Sex and The Fine Arts

The other day, while running, I experienced an interesting occurrence. Let me clarify that statement. I was in no way, putting foot to pavement, sweating or anything close to exercise. I’ve seen the tiny, silk, shorts runners wear and I’m quite certain, these look-a-likes for women’s panties, will fail to contain my “goodies” during a bounding jog through the neighborhood. My best runs are those exercised around the cable channels, via the remote control. As a man, my search through the numerous cable channels has me hunting for the following; sports, any show where people put personal dignity and injury on the line for my entertainment, funny commercials or anything remotely close to showing partially, better yet, completely naked women. My wife, also in the family room, was busy at the computer with her back to the T.V. As I sifted through the crap that is T.V. these days, I happened on the Spanish channel. It’s a fact, at any given moment on the Spanish channel, you can find a show which has at least 3 large breasted, giggling women in teeny sequin dresses, standing around an older, ugly guy wearing a tuxedo, with greasy, slicked back hair. After ugly, tuxedo guy says something, the girls giggle and bounce up and down. This is good. However, lest I be labeled a pervert by my wife, I couldn’t pause and watch the show. I did what all men do. I burned the channel number into my brain and casually continued my search. After a short while, my wife walked upstairs, which afforded me the opportunity to click back to the jiggling senoritas. I had no idea what they were saying. My unwavering focus was on the screen-full of long, tan legs and the distinct possibility something wonderful was going to pop out of one those small dresses.

“Are you watching something in Spanish?” my wife yelled from the stairs. Quickly, I thought of a response.

“Yeah…I had 2 years of high school Spanish and every now and then I like to see if I can understand what they’re saying. It’s educational…keeps my brain working.” Then, before I could change the channel, she walked back in a busted me.

“You perv! You’re checking out the bimbos!”

Sadly, that wasn’t the only time in my life I’ve used education or the quest to study the fine arts to satisfy basic manly, creepy lust.

I remember faking an interest, in the differing cultures around the world, at an early age. Harry O’Connell’s dad had an enormous stack of National Geographic magazines and many afternoons were spent thumbing through the glossy pages until we found pictures of naked, African tribal women. Granted, most of the women were caked in dirt, pierced with sticks or clam shells and their exposed breasts were dragging on the jungle floor but we didn’t care. They were boobs and they were naked, dammit! Honestly, for guys, any venture, which has the potential to reward the viewer with even a chance of seeing nudity, is well worth the effort. Who hasn’t spent hours with their friends, in front of a scrambled, naughty cable channel, in the hopes the transmission locks up long enough to catch a glimpse of anything resembling a female body part.

“Dude!!! Look, look, look!!!!! I swear that’s a nipple! Awesome!! Wait…wait, dude…what the hell is that!?! Is that a 3-legged Chihuahua!?! What the hell is that?”

When I was 12, I used trips to the mall to satiate my thirst for art appreciation. I’d head over to Kroch’s and Brentano’s and while the amateurish cretins trolled back and forth by the magazine rack, in hopes to sneak a peek under the brown wrapper of the current issue of Playboy, I headed over to the Art section of the bookstore. Classic art is littered with paintings of topless women. I confidently hunted for hand-painted, renaissance porn in the midst of adults, who looked upon me as a red-headed, precocious lover of art. Unfortunately, while there was an abundance of fine looking zoomers, the women of the era were a bit on the chunky side. But I was 12 and any port in a storm, right? One other thing I noticed during my study of the arts. What the hell was Michelangelo thinking when he sculpted the famous statue of David? You’d think if you were going to sculpt a fellow dude’s naked likeness, you’d give him a little more south of the border. They should change the name of the piece from, “David” to “David, After a Swim In A Really Cold Brook!”

Years later, I expanded my search for all things naked to the written word. When visual aids weren’t readily available, I’d turn to the dictionary to expand my mind and quest for all things dirty. Many a rainy day was spent looking up filthy words and then giggling like a fool. Actually, my studies were helpful in that it shed light on some words I thought were dirty but really weren’t. Words like nape, crevice, uvula and pianist were words I avoided saying in mixed company. Honestly, I still avoid saying “pianist” because it makes me laugh whenever I hear someone else say it. Go ahead. Say “pianist” 10 times in a row, really fast and try not to laugh.

Years ago, being perverted could go hand in hand, with all things considered, “The Arts.” Lost, is the journey to find creative ways to satisfy the need for the finer things in life and smut. Simply staring at the T.V. for images of nude women is quite frankly, old and overdone. What we need is a new avenue for cheap thrills. I wonder if you can get dirty pictures on the interenet?

First Day of High School...Quite A Pickle

Today marks the official start of my life as the parent of a high school teenager. I look forward with great enthusiasm to many fun-filled nights, scrutinizing potential boyfriends, lengths of skirts and thickness of make-up, especially eye make-up. My daughter occassionally slathers on the eye liner as though she's trying to capture the look of either an ancient Egyptian princess or a raccoon with a penchant toward prostitution. My old man had the same problems with my sisters and I fondly recall him shouting out with reddened face and bulging neck veins, like a over-zealous Baptist minister from the pulpit,

"You've got too much eye make-up on! You look like a "whoooooooooore!"

For some reason he stretched out the "oo" sound and threw in a couple of extra syllables in the mix, so that a 1 syllable word now had 3 or 4. I have yet to accuse my daughter of "hooking" but it's funny how concerns and worries never seem to change. Just as my daughter is today, I was a little nervous about starting high school but for different reasons, altogether.

In 1979, when I began freshman year at Marist high school, an all boys catholic school mind you, I had only one fear. I had no physical defects, clubbed foot, swollen facial chancres or a wandering sniper-eye, nothing like that at all, which was prime ammunition for upper classmen to give you some terrible nickname that would stick forever. Fortunately, I had "sprouted" pubic hair in all the necessary locales to avoid locker room abuse and I dressed as nerdy as all the other incoming freshman. I was, for all practical purposes, normal. My only fear was riding a school bus for the very first time.

Since I attended a private, catholic grammar school, we weren't allowed to ride the public school buses. It was the 70's, and as I've said before, nobody had any money in the 70's. The luxury and expense of using a bus was out of the question. My parents conspired with 2 other families to take turns each week carpooling us kids to school. We alternated driving with the Hennessy's and the Noonan's. All together, there were 8 kids and one adult stuffed ever so comfortably into the car. I don't recall much of an issue, aside from having to ride with one of your brothers or sisters on your lap, when it was our turn or the Hennessy's week to drive. However, when the Noonan's week rolled around, it was a living hell. First of all, Mikey Noonan was too young to leave at home and had to sit up front, so this added one more body to the already over-populated back seat game of Twister. Mrs. Noonan drove a dark, green Chevy Impala and joining her in the front seat were Colleen and Mikey Noonan. The manufacturer's suggested back seat capacity was 3 adults sitting comfortably or 7 children stacked to the roof, ready to kill each other with a #2 pencil or Little Debbie snack cake. Along with me, trying to survive the crush of humanity in the back seat, were my older sister Kathy and my little sister Beth. As I was a gentleman, I offered to let Kathy sit without having another kid on her lap. Actually, she was bigger than me and not only possessed the physical abilities to kick my ass but tenacity and willingness to drop a beat-down on me at a moment's notice. Even today, I'd rather whack a beehive with my genitals than mix it up with her. That left Beth to sit on my lap. She was small and I could slap her around, if need be, without any fear of retaliation. Next to us were the Hennessy boys, Tom, Steve, Jack and little Jimmy. Since there were 4 of them, they stacked up neatly like patio resin chairs, without incident. In the 70's, child restraint devices were shunned so that more kids could get shoved dangerously in cars and off to school. The cramped ride itself was not the problem, as our limbs were pinched and pressed to the point of cutting off blood circulation and our bodies went numb for the twenty minute drive. Mrs. Noonan was the problem. She was a smoker.

She chain smoked Pall Mall's. In fact, while most smokers took an occassional smoke-break, Mrs. Noonan would try to squeeze in a moment each day to breathe some air. Unfortunately, she never took an "air-break" while driving us back and forth from school, so when we exited the car, we had an amber tint from the free floating tar and smelled like a 60's, beatnik coffee house. Opening a window was out of the question because she needed to have the AC cranked and god-forbid she wasn't completely comfortable, while giving us kids a well-deserved dose of emphysema. Thankfully, I had my little sister on my lap and could place my mouth on her shirt, then breathe, using her shirt as an air-filter, of sorts. I probably should have shared my discovery on battling the second hand smoke with my sisters but Kathy got to sit without a kid crushing her lap, so I figured, "Screw her!" she deserved to be exposed to deadly fumes. Beth, on the otherhand, was my little sister. It was my job, as an older brother, to exploit and torture her in any way I saw fit. Besides, if I warned her about it she may have hindered me from using her as my own personal gas mask. Actually, because of the density of the air-born carcinogens, the smoke was classified as "first and a half" hand smoke, not quite as deadly as hot-boxing a cancer stick ourselves but certainly not as refreshing as a lung-full of second hand smoke. The 7 of us sat silently in the back seat, daring not to speak for fear of the other problem driving with Mrs. Noonan presented.

If, by chance, one of us said something mildly amusing, Mrs. Noonan would laugh. Public expression of merriment is normally nothing to fear but in this case, along with the guffaws from a good belly laugh, came an uncontrolled fit of coughing. And not just any cough. Her's was a smoker's cough, thick with the sound of rolling phlegm that seemed to originate from her feet and eventually spewed forth from her wide open mouth, like a pyroclastic cloud of spittle and lung butter. Again, I was protected by Beth's shirt from breathing in anything disgusting. However, our exposed skin was unprotected from the landing of spit droplets. It was a crapshoot and you just prayed silently to be spared the fallout. Sure, carpooling had its' drawbacks but it was familiar and cancer risk aside, a safe way to get to school.

As I said before, concerns and worries never change, from one generation to the next. My daughter, like me, was apprehensive about riding the bus but for a different reason. She's been riding buses to school her whole life, so that wasn't the problem. Apparently, she heard that part of the high school busing experience included the older kids hazing the freshman in a rather strange way. "Bennying" freshman is nothing new but this rumor she was freaking out about even had me a bit troubled. She's afraid of getting "pickled." I've never heard of that but from what she claims, the older kids make you stick a pickle up your butt, walk up and down the bus aisle and then eat it. Sounds like something I'd try on my little sister Beth but certainly not something to be feared while trying to get an education. After calming her down, I told her she has nothing to worry about and at no point during the bus ride will she have a Vlasic hamburger chip wedged in her crack. Kids...where do they get this stuff from? My fear was much more simple than having pickled vegetables forced into body cavities. I just didn't want to get beat up, which is still a concern of mine to this day. Public humilation I'm comfortable with, it's pain and weeping in front of others that bothers me.

Now that my daughter is embarking on her high school journey, a new batch of problems and issues face not only her, but me and my wife, as well. I'm sure we'll go round and round with her about boys, drinking, curfews and many other topics. As parents, my wife and I are confident that we've prepared our daughter for most situations, save one. If she finds herself in a place where people are smoking, as an only child she'll have no little sibling to use as a human respirator.

Summer Sprinkle

Today is hot. Thankfully, I’m fortunate enough to have a pool so I can cool down in this oppressive heat. I’m also “fortunate” enough to have to vacuum it, buy countless expensive chemicals and extract gobs of human hair and large, scary looking bugs from the filter. There’s only 1 thing better than owning a pool and that’s knowing someone who owns a pool and using theirs for free. I also have a Speedo bathing suit. It’s royal blue with an autographed likeness of 7–time, Olympic gold medalist, Mark Spitz, strategically located in the groinal region. I think I look better in trunks, as do the frightened neighbors, but I find the Spitz Speedo keeps the free-loading moochers at bay. Kids today are spoiled when it comes to surviving a hot summer. Most of the hot days are wasted downloading music, playing video games and “texting” fellow suburban hermits, all in the comfort of central air-conditioning. Occasionally, my daughter will swim but only if the water temperature is just below boiling. I pity her generation, that they’ll never know the wonders and joys of alternative methods to cool down on a hot summer’s day.

Kids in my dad’s era were very tough. Nobody owned swim trunks. Every kid’s summer attire consisted of sturdy, heavy denim, blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Not only was it fashionable, it was versatile, as well. By rolling up the pant legs and slipping off the T-shirt, you were instantly ready to tackle any form of water and create one helluva case of inner thigh chafe, from the rubbing of wet, stiff denim. There were 2 ways to cool down back then. On really hot days, the local fireman would open up the hydrants and let the kids run through the dangerously high pressured stream of water until either the water pressure waned or the kids’ skin peeled off. The other way to cool off was at a watering hole. There were 2 types of watering holes. 1). The inner city spa, which boasted a rusty bathtub, on a garbage-strewn vacant lot, filled with rain water and other discarded fluids from abandoned automobiles. 2). For those who wanted to get away from it all and relax in nature’s splendor, one of the city’s parks was sure to have a stagnant pond, fully equipped with an over-hanging tire swing and an abundance of nearly hatching mosquito larvae. Those were tough kids, risking pestilence and malaria, all for the sake of cooling off. My generation had much easier, and less deadly, means to beat the heat.

When I was 10, we didn’t have a pool so my dad bought the family a “Slip & Slide”, which was an 18’ long strip of bright, yellow plastic that was hooked up to the hose. I remember the first time we used the Slip & Slide because it was also the last time we used the Slip & Slide. The picture on the box showed insanely, happy children sliding across the lawn, while a cooling mist of water helped ease their twisting bodies over the length of the plastic. What the box failed to show was an irate father with shaking fist, cursing loudly and complaining to his wife, while looking down on the 18’ patch of dead grass left behind by the Slip & Slide. The box also neglected to warn kids that if/when you slide off the end, the innocent looking blades of grass will, in fact, tear up your chest and arms with stinging, paper cut-like wounds. As I said, we never “Slipped” or “Slided” across the lawn again but dad had another suggestion.

Dad decided he could kill 2 birds with 1 stone by letting us kids run through the sprinkler. Not only was this helpful for the grass but at the same time, shut-up a lawn full of sweaty, nagging kids for the rest of the afternoon. There are many ways to run through a sprinkler and the following is a brief description of the varying techniques.

The Baryshnikov Style: This was my preferred technique. First, I approached the sprinkler by sprinting like a complete fool, arms flailing, tongue out and screaming some kind of strange noise. Just before entry, I planted my left foot and with head thrown back and arms out to the side, I’d jump through the water in a manner which could be best described as a “fairy leap.” I’m not proud of it, it’s just what I did.

The Clairol Technique: This style was implemented strictly by girls. However, if I found myself alone and the old man couldn’t see me, I’d bust this move out myself. Again, I’m not proud of it…I had some issues. Anyway, the girls (or I) would crawl up to the sprinkler and stick just the hair in the streaming water. After a good soaking, they’d run their fingers through their hair, as though shampooing, and sing loudly,

“I’m gonna wash that gray right outta my hair!”

The Dead Head Style: At the age of 10, none of us had found the time to experiment with mind altering drugs. You know, with Little League, collecting baseball cards and building forts, there just wasn’t enough time in the day to drop some acid and lick the sky. You could however, work yourself into a psychedelic trance by using the Dead Head Style. These “wierdos”, as we referred to them, usually were uninvited neighborhood kids that nobody talked to. They’d just stand next to the sprinkler and silently grin as they slowly passed their hand across the streams of water. Completely mesmerized by the different patterns they were making, they’d occasionally let out a slurred,
“Wooooow” or “Cooooool.”
Then they’d pee on our lawn and ask us for munchies.

The Squatter: There was always that 1 kid who would squat down with his butt a few inches above the sprinkler. What this did for him, I’ll never know. I found it creepy. Perhaps he was practicing for future use of a bidet, which is French for “drinking fountain next to the toilet.”

I wish there was someway to rattle these kids of today to get outside and take advantage of alternative ways to cool off. I think I’ll strap on the old Spitz Speedo and chase the neighborhood kids around for awhile. That’ll get ‘em all hot and sweaty and I’m certain they’ll jump in the pool. I’ll also find an alternative manner in which to cool down as I’m sure after I’m arrested, the back seat of the squad car will have plenty of air-conditioning.