretty far away as the car was pretty empty.

He was maybe 5 years older than me and he was sitting there by himself and he looked really sad. He was just sort of staring into empty space.

I knew him, sort of, because he tended bar at this English-style pub in Philadelphia I used to go to every now and then. About two weeks earlier he helped me out of a jam. You see, I’d had at least a couple of pints and there was this middle-aged husband and wife couple sitting at a table on the way to the rest room. They seemed friendly and they struck up a conversation with me and I told them I was all broken up over a girlfriend who just dumped me.

And then the weirdest thing happened. Slowly but surely, they started needling me about how much I was a loser . . . like they were trying to convince me I was a worthless piece of shit.

They were pretty good at it, too. I remember one of the things the man said: “Maybe she realized she made a mistake in the first place.”

They were working like a tag team and it soon seemed to me like they’d picked me to be the victim in some sort of a cruel psychological game they played for their own amusement. So I went back to the bar. They left me alone at first but then they started up again. They tried to coax me back to their table but I said no.

And then they got really nasty. Especially the woman. She ended up yelling insults at me from across the room!

I wish it weren’t true but I let it get under my skin . . . big time.

Anyway, they laid off after a bit. This guy was tending bar and he could see I was sad and he talked to me. His name was Tom and he said the married couple were friends of the owner so he couldn’t bounce them but they were freaks who were into mind games. At that point, I was about as depressed as I could get and I said, “Some of the stuff they said is true. Maybe I am a loser.”

And he was very, very nice to me and he said that’s all bullshit and that everybody gets broken up over a girl, every now and then, so I should never forget that. He was sort of like a big brother when I needed one, and I really appreciated his kindness, and I figured I’d had too much to drink so I left after a few minutes.

Well, that was the guy I saw on the train about two weeks later. I probably wouldn’t have recognized him, out of place like that, except he was wearing a “Guinness” sweater. It was tan with the logo on the front in black. And as I said before, he looked really sad. And I thought to myself, “You know, I should go over there and see if maybe he wants a little cheering up because it would be the right thing to do.”

But I never did. I made all the typical excuses to myself like he probably wants to be alone and maybe it’s not really him and maybe he gets off at the next stop or he probably won’t remember me or he’ll think I’m a weirdo . . . you know, all that stuff that gets in the way all the time.

So I just sat there trying to hide behind a newspaper like a coward and eventually it was my stop so I got off.

And now it's two weeks later. I’m at that same pub and one of the bartenders is washing beer mugs behind the bar and I say to him, “Hey, is Tom working tonight?”

He never looks up.

“No. Tom’s dead. He killed himself.”

He keeps washing beer mugs and I sit there in stunned silence. He finishes up and goes back to serving drinks. I get up off my bar stool and leave.

That’s a true story.

It Happened One Summer

I just read my post entitled “My Balls Itch.”

That reminded me of the time I flew coach from Newark (or New York) to Prague and I ended up with a case of crotch rot fit for a king.

Anyway, somewhere near the Charles Bridge I pantomimed my symptoms to a Chinese pharmacist who sold me a little tube of stuff to rub on my hairy, hanging nutsack.

It had one of those funny Ikea furniture names like Bosporp or Jikki or something like that. I think it came from Hungary.

That stuff worked pretty well, actually.

I was grateful.

And to this very day, I think good thoughts about the Czech Republic and China and Hungary every time I think about my itchless scrotum.

The Way It Is

I’m feeling kind of gassy right now and there are bits of hickory-smoked almonds stuck in my teeth and I don’t feel like getting up because I just sat down and I just farted but I'm still feeling uncomfortably gassy so it all seems kind of unfair.

Thought you’d want to know.

My Balls Itch

No kidding.

They really do and my dinger has gotten all tangled up in my underpants and it's squished out of place and the whole region down there is kind of uncomfortable.

I've been working at my desk, poring over papers, sitting in this chair, leaning forward, for far too long.

Which reminds me. My crotch is sweaty, too.

It's time for me to stand up and get a few things straightened out.

The fresh air should do me good.

Dry things out a bit.

Wish me luck.

"We Meet Cedric, Who Is A Mud Thrower"

"We Meet Cedric, Who is a Mud Thrower"

That’s a quote from this website about an episode of “Dirty Jobs” on TV.

I watch that show whenever I get the chance. It’s a real treat.

Well, during that episode, Cedric said something so profound I thought someone should put it on the internet in case someone might read it and learn something I’m still trying to get through my thick head after 46 unhappy years on this planet.

You see, he is a “mud thrower.” He takes a big glob of thick mud (13 pounds worth) and he lifts it up and he slaps it down into a brick form and off it goes to the kiln or something.

One after another.

All day long.

Grab . . . Lift . . . Slap.

Grab . . . Lift . . . Slap.

Grab . . . Lift . . . Slap.

He gets paid by the brick.

And you know what?

He has a much better attitude toward his job than I have toward mine.

He seems like a very pleasant fellow and this is what he had to say: “You get a rhythm going, it’s not so bad.”

Let me type that out one more time.

“YOU GET A RHYTHM GOING, IT’S NOT SO BAD.”

And there you have it, folks.

Words of wisdom.

It Happened Just a Minute Ago

I was about to squat on the pot when I noticed there might not be enough music roll to finish the paper work. So I got a new roll before sitting down rather than take my chances, and in any event, even if the roll lasted for the whole wiping session, I would be morally bound to get a new roll for whoever came after me, so I might as well do it sooner rather than later.

Might I die on the hopper before getting to the wiping phase?

That was a risk that could not be reasonably avoided.

I am a lawyer.

Silly Rhymes (#51)

In days of old
when knights were bold
and rubbers weren't invented,
the men put socks
around their cocks
and babies were prevented.

I am not to blame for that one.

I am simply repeating it.