Repopulating the colon of a loved one

Can you believe this shit!?  I haven't been able to relax since reading a smart magazine article published by (based on my awe-inspiring research skills) a big-time NYC mag place.  Anyway, it concerns this lady who got a whole new set of intestinal bacteria.  How does one remove the orginal?  But it is a sad thing, this colon in question.  She had severe diarrhea (had to look this up to spell it right) and had lost a bunch of weight.  So what happens?  She got a (wait for the shit) "fecal transplant."  Just writing this is making me faint which is sort of faint praise for the writer, right?  Anyway, the docs put put some of his poop in a blender (I'm gonna be sick!) and then hoovered it back into her via the back door canal or whatever.  (Idea:  get one of these then go to the airport and admit to TSA that you have some bubbly in your arse.) 

The worst part?  I was making a smoothie as I was reading this article and could not bring myself to drinking it (the smoothie).  Spent the day walking, checking out couples and wondering how you would broach this idea of "honey, would you like to shoot the shit--up my butt?  I have chills.

So, walking home after checking my football pool results with Jay-Z (a lie) and decided that I would like to review cars for the Wall Street Journal since I saw one in the trash and took it.  I called and they asked what car I wanted to review and I didn't know so had to hang up.  Went to car dealer and saw a nice one.  Big, new, silver Audi.  I went in and asked a salesman how much it was and other details and he smirked.  I said "I could pay you cash for this wreck right now. Ask Jay-Z " (a lie).  Finally, he gave me that thing, the short speech:  "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."  So I stood there because he was "going to" ask me to leave.  But he didn't!  But his boss did.   All I got was this and, sorry,  I was in a hurry:

Price as tested:  $115,000.  Comes with a house on a river.
32-valve V8 Juice with purple valves and saltines in the middle
Full-time AWD with fondue-dripped rims and vector rear seats with republicant oversteering
DVD sunroof with German Renaissance Florence with re-circulating smells of wallet.

I have to leave right now.

Caddying for John Boehner – Where are the Fire Extinguishers!

Life is strange and tell Dave this as his plan seems far-fetched.  He wants to go to D.C. and tie himself to the White House gate and then light himself on fire to protest how he was waterboarded by his bank `cause he paid only six bucks on his half-million dollar mortgage which I know for a fact Dave paid with money he got from collecting bottles.  But Dave tells me he knows someone at a fancy country-club just outside the capital and I can probably caddy for John Boehner’s daily golf outing if I split gas money to D.C. with Dave.

So okay, I go.  No jobs where I am so a hundred bucks for spending the day with Boehner is fine.  I dress in jean overalls and a straw hat and big clown shoes which are really Nikes, just four sizes too big.

We park and I join Dave and we stare at the fence and then try to explain why we have a thick set of chains and a plastic gas can.  Nosy bastard Homeland Security.  I have to lie and say we are both magicians and will be tying the chain around the gas can and making it disappear, like Houdini.  The HS guys laughs and wishes us luck but not before asking for an autograph.

Meet Boehner and he’s right on time.  Not as tanned as advertised but something else is bizarre.  He sings the first two or three words of everything he says.  We shake hands and I tell him my name.  He says ♫Good to meet you♫.  Bill.  Oh man, this makes me queasy and I got eighteen holes to go.

Boehner can golf, for sure.  The weather’s nice and I’m feeling fit.  Two problems.  A weasel-looking prick has joined us.  Guy named Mitch who looks like an upright turtle.  He holds his hands in claw style, like Mister Burns from the Simpsons and when he talks his mouth is full of saliva so he sounds like wet sneakers.

Second problem.  I have succumbed to Boehner’s singing thing.  Like this:  (BOEHNER)  “♫Bill, give me the♫ sand wedge.”  (ME) ♫Ba-da-da, here you go. ♫  Crap.  I realize I am a victim of the Stockholm Syndrome thing where after you endure something really awful, you begin to really like all things Swedish.

We get to hole nine and all hell breaks loose.  A Secret Service guy tells Boehner that ♫Doodly-do♫  A guy has chained himself to the White House and is threatening to light himself on fire.  Boehner gives me two fifties as Mitch giggles in a swish of spit. 

We walk to Boehner’s limo and Boehner is cursing a storm.  Just as he’s about to climb in, he looks at me, all narrow eyes.  ♫Billy boy, Billy boy♫  Where are the fire-extinguishers?  Why can’t Obama provide enough fire-extinguishers?”

Then he’s gone and I’m left humming that fire-extinguisher song.   

Whoa! James Franco Saved My Life!

Is it just me or is this economy kicking everyone’s ass and since America hates writers and loves clowns, I auditioned for Cirque du Soleil but didn’t get in because they had "filled the spot."  It all came down to pushups and standing on my toes for more than an hour.  And this is even before the little outfits.

So, bumming, walking home through the West Village wishing I lived here and had a dog.  The weather is great but that still doesn’t stop a garbage truck from honking its horn as it makes its way right at me.  I close my eyes for impact and get it but not from the truck but from a guy who lifts me off the street and onto the sidewalk.  I mean. LIFTS me.  Like Superman or one of those feminists outdoorswomen who don’t like men but will save a life now and then before drinking lake water.

“You all right man?” the young guy says.  I nod, wiping off my thrift store pants which now have a hole and recognize my savior as actor, writer, painter, poet, middle-linebacker, etc. James Franco.  I thank him profusely and wipe off the leftover pee from my pants leg as Franco politely looks the other way.  The guy has manners and is taller than I think, which is short. 

We start walking and I ask if I can repay him somehow, like for instance, giving him one of my screenplays to read.  He says "you don't have to," but offers to buy me tea at this organic tea-only café owned by a famous musician who doesn’t eat meat or drink alcohol and talks in little "beeps."  I’m yawning already but it’s Franco and I’ll just order one of those teas that’s looks like coffee.

We get to the place and just my luck, it’s Hot Water and Lemon Wedges Week.  Only.  We sit down are soon surrounded by big jugs of hot water and lemon wedges.  “It’ll clean you out,” Franco says and so I drink.  Anyway, tea was fine and Franco offers to walk me home or at least to my subway.  I tell him I spotted some saffron at the café  and it was more expensive than gold bars and Franco says you can’t make risotto with gold bars and this placates me. 

Then a fire broke out.

“Looks like a three-alarm,” Franco said, stripping to the waist.  I figure he’s going to put on a fireman’s outfit but he just stays that way.   I start to also strip to the waist but someone yells “Think of the children!”   Before I can say “food stamps,” Franco is up the ladder and into a second floor apartment.  He returns about a minute later, soot-encrusted, and asks "what were you saying?"  I mention the screenplay again and he laughs.  

I see my subway a couple blocks up but then a guy has a heart attack or something.  Franco crouches over the guy and says something gentle.  Then pulls open the guy's shirt and takes his pulse at the neck.  "Can I do anything?" I ask.  He says I can walk and drink tea and not to feel so bad.  Franco pumps the guy's chest as a crowd gathers.  iPhones light up light like fireflies.  I tell the people to give us some air but no one moves.  Franco smiles and says "please," and suddenly it's like we're alone on the fifty yard line at Giants Stadium.   "Acute myocardial infarction," Franco says.  He starts to cut open the guy's chest and I turn away.  Later, hands covered in blood, Franco barks "sponge!" and I give him my screenplay, the first ten pages of which he stuffs in the guy's chest.  At least I got it in his hands. 

 We stop at my subway and shake hands.  I tell Franco that he's amazing and I'll always be a fan. 
He asks where I got the leather wrist band and I say Target.  He says he likes that place too.  I give him my cell number and email and he gives me his.  He walks away, waving and smiling and I look at his number and it says 1-800-AT&T.   

What's the deal with Oliver Sachs?

Was in Cambridge trying to get osme information from Harvard on why they didn't accept me fifteen years ago.  Talked to some stick of a man who had on a Harvard sweater and cheap pants.  So what did I want?  Huh?  The guy told me I could sit down and I did but he didn't.  So I cut to it.  Really, sir?  Like no one at Harvard every got a "C" in high school?  That is just not possible.  What kind of place are you running here?  Do you people have any fun?  Got tossed, but not before taking armloads of slick brochures.

Bored.  Listening to NPR and the power forward Oliver Sachs is being interviewed.  First thing I get is that the guy is a doctor not a basketball player for the Celtics.  Anyway, in the course of my walk, I listen and discover that Oliver has this terrible disease called "facial recognition blindness."  He's sees a person's face then forgets it almost immediately after they leave.  Or something close to that as I am distracted by a Harvard co-ed picking her huge pimpled nose.

