Enlightening Nonsense

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“See Me. Feel me. Touch me. Heal me.”

—The Who’s “Tommy”

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It’s all Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon:

I went to a Native ritual weekend where I met Natalie…

…She organizes these “Get Your Groove On” parties which are held at a yoga studio that involves the three D’s: drumming, D.J. and didgeridoo, as well as healthy snacks and drinks…

…At the yoga studio where the Groove was being held worked Rose Petals…

…I talked to Rose Petals and discovered that I was in love…

…with Kevin Bacon.

I had been to two of these dance parties before and had a good time at both of them. My favorite part is the live drumming, which usually consists of about ten drummers banging away some serious beats and me sweating my ass off as I reconnect with my African roots as a slave trader. Other highlights are the electronic self-programming lockers which should be just a convenience and a passing thought but I can’t help running back to the locker room every ten minutes and typing in the code I gave it, opening it, closing it and thinking, “<heh-heh> I programmed that code!”

And then there are the snacks. There are some nuts and berry bars that I usually eat about a dozen first thing on my way in, until the front desk usually rushes me and says, “Uh, you have to pay before you can just stuff yourself like a pig in heat!” to which I marvel at how every opportunity can provide one with new knowledge, as I never knew a pig in heat eats everything in sight, thinking she was only concerned about spreading her whore-ny legs for every curly-tailed man-pig that passed by. This joy of discovery soon turned to concern, as I thought of the male pig blurting out in frustration, “Could you just stop eating for a second while I’m fucking you??”

This has happened to me with all the pigs I’ve fucked. I usually don’t care if their eating, though, as all I am concerned with is blowing my load and then wiping the sweat off of my brow with one of their rolls of fat. There were other snacks and drinks at the Groove as well but this is starting to sound like some food prep reality show and I think it is time for me to move out of the locker room and the feeding trough. Then again, if I held a casting call for a screamingly mean chef I would probably be ready for primetime.

Working the desk like a prostitute works a street corner were two girls. I politely flirted with each of them, as I feel it a charitable duty of mine to make the help feel like someone would fuck them if they had drunk enough kombucha. And then I was off!

I continued to eat more and more of those nut and berry bars until I had that feeling right after you finish the pizza pie and think, “Dude, seriously, I’m thinking seven pieces of the Topped With Everything is my limit,” as you stuff down the eighth and then hit the drumming room.

I danced the African steps I learned in Ghana, which was a pantomime of putting collars around the healthy blacks while tying the boney weak ones up to a tree and beating them with a stick like a piñata. Needless to say, people kept their distance and I had plenty of room to dance.

I then went into some Sufi whirling, with which I have a love-hate relationship. It tends to sneak up on me and before I know it I’m spinning around in a circle with my arms outstretched. I usually think, “Whoa, the room’s like spinning! I think seven kombuchas is my limit!” and then I realize that the room is standing still and I’m the one spinning. Well, as much as a room can “stand”; in my experience rooms have a hard time standing in one place and usually I’ll catch up to them wandering down the strip looking to pick up prostitutes.

I kinda dig whirling. My eyes are open, the world is spinning and I feel a little weird, uh, weirder than I normally am. The problem is that it seems somewhat impossible for me to stop. There’s no gap in the conversation where you can jump in and say, “Uh, great. So, I’ll just be moseying along now,” and I find myself spinning sometimes for a half-hour straight. This time I wasn’t grooving on my whirl as much because I was feeling a little sick from all the nut and berry bars and forced myself to bail out after only about ten minutes. Landing is kind of funny. Even when I think I’ve touched down, I still find myself slowly turning in a circle.

I was about ready to go to the locker room, play with my self-created combination again and then puke myself like a good Roman making room for his next gorging after swallowing down so much beer, wine, sangria and semen, when suddenly Rose Petals, one of the desk girls, jumped in front of me and started dancing. Her dance moves of hopping and grabbing at her neck chain and wincing from beatings seemed to compliment my shooting at the feet, yanking the chain and whip strikes perfectly. I felt like God had intervened and I found my little slave girl. This one I wouldn’t bring to market but would take home as my own personal Aunt Jemima.

I started to drool thinking of a huge mound of pancakes as Auntie dripped her sticky syrup down the stack. I suddenly had to think about dead babies to control my raging hard-on that the pancakes brought on. This only made things worse, as my time spent in China dumpster diving and fucking all the discarded female babies seemed to create some kind of sexual perversion whenever I think of a dead baby.

Soon Rose Petals had to go back to her post and so we parted ways, her to the front desk back to work and me to the locker room back to screwing around with my electronic lock. I stopped by the desk later and we talked. It felt like a good flow but it is possible that my kombucha buzz was clouding my head. I ended up asking for her telephone number and email, which she happily gave, only temporarily pausing when I added, “It will be nice to jerk-off to something other than Barney the purple dinosaur for a change.” I forgot Rule #2 in my Jackass Dating Bible: Don’t mention that you jerk-off to Barney the purple dinosaur until at least the second date. Dammit! I thought on my feet and quickly covered with, “Barney blows me but I don’t blow him. I’m not gay, you know.” I’m not sure if this helped but I had her number and email and was mentally preparing to let Barney down easy.

Now I’m totally not into the rules of dating—besides the aforementioned Jackass Dating Bible—such as waiting three days before you can call the person and not saying after you meet her parents that you’d like to do her mother and all that jazz. I wanted to see Rose Petals again and, by gum, I wasn’t going to let any rules or etiquette or personal hygiene get in my way. I called Rose Petals pretty immediately.

“Uh, hi. I’m outside of the yoga studio. Barney’s fat purple ass has nothing on you. I want to see you again.” I may be considered “socially challenged” but I’m definitely a charmer. A couple of nights later she was going to meet a friend for dinner and drinks and invited me to tag along like a tic on a dog’s ass. I played hard to get. “OKAY!” I didn’t say I played it well, mind you.

She lives in Brooklyn, which I think was annexed by the United States somewhere in between Michigan and Hawaii. Where it was located I hadn’t a clue. I was a little late on the go, leaving my crib at about 10:00 p.m., as I had to get my hair just right and rub one off to Barney for what might be the last time. Barney and I held each other for awhile. I had to change my shirt, as his purple tears stained the T-shirt I was wearing. I told him to get the fuck out and he told me that my dick was the smallest he has had. I think the last words we shared was me shouting out my window at him, “I’m not a fuckin’ dinosaur, you fat fuck! 14” is considered big for a human, you gay little bastard!” I would be lying if I said I wasn’t hurting just as much as him and that both of our anger was a cover for a lot of pain from separating after years of being together. But fuck him—Rose Petals was waiting!

It took me an hour and a half on a school night to get to Brooklyn and this wasn’t just because I didn’t know where the hell I was going but because Brooklyn is that friggin’ far! When I got off the subway, there was a text message from Rose Petals that said, “Yeah, a bit late now. I have to work early tomorrow morning. Let’s do this another time.” I started to head back down the subway, ready for my return hour-and-a-half ride, and sent a text message of my own. “Shabizzle, shabozzle, shlameel, shlamozzle.” That’s hip-hop for, “I’m in Brooklyn, beeyotch. Get your dumb ass over here!” She told me she was on her way. I said to the man passing me by, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” as I slapped his wife on the ass. I’m somewhat of a method actor and when I go hip-hop I go all the way, with drag-ass pants, gold “teef” and a bad attitude.

So I sat on the bench outside of a bar called the Barn, her choice of location which made me wonder if her web research on my uncovered the fact that I had spent some jail time for having sex with animals when I worked on the farm. In my defense, this was illegal in all states but Iowa and I had mistaken Idaho for Iowa. The judge didn’t seem to think much of The Dyslexic Defense and I found myself at San Quentin as the runt of the litter and constantly squealing like a pig.

Rose Petals arrived alone and while I was a little disappointed that my ménage a trios possibility just decreased by about 50%, I was very psyched to see her again in the flesh and not just in my mind Jell-O wrestling with Barney. My hip-hop demeanor immediately melted. “You’re purty,” I said, as a pacifier replaced my gold “teef”.

She asked if I wanted to get a drink. I don’t really drink but she had already had a couple and I figured one more drink down her throat and I’d certainly be getting laid. The Jew in me had to weigh whether spending $20 for some girlie drink like a Cosmopolitan and a juice was really worth fucking her. After about ten minutes standing outside in reflection I said, “Okay, let’s get a drink.”

I ordered a pineapple juice, as I was told by a girlfriend years ago that pineapple juice makes ones sperm taste good and the only “bad taste in my mouth” I wanted to leave her was from my retarded antics and not my goo. We talked and it was comfortable. I enjoyed being with her. I didn’t even hold back and play it safe; sharing with her my pineapple juice decision was just the beginning.

I found out that she was a vegetarian for 20 years and only about six months ago started back on the animal slaughter. I said, “What happened?” She told me that she had found herself craving hamburgers so much, thinking about it as much as I think about urinating off a tall building onto passersby’s heads that finally she decided “enough is enough” and ate one. And then another. And soon she was shoveling burgers down like I did nut and berry bars.

It was about 1:30 when we left the bar. A man from The Guinness Book had snapped a few photos of us, as we had set a new world record for time nursing a single drink. We stood there facing each other, her wearing a hooded sweatshirt and my not sure whether I wanted to kiss her and rob a convenience store with her. I didn’t take as long as I did the last time I was outside the bar. “Can I get a kiss?” She smiled and started to move in. I stopped her, “You know, that’s a little rude not answering me. I put in a friggin’ hour-and-a-half on the subway here, sat and listened to your bullshit for another two hours. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is the least you could give me.” She pushed her lips against mine and I had to settle for the fact that I would never know her answer.

Her lips were as soft as rose petals and her tongue penetration was the perfect depth for a first kiss—not oil-drilling depth but not like a turtle poking his head nervously out of his shell either. I hadn’t tongue-kissed anyone in awhile other than my mother. I didn’t want it to end. I was suddenly brain-washed: all thoughts of Barney had been washed from my head and only the thought of being with her was present. That and the electronic locks at the yoga studio.

“I don’t know whether I should be happy or mad,” I said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I’m not sure if I should be happy to have kissed your perfect lips or pissed that I didn’t ask for a blowjob, seeing that you are such a whore.” A charmer through and through.

We parted. I watched her as she walked away, partly because I wanted to tap that ass and largely because I was procrastinating from getting back on the subway for my long-ass ride home.

If the story ended here we could all sigh, close the book, and say aloud, “Ah, young love. You can’t live with it, you can’t buy it for under $500 without getting Chlamydia.” But, just like my words that seem to go on just a touch too friggin’ long for good taste, the story goes on. Although, in truth, it seems to have ended here.

I told Rose Petals I was leaving Thursday for a Meditation Camp through the weekend. She said we’d talk next week. It was only Monday and I kind of felt I was bullied into a vow of silence for a week but we kissed, it felt great, and if I had to shut my big trap for a week I would do it for another opportunity to kiss her velvety lips. Well, as much as a compulsive loquacious like me could refrain himself.

I called her inviting her to a movie screening I had through the Screen Actors Guild on Monday. No response. I text-messaged. No response. I emailed. Nothing. Perhaps the reason her lips felt like rose petals to me was because mine felt like sandpaper to hers. I didn’t want to let my mind ponder all the possible ways I could have been repulsive to her and just wrote it off as her being yet another person who is discourteous and that being a whore she probably has kissed a different boy every day of the week and my sandpaper lips were quickly forgotten in the milieu.

I finally wrote her a text that said, “Douche, are you getting my messages?” She wrote back that she loved that I called her a douche, probably relating to a Prince Charles fetish of some kind. In text she asked how my retreat went. I wrote something “clever,” which translates as: stupid, offensive, moronic; the work of an idiot.

“Enlightening…so much so that I am not sure why I should still want to hang out with a dense, drunk, animal slaughterer like you. And by ‘dense’ I meant dumb.”

It’s been about a week and I haven’t heard back from her. I don’t think she took offense from my text and went amscray. I mean, seriously, I had said so many inane things to her that that text message read more like a Disney film than a slasher flick. And so I went into reflection.

As much bullshit as I write and talk about fucking everything that moves and looking at women as just a life-support system for the vagina, that is not really my life’s pursuit or my belief system; I think a woman is a life-support system for the liver.

I used to be a bit of a player. But not really. I dated Thai Tish for five years and I dated Celestial Seasonings for two years and only cheated on each of them a total of 23 times. Wait, that was 23 times each.

Don’t get me wrong; I have had my share of action. But have found myself in a place where getting laid has gone down the list of joys right behind taking a good shit. When I was with Thai Tish, I wasn’t necessarily “going” anywhere but my eyes did wander and periodically my penis joined my eyes. But now I don’t want to always seek out greener grass. I just want one plot of land that I can lay my back on, soak up the sun’s rays and feel like I have arrived.

What is typical of the unconscious man is that when you are in a relationship you think, “Man, if I were just single I could really play the field!” and then when you are single you think, “Man, if I just had a girlfriend I would be happy!” It’s such ridiculous nonsense. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence but these pussies don’t have the understanding to realize that the grass is only as green as your mind makes it.

With my last few girlfriends, I’ve wished that the search would be finally over. They ended up being complete psychos—that’s not fair, only Ninja was a complete psycho—and I found myself realizing that as much as I want to just grow with “the one,” to live with someone and feel that I can’t express myself for fear that if I ask, “I’m going to the kitchen. Do you want anything to drink?” that she’s going to tell me what an inconsiderate asshole I am and go on about how arrogant and shallow I am is an alternative that perhaps my brother and sister have settled for but is an absolute nightmare to me.

I also reflected on the fact that as much as I am aware of conditioning in others and myself, there are still some hanger-oners whose grubby paws are still holding on to me, as much as I shake and move and say, “Let the fuck go!” After I kissed Rose Petals, any thoughts of kissing anyone else, least of which Barney, were the furthest thing from my mind. All I could think about was seeing her again, being with her, kissing her, sharing with her. It was very gay.

When she didn’t get back to me, I found myself frustrated. I was sitting opposite the table of attachment and said, “I see you clearly, bitch. But you still affect me.” I don’t own Rose Petals. We barely even met. She has no obligation to me or me to her. And yet I could see clearly that my “desire” was messing with my reality.

There’s nothing wrong with “wanting” a certain result. It is the New Age phony that talks as if they just walk through life and whatever occurs is just as it should be. They step in dog shit, they get raped, they win the Lottery—all perfect. I mean, it is, but as Gods ourselves there is nothing wrong with Creating. These people are not gods but just driftwoods pretending they are happy with wherever the stream takes them but behind cheesy big smiles you see their frustration when they find themselves traversing the rocky rapids and are getting slammed.

In The Baghavad Gita, the Hindu holy text, one key concept is when Krishna tells Arjuna that you can’t be attached to the fruits of your actions. In modern language: “Do your shit but whatever results, results. Don’t stress it.” This is not saying to wander around like a hippie high on acid and let whatever happens to you happens.

You go to the job interview wanting the job. Why else would you sit for an hour while some douchebag in a suit ask you questions that have no relevance to life at all? But if you don’t get the job, forget about it. It is the kicking around of, “Oh, if only I answered his question, ‘What is your best quality?’ in a different way then, ‘I can listen to bullshit from idiots like you and not let it get to me’” that is life’s suffering.

I have no regrets. Whatever results in life, results. Whatever transpired between Rose Petals and me transpired just as it was supposed to. I can’t control the universe, let alone another person. I was just frustrated to see that my desires could still fuck with me, that they could affect my mood, my outlook and my erectile function.

Believe it or not, sit down for this one—I’m not everybody’s cup of tea. But I’m just like any other sappy little girl dreaming about princes and white horses. Well, less in the fact that I desire grandiose fantasies.

But I have my fantasies, too. I want someone to see me for me—not what I do, not what my body looks like, not because of the information I know, not because of the jokes I tell. To see me as me…and for that to be enough. For them to love me not for my 14” cock (yeah, right!), not for my money (broke), not for my reputation (bad) but because she can see the magic beyond the mystery, the beauty beyond the bullshit, the cream beyond the crass.

Yes, it’s unfair: I don’t want to have to spell it out for her, show her Venn diagrams, sit in an interview across from a table to her while she asks me where I see this relationship going and my role in it—I just want her to see me, feel me, touch me. I guess it’s up to me to make myself available to be seen, felt, touched, healed. And then whatever results, results. And it will be perfect.