Anyway, decide to visit Oliver and cheer him up.  Knock, knock and the guy opens his own door, dressed pretty well.  I introduce myself then sneeze and when I straighten up, I have to introduce myself again.  Man, this is going to be a trying day as I invite Oliver for a coffee.  He says yes and we go.  I ask to meet his wife and Oliver says he can't because just that morning, she turned her back at breakfast and now he has no idea who she is.

Go to some place in Cambridge, go figure.  Oliver suggests a cafe with great hot chocolate and we do this.  Sitting at a tiny, French-style table, we order the hot coco and I know it's going to suck when Oliver tells me you can stand a spoon straight up in this cafe's hot chocolate.  Well, I want to drink my hot chocolate, not eat it.  What happens if we order pudding?   Do I have to cut it with a knife.  Just when I am making my point really well, Oliver drops his napkin.  When he straightens up in his seat, he looks at me like I'm Santa.  "Who the hell are you?" he says.  I do the intro again and we continue as if we never...no that's not true.

Hot coco is good even though I AM LICKING MY SPOON!  Walk Oliver home and it's cool because the guy is famous.  All sorts wave and say "hello" and Oliver waves back.  I always ask who these people are as we pass them and Oliver just shakes his head and starts to weep. 

Get the poor guy home and we shake hands.  I excuse myself to take a leak behind some bushes on the side of  his nice house.  After zipping, I try to say goodbye again but Oliver is looking pissed and has a cell in his hand.  He asks me what I'm doing at his home and the cops are coming.  Good luck to them.  But I like Oliver Sachs and hope he gets better. 

PS  I am not spellchecking this.

The Rest of my Week as a Pigeon

Day Five

Rick is dead and I feel responsible.  From what I gather, Rick was hit in the head by an errant champagne cork.  The New York Philharmonic was playing the park and there were all these picnics going on. Several pigeons vow to disrupt the next concert, even though it is Verdi.  I blow them off.  My benefit is tonight.  And it’s at the Museum of Modern Art.

When we roll up to MoMa, spotlights are slashing across the front of the building.  I look up and see the artist Matthew Barney climbing the front façade dressed as one of those shaggy Budweiser horses.  His partner Bjork is below him singing and whistling through an engine block from a ’62 BMW Roadster. 

Inside, I’m shown around by some flamboyantly gay publicist who looks like Henry Kissinger.  He flutters his eyes and asks me if I know that I am a close relative of the parrot. I bob my head and try to roll my eyes.  This makes him giggle.  He tries to touch my beak but I peck him away.

I fall asleep during Minnie’s speech.  When I wake up, DeNiro is at the next table glaring at me.  I squawk and try to say Hey hack, when’s that sequel to Rocky and Bullwinkle coming out?   But all that comes out is spit.

I jump off my chair and waddle straight to the bar.  I’m itching to kick some ass.  The bartender slides the nut bowl my way but blows off my request for a straight up scotch.  I squawk and the guy squirts me with seltzer.  Shaking it off, I try to tell him I could have his ass fired.  He just laughs.   I loath being mute.

Day Six

Man, I just want to sit on my feathered ass today but we have to helicopter over to the Hamptons for a polo match.  We land at Alec Baldwin’s house and Alec doesn’t seem thrilled.  He tells the air he didn’t know the bird was coming.  Alec glares at me and announces with that deadpan TV death whisper that he’s going to fire up the barbecue. 

I spend the afternoon booting golf balls around the putting green.  When everyone leaves for the polo match, I jump in the pool to clean off.  This brings a series of accented yelps from a shirtless Latin pool boy who runs at me while frantically zipping his jeans.  The same jeans I saw at Jeffrey’s store! 

Argentina wins the polo match and soon Baldwin’s place is swarming with tanned, handsome pathological liars in form-fitting white pants and tall boots.  Polo horses are paraded out back to a round of polite applause.  I fly up and land on the hindquarters of one of the horses.  Bladwin immediately shoos me away.  What’s his problem?

Seconds later, a part of Ralph Lauren’s car collection circles the driveway.  What’s cool is that everyone says Ralph, despite his highly compensated authenticity, is a pretty down to earth guy.  But he’s very tiny.  When his vintage 1938 black Bugatti rolls up and parks, guess who pops out of the small rear trunk?

Minnie announces that we’ve raised $1.2 million dollars for the pigeon relocation fund.  Relocation?  I thought we were going back to Trump Tower?  I peer over Kate Winslet’s shoulder as she quietly reads the fine print in the catalogue.  Her fabulous lips move like two moist entwined garden slugs.  I love that image.  As a pigeon, I have a bit of the poet in me. 

I stumble over to the pool feeling like someone ripped out my tail feathers with tweezers. For health reasons, there will be no pigeons allowed at Trump Tower.  The money is going to a pigeon sanctuary outside Providence, Rhode Island.  Rhode Island!?  

Day Seven

Not working has had a profound impact on me.  I consider becoming a philosopher or a Buddhist monk who designs yoga clothes for pets.  Or maybe I will travel the world dropping off American bonhomie and shaving kits in the Middle East.  All I know is I want to benefit humankind.  But not on a schedule.

At an invitation only brunch, Minnie tells me she doesn’t want to go to Rhode Island.  But she says the million two has to go somewhere.  Minnie decides it’s going to the Cayman Islands.  Along with me and Minnie. 

I don’t understand.   Minnie has plenty of dough.  Why would she want to rip off the pigeon fund?  I’m also thinking do I really want to go the Cayman Islands?  Do they even have pigeons there?   But I have to go. I feel like I have brought Minnie some kind of happiness.

Minnie is doing nude yoga in her apartment again and yapping on about how useless her life is.  I’m ready to poke her eyes out.  I spot two plane tickets for the Caymans trip.  I decide that what I’m about to do is best for both of us.

I clamp the tickets in my beak and flutter out the window.  I hover for a few seconds as Minnie screams at me to come back. Then a BB pellet enters my side and takes my breath away.  I fall like a rock.  Minnie’s screams echo in whatever I have for ears.

I spread my wings and it is a beautiful soaring trip down.  I hit the pavement and am immediately surrounded.  Someone snaps my picture.  A private ambulance arrives.  The back doors open and I hear classical music playing.

 

That orange ball Mario Batali chef guy huffs over from his restaurant for what I assume to be a photo op. Instead, Mario gently scoops me up with a spatula and places me on a sheet of bright orange silk which I find out later is what he wraps his breadsticks in. 

A dream flashes across my eyes.  In it, Mario announces that I am going to be dinner.  I try to joke with him and buy some time.  In perfect English, I say I’m lucky that Mario is not a French chef or I’d have foie gras stuffed up my ass and a twirled radish where my head used to be.  Mario chortles with his mouth full and I manage to escape.

When I wake up, I’m on my back.  I do not hear classical music.  I hear water dripping.  I open my eyes and see rusty black pipes above my head.  A drop of water splashes me in the eye and it stings.  I am alone in a basement with a sad-looking man who is wringing out a mop in a bucket.  His name tag reads Hector J. Diaz, M.D. 

Doctor Diaz drags his hands over his blood-stained shirt and tells me I’ll live.  I ask why I am in this dirty stinking basement.  Doesn’t he know who I am?  Of course, my words don’t come out.  Doctor Diaz goes back to his mopping.    

Both my wings are numb, but I manage to fly back to the bar where it all started.  I perch myself on my regular barstool. Everyone points at me but I don’t give them the satisfaction.  The bartender places a shot of Irish whiskey in front of me.  I have no idea how I’ll pay for it.  Then the BT says "on the house."

On the TV hanging from the wall, I see Minnie being led away in handcuffs.  Her lawyer steps to a microphone and says Minnie stole the benefit money because of an illness she contracted from wild pigeon droppings.  In the corner of the screen is a pint sized picture of me.  Everyone in the bar turns and glares.

I finish my drink and fly off on the tab.  I hit the streets and zigzag to the next block where I collapse on the steps of a church.  After a few minutes, a man walks out and places a bowl of thin soup in front of me.  I look into the bowl and see my reflection.  I look cute but haggard.  Slowly, my reflection disappears.  I am nothing again.

My Life as a Pigeon - Days Three and Four

Seven Days of the Pigeon

I live in New York City and when my landlord doubled my rent I got evicted and had to sell all my stuff.  I used the money to get real drunk and in the middle of the drunk I dared God to change me into a pigeon for a week.  Which he did.    

Day Three

I fly above my old building and slash several wet white craps on top of the green canopy that covers the entrance.  The slum landlord looks up at me and shakes his fist.  I squeeze out another slithering line and the scumbag dives into a Starbucks.  For the first time in my life I feel real power. 

After nibbling some tater tots from a trash can and washing it down with puddle water, I flap through the window of Minnie’s apartment.  She is on the floor doing nude yoga.  I can only think of melting elephants.  After a shower, Minnie dresses and we limo downtown.  Minnie tells me she is organizing a fundraiser for all the abused pigeons in New York City.  I don’t care. 

We stop at Tiffany.  Minnie darts out and is only gone a few seconds before bounding back out with two blue bags.  She climbs in the limo and takes out a thin necklace and drapes it around my neck.  I feel like an idiot but bob my head sincerely. Minnie squeals, then claps and kisses me on the head.  

 

We make another stop at Trump Tower.  Minnie shows me around a triplex apartment that has been desecrated with white fur trim and gold furnishings.  The owner is a tall, rail-thin woman whose complexion is the color and texture of corned beef. 

Minnie makes a pitcher of apple martinis.  The corned beef faced lady tells me she once slept with Lou Reed and asks if I know who he is.  I bob my head enthusiastically and hum a few bars from Sally Can’t Dance.  For a few seconds, the two of us duet.  Then the woman passes out.  I walk on her face for no good reason.

Day Four

Over bagels, Minnie tells me that the benefit is not just for me but for several pigeons that have made a home at Trump Tower.  But I have never lived at Trump Tower.  Why me?  I realize I’m being sucked into Minnie’s vortex of fame.  

After breakfast, Minnie reads liposuction brochures.  I fly to the park and find Rick. I’ve never seen him so depressed.  I’ve also never seen him perched on a pile of horse manure.  Rick tells me he went back to see his wife.  She’s remarried and looks great.  Rick squawks in anguish and throws himself into a scrum of pigeons bobbing for oats among the horse carriages.  The Irish drivers threaten to eat Rick.

 Minnie complains of hemorrhoids the size of golf balls so we eat dinner at some raw food place.  We sit and the owner dances out with two glasses of some Muscat grape juice concoction that tastes like a 7-11 slushy.  I almost nod off as the guy drones on about harmony and not using ovens, gas, sugar, eggs and whatever.  So why are the guy’s prices so damn high if all he’s got is four walls and a Cuisinart?  Bastard. 

I peck at a cup of Brazil nuts until I notice Robert DeNiro staring at me.  He’s got that narrow-eyed squishy faced look, like he’s doing a scene with Meryl Streep and she’s just farted.   I spin my head in a complete circle and this flusters DeNiro who drops his chopsticks into a bowl of brackish flaxseed soup.  His gaunt publicist with the Beatles haircut yells for fresh sticks and another bowl of soup for DeNiro!  “Bob” gets up and intentionally bumps my chair on his way to the bathroom.  Bastard. 

Minnie takes me to a club in Brooklyn.  She hands me to some scary-looking DJ (“DJ ThirdBass”) who’s got sharp wooden plugs sticking out of his ears and nose.  I’m thinking ritual sacrifice, but the guy just places me on his keyboard.  A spotlight hits me.  I hop around the keyboard and it sounds like something Monk might play. 

Backstage, DJ Dom tells me he wants me on his next record. Cool!  Then he cuts me a line of nose powder and I kind of peck at it.  Whatever, after a minute I want to go back out and jump on that keyboard.  I’m also horny as a priest after church. 

         

I live in New York City and when my landlord doubled my rent I got evicted and had to sell all my stuff.  I used the money to get real drunk and in the middle of the drunk I dared God to change me into a pigeon for a week.  Which he did.  My friend Rick who was slumped next to me at the bar also got turned into a pigeon and he was pissed.  In fact, he’s damned depressed about it since only last week his wife left him. 

Day Two

I’m standing on the street when some flailing bejeweled woman with tight blond curly hair grabs me.  She looks me over like an expensive vase then presses me to her chest.  She tells me her name is Minnie and she is going to save my life.  Minnie stuffs me into a purse which is shaped like a large loaf of Italian bread.

We take a white limo uptown to Minnie’s apartment.  She lives alone but says she would like a man, someone without back hair, preferably Turkish. Minnie asks me if I want to watch her take a shower.  I nod and try to say no.  It doesn’t seem to bother Minnie that I can’t speak.  Nothing against Minnie but I feel vulnerable because I don’t want to get stepped on.  I’m also keenly aware that I have no penis.

Later, Minnie lies down on the bed and drapes an eye mask over her face.  She grabs a silver sex toy which is also shaped like a large loaf of Italian bread.  Minnie tells me was designed by Michael Graves for Target.  Minnie sobs for a few seconds then shuffles into the kitchen.  I watch her sadly place the toy in the top rack of the dishwasher.  I have never had an apartment with a dishwasher